Dr. Dume ~ The Doctor is In

You know when you have a lot to do and you really want peace and quiet? That's when the hordes of visitors descend. It's been quiet for weeks and now I'm busy, here they come.

Today it was a small man in a striped suit and bowler hat who called himself the 'tacks man'. Unfortunately all my icicles have melted or I'd have slammed the door and watched through the peephole. Instead, I simply told him I didn't need any tacks.

"No, no," he said. "You misunderstand. I collect tacks."

"Oh. Well, I don't have any. Try the village." I tried to close the door but he stopped it with his hand. A grasping, thin hand with cracked and yellowed nails. I did wonder for a moment if he might be a distant relative but Dumes don't generally look quite so pallid and malnourished. 

"I thought I made it clear." I put on my best impression of the Professor which is about 80% haughty and 20% contempt. "There are no tacks for you here. Go away."

"I'm afraid you have a legal obligation to pay me tacks on your earnings." His voice, already shrill, now strained the limits of my range of hearing.

"Huh?"

His lips pursed, or rather, they disappeared inside his mouth so that I thought his nose might touch his chin, like Aunt Demdike's did the time the Slimy Swamp Thing borrowed her teeth.

"Now look," he said, drawing himself up to his full height, a move presumably calculated to make him look impressive but which actually made him look like a stick with a bowl on top, "I am empowered by Her Majesty's Government to collect twenty percent of any money you have earned this year, along with previous years and fines for late payment."

"Now look. I'm busy. Can't you come back another time?" Entertaining lunatics can be fun but really, I have a book to review and an article to write.

"No, I am here to audit your books and collect all tax due. Now."

Confusion took over. Audit my books? I haven't written them all yet. Did he mean the ones in the library? And who was this Herman Jessy Govmint who had empowered him? He didn't look powerful to me. He looked like a streak of tired bacon with a hat on. One word filtered through and touched a memory. Earnings.

"Aaaaah, you mean tax." I nodded vigorously but this time remembered to stop before getting dizzy. "No, you see, I don't actually have any earnings. No income. No need."

His face went through some kind of self-test sequence. His jaw moved up and down, his eyes tried every conceivable direction and his nose flared and contracted. I think, but I'm not sure, that his ears wiggled. His eyebrows went through such convoluted contortions that I'm not sure whether they actually changed places.

Then his voice self-tested. 'Whuh...uh...gah," it said.

"Are you all right? Every bit of your face seems to function but are you still in control of it?"

"No income? No income? No income?" He shook his head, I suppose to unstick his voice. "There is no record of you getting any benefits at this address."

"Well, I have a wife, which I suppose could be seen as some kind of benefit. And a son, which couldn't."

"I mean monetary benefits. Unemployment, that sort of thing."

I puffed out my chest. "I am a Dume. I am not unemployed. in fact, as I told you, I am busy."

His eyes narrowed well past the point where an ordinary person's would be shut. "So you are employed? Then you have an income."

"I am not employed, neither am I unemployed,  I am extraordinarily busy and I have no work. I have no income and no need of one." I paused to savour the steam coming from his ears. "And I have no need of tacks."

"Savings." He breathed out a long gasp of air that smelled like old paper. "You must be living on savings."

"I live on money." I frowned at him. "I've never saved anyone."

His body did that thing telescopes do when you've finished with them. When he looked up, his eyes leaked. "You must get the money from somewhere."

"Previous Dumes have provided," I said. "I will add to it in time but for now it is more than enough."

"Aha!" he jumped up so fast his hat rattled. "Gotcha! You have savings and interest on savings is taxable."

Well, you know, I am very interested indeed in the dungeon hoard but I had no idea I was supposed to pay someone called Herman Jessy Guvmint, or rather, the badly constructed homunculus at my door, for that action. I shall take less obvious interest in future.

For now, I solved the problem by inviting bowl-on-a-stick indoors and directing him to the laboratory.

There was even less meat on him than I expected. Perhaps it's just as well. I don't have time for a proper experiment.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 02:31 AM | Permalink

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Is it possible to sympathise with a zombie?

I'd have said 'Don't be silly' if you had asked that question earlier this evening. A zombie is an unthinking eating machine and what it wants to eat is you. You cannot reason with it and you can't kill it because it's already dead. It's not possible to sympathise with such a creature under any circumstances.

Then I watched 'Colin', a film by Marc Price and produced by Justin Hayes. It's low budget and full of unknowns but it's well made, well acted, and the idea is astounding in its brilliance.

A zombie story from the point of view of one of the zombies!

Throughout the film we learn more about Colin's former life and finally find out what made him a zombie. It's the only film I've ever watched in which I actually felt sorry for the zombies!  The living humans are even more monstrous than the flesh eaters in some places.

But then, they always were.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 02:37 AM | Permalink

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Death visited Dume Towers tonight. He certainly picks his times. I'm far too busy to entertain guests.

There's an article brewing for the next Alienskin issue and I have a book to review before little Caligula eats it. Senga is in one of her moods, something to do with a suggestion I made concerning her mother, a sewing kit and a rabid dog. Honestly, the woman can't take a joke. Little Caligula has left teeth marks in most of the furniture and Underbed Monster has run off again. Not a good time to visit. Not good at all.

Well, he had come a long way so I had to bite my lip and let him in (Not my own lip, you understand. I have a jar of candied lips in case of such eventualities). I say 'let him in' but there's not really much of an option. He goes where he pleases, and only knocks at my door out of politeness.

Death had a purpose. He had come to see Caligula.

"I hope you're not planning to take him," I said. "I don't want to have to go to the trouble of making another one. It's all very messy and complicated and involves some unpleasantness."

"Take him? Why would I do that?" Death clacked his teeth at me. "I'm still hunting down the last of those wedding guests and I have several of your ancestors on my backlog list.  Your new one isn't ready. I just came to see him."

"Oh. A social call." 

"Aren't they always?" Death scratched between his eye-sockets with the tip of his scythe. "Your family are the most elusive I've ever had to deal with. I get the call to say one of you has died and by the time I get here, they're not home."

"We're an active family," I said. "No time to hang around." I showed him to Caligula's room and slid back the peephole cover on the door. Last time I did that, the little tyke shoved a six inch nail through it so this time I used some caution. Once I had established he was in his cot, I opened the door and let Death in.

Death paused on the threshold. "You don't think I'll scare him, do you? I mean, all the dark clothes and the bones and the scythe. Kids get a bit upset about those things."

I grinned. "He's a Dume. He scares me most of the time. Just don't let him get hold of that scythe."

Death drew eyebrows on his skull, rubbed them out and drew them on again, a little higher up. We went into the room quietly.

Little Caligula was fast asleep, gnawing on a rib. Death and I watched him for a while then left in silence. Once I had closed the door I allowed myself to breathe again. It's not often a visit to Caligula's room passes without incident.

"He looks dangerous," said Death. "Excellent. I'm sure he'll put a lot of business my way in the future. How about you?"

"He's not old enough to make a serious attempt on me yet. Don't get your hopes up."

"I mean, any stray spirits around as a result of your experiments? I could do a quick clean-up for you if you like." 

"There might be a few. Help yourself." The place is crawling with them but most have learned to hide whenever Death visits. They hide when the Professor visits too. Only the recent ones ever get caught and as they are the noisiest, it's good to let Death have a quick sweep of the place once in a while. He disappeared along the corridor, scythe in one hand and soul bag in the other. I returned to my study.

Death appeared shortly afterwards, his soul bag bulging and squirming. 

I nodded at the bag. "Good haul tonight?"

"Excellent. I still haven't caught your father though. Have you seen him recently?"

"No. He hasn't materialised since Caligula was born. He's probably worried about getting killed again."

Death shook his head. "Not even a Dume can do that twice. Anyway, best be off. I have to take this delivery and fill in the paperwork for them."

I would have pried for details, as usual, but I had too much to do. "I'll show you the door."

Death tilted his skull. "I know what a door looks like. Thanks for the offer but I don't have time for sightseeing."  He strode to the wall and then through it.

I returned to my work. The article awaits and it has to be about horror. It also has to be something new. If only I had an idea, if only something would happen to inspire me.

Then Caligula woke up and howled.

"That's it," I thought. "There's nothing more horrific than a child!"

Posted by Dr. Dume at 04:00 AM | Permalink

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I was surprised to be visited by the Professor last night, not least because there's about three feet of snow around the castle and every step risks dislodging immense and very sharp icicles from the trees. I know they are sharp. I sharpened them. They should help keep hungry Ferals away during this cold weather. The Professor made it to the castle okay but then he rang the bell. The icicles above the door missed him by inches.

Well, it seems there has been a new year, which came as a surprise because I had no idea the old one had already worn out. They just don't make years like they used to. When I was younger they lasted far longer, I'm sure. This 'new year' was the reason for the Professor's visit and he assures me that it's traditional to ply all guests with whisky until they can take no more. A new tradition, apparently, and one I suspect he's just invented. He also voiced the somewhat bizarre opinion that attempting to kill visitors with sharpened icicles is antisocial. What else am I supposed to do with all those icicles? If they weren't meant to be used as weapons they wouldn't be shaped like that.

I poured a whisky and asked if he'd like anything in it. He held the glass up to the light, stared at it for a moment and said "Yes. More whisky". This was going to be an expensive visit. Oh well, he doesn't visit often and he's far more entertaining company than the barely literate villagers in the local pub.

"Shouldn't you be out hunting for ghosts?" I asked. 

He took a large gulp of whisky. "In this weather?"

I nodded in sage agreement. "Ah, so the cold weather makes ghostly activity unlikely, you think?"

"Not necessarily."  He turned his back for a moment and strolled across the room, past the drinks cabinet. "It does, however, make ghosthunter activity unlikely. Ghosts are already dead. I am not and I'm in no hurry." He had not visibly paused at the cabinet yet when he returned to his seat his glass was full. I've never managed to work out how he does that.

"You braved the weather to get here though." I poured myself a glass of Chateau Dume AB+ and took a seat facing him.

The Professor raised his glass. "You have whisky. Ghosts don't." His face became serious. "Although you might have hit on something there. I've wondered why ghosts appear mainly on calm still nights when it's warm outside, or in sheltered places like buildings. Maybe it's not the ghosts. Maybe the findings reflect the comfort zones of the people looking for them." He sipped at his whisky. "It's not likely to change, though, unless some seriously masochistic people take up investigating. Electrical storms should increase ghostly activity due to all that energy in the air but it's not a friendly environment for people, nor for equipment."

I considered mentioning that Dume Castle isn't much of a friendly environment and it's packed with ghosts. Some nights you can't move without getting covered in ectoplasm. I kept quiet because he'd have the place filled with cables and all sorts of machinery if he found out. Anyway, the ghosts all seem to disappear whenever he arrives. I wonder if he's related to Death? It was time to change the subject because that line of conversation could get awkward.

"I found a name for Dumelet," I said. "He's now Caligula Dume."

The Professor's face darkened. "You said you wouldn't tell anyone about that revolting middle name of mine."

"Relax, nobody knows. I'll tell everyone he's named after my great-uncle. You and I are the only ones who know he's also named after you."

"Well." He considered this for a moment. "As long as you're sure." He handed me his empty glass. "I think this calls for a drink."

I left the glass on the table and brought the bottle over. He was likely to finish it anyway. I brought my bottle of AB+ too, since this looked like turning into a long drinking session.

Glasses recharged, I resumed the conversation. "What is it about your middle name that you hate so much? I think it's a fine name. There have been several Caligula Dumes in the past. One was Italian, as I recall."

"I wouldn't be at all surprised to find the Roman emperor by that name was a relative of yours. I hate the name because I went through hell at school with it.  Romulus Caligula Crowe. You can imagine what the other kids made of that."

"No. I can't. I never went to school and neither will little Caligula." I allowed myself a little smile at the thought of what he might consider 'school dinner'. "Dume education remains within the castle. It's tradition."

"Homeschool, eh? Probably for the best. Modern education produces too many who spend all their time with CDs and DVDs but can't spell either of them."

"True. The villagers here spend a lot of time and money putting up signs but few of them know what the signs say. They find the butcher and baker shops by smell. They don't find the library at all."

Our conversation was interrupted by the appearance of Senga, bleeding. Caligula had escaped again. I handed the Professor a cattle prod and we went searching. His surprise at the weapon was answered when we found little Caligula, munching his way through some wood panelling in the Wood Room, which is now called the Splinter Room. A little judicious prodding forced him back to his own room which fortunately has a steel door.

With Caligula back in place, the Professor decided it was time to head home. He left, muttering something about considering cryptozoology, and shut the front door a little too hard. The sound of falling icicles resounded through the swamp.

Never mind. It's still cold enough to grow some more.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 11:13 PM | Permalink

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