GARGOYLES

Gargoyles on an old manor house in Glen Hartwell come alive and start killing people

Fiends crouch above the windowsill
Hoping very soon to feast,
Watching the unwary nearing
Soon to pass within their reach.

A squid-like beak readying to peck
Hoping soon to taste warm blood,
As arteries give up their torrent
Flowing in a hot, red flood.

Grey-black wings folded back
Soon stretch out toward the sky,
A fiend takes flight to swoop on prey
Innocents about to die.

Blue-veined wings beat the sky
Primordial death is on the wing,
Courting couples pass unwary
‘Bout to feel death’s awful sting.

Wastrels passing an old manor
Their hopes and dreams completely spent,
Unaware of the terror nearing
Loathsome death the night has sent.

Fiends out feasting on moist bones
All that’s left of vagabonds,
That the creatures stalked unseen
Till the time to swoop upon.

A mansion by the edge of town
A mansard roof above the eaves,
Concrete monsters on the rooftops
Or so the passers-by believe.

The screech of death pervades the air
As ancient fiends take to flight,
Batwings soar into the darkness
‘Bout to take another life.

Slashing unprotected heads
Of the unwary passers-by,
Swooping down from the darkness
Till yet another victim dies.

Near the village of East Cheam
Unseen creatures haunt the dark,
Seeking human beings to feast on
Perched above a concrete arch.

In the dark, shrill chirping rings out
Evil shrieking resonates,
As leathery wings beat overhead
Warning walkers of their fate.

Still, the unwary pass the manor
On the outskirts of East Cheam,
Dry bones line the alleyways
Warning of the crouching fiends.

Shrieking as death comes from high
Innocents race through the gloom,
Trying futilely to escape
As they’re hunted to their doom.

Then, as daylight starts to break
Fiends return to perch a’high,
On the manor’s mansard rooftop
Until the coming of new night.
© Copyright 2021 Philip Robert

Darkfall was coming on the 7th of May 2025, in the forest just outside Westmoreland, in the Victorian countryside. Westmoreland had been abandoned en masse after a great disaster had struck in 1978. However, as super-inflation had struck the land and housing industry in Australia in the 21st century, land sharks had moved in to buy up all the land in Westmoreland, knock down most of the older houses, replacing them with Jerry-built two-storey yellow- or brown-brick villa houses. Still, there were a handful of older stone houses, some with ancient carvings and statues outside the front. That was where the six kids were heading that night from their homes in neighbouring Wilhelmina.

"So tell us again why we're out in the cold night air?" asked Enzo Ricco, a short, blond, eleven-year-old boy.

"To have fun," insisted his big brother, Giovanni. A tall sixteen-year-old with long raven hair, Giovanni, or Gio as he liked to be called, was the Leader of the Pack, as far as the Wilhelmina Wreckers (as they called themselves) were concerned.

"In this cold?" insisted Enzo.

"What cold?" demanded Willy Murphy, a fourteen-year-old redheaded boy. "It's just a little bit bracing."

"Bracing my arse off!" said his younger brother, Kevin, a twelve-year-old copy of Willy.

"What are you little ones moaning about?" asked Rochelle Hannigan, Willy's girlfriend. A fifteen-year-old with long brown hair.

"Yeah, don't be a sissy," taunted Cleo Lattanzi, a thirteen-year-old girl with long raven hair, who wished she were Gio's girlfriend, "it's warmed up since the end of April."

"Not so as you'd notice," whined Enzo.

"Sissy Enzo! Sissy Enzo!" chanted the two girls.

"You're sissies too!" cried Enzo.

"Sissy just means like a girl," explained Rochelle.

"So, we're allowed to be sissies," finished Cleo.

"Shut up sulking, bro, or I'll kick your scrawny arse," said Gio.

"Kick his scrawny arse!" encouraged Rochelle.

"I will in a minute," warned Gio. "The Wilhelmina Wreckers have some important wrecking to do this evening!"

"Important wrecking!" chanted Willy, Rochelle, and Cleo, in support of their leader.

"What important wrecking?" demanded Kev, risking getting his arse kicked.

"The old Cartwright house on Chatterton Street."

"That spooky old manor house?" asked Enzo. "It dates back to the early eighteen hundreds."

"A beautiful example of neo-Elizabethan architecture," said Rochelle. "All the more reason to smash the shit out of it!"

Everyone laughed, except Enzo and Kev, who wanted none of it.

"Isn't it getting a bit dark?" whined Kev.

"All the better for them not to see us with!" misquoted Gio. "Now stop sulking like babies, and pick up the pace. We've got serious wrecking to do."

Ten minutes later, they were standing outside the Cartwright Manor House on the outskirts of Chatterton Street on the edge of town. As Rochelle had said, it was a good example of classical English architecture, apart from having been abandoned almost fifty years ago. Concrete lions sat on stands guarding the front door. Gargoyles sat on the eaves guarding them from aerial attack. The windows were stained glass, with intricate designs of life in jolly old England in the early nineteenth century, and an intricately designed mermaid acted as a knocker upon the solid oaken front door.

"So where do we start?" asked Willy.

"Well, forget the front door," said Rochelle, "you'd need a sledgehammer to make a dent on that."

"Yeah, and we forgot to bring one," said Gio. "So let's keep it simple."

Taking a rock out of the hessian bag that he carried, he threw it straight through one of the beautiful stained glass windows, which exploded inwards, making the Wilhelmina Wreckers whoop in delight.

"Take that, pommy architecture!" shouted Rochelle.

Like the boys, the two girls each carried hessian bags, but they were not as large as the ones the four boys carried. Reaching into her bag, Rochelle took out a rock and threw it straight at the next window. Not as strong as Gio, instead of shattering the window, the rock merely bashed out a small section of the image, sticking there as though the nose of Mr. Potato Head.

"This is how you do it, Rocky," said Willy.

Taking a huge rock, he threw it straight at Mr. Potato Head's nose, connecting, sending the smaller stone into the manor house, and cracking the window, without shattering it.

"Who's the sissy now?" asked Enzo.

Getting into the spirit of things, he threw a rock at the same window, which shattered into a thousand pieces.

"Don't call me a sissy, you sissy," warned Willy. "I loosened it up for you!"

"Yeah, he loosened it up for you!" agreed Rochelle.

"Come on, boys and girls," teased Gio. "We've got lots more windows to smash before we're through."

As they went round the side of the house, Willy said, "It's a pity we didn't think to bring a sledgehammer with us. I'd 'a loved to have a go at one of those poncy lions."

"Maybe we can come back another night," suggested Cleo.

"When it's warmer," said Kev.

"Poor baby's cold," teased Rochelle, making everyone except Kevin laugh.

"Am not a baby!"

"You also haven't thrown a rock yet," pointed out Gio. "This next window is all yours, Kev, so get a smashing!"

Reluctantly, he took a rock from his bag and threw it at the first side window. However, the stone fell short.

"I think you're right, Rocky," said Willy. "He is a baby."

"He throws like a girl," teased Cleo. "A baby girl!"

"Do not!" insisted Kev.

Taking a second stone from his bag, he hurled it much harder this time, shattering the window completely.

Sounding impressed, Rochelle said, "Baby just took his first steps!"

Despite the sarcasm, Kev grinned at the backhanded compliment.


Over at the Yellow House in Rochester Road, Merridale, they were sitting down to their tea.

"So what delicacies do you have for us tonight, Mrs. M.?" asked Sheila Bennett. At thirty-six, Sheila was a Goth chick with black-and-orange striped hair. She was also second in command of the local police force.

"A beautiful lamb roast with roast potatoes, pumpkin and carrots, and assorted boiled veggies," said Deidre Morton, a short, dumpy sixty-something brunette, and the most skilled chef this side of Melbourne. "Then for dessert, your choice of pineapple fritters with whipped cream or banana custard."

"Pineapple fritters with cream for me," said Colin Klein. The forty-nine-year-old redheaded man had been a top London crime reporter for thirty years before being employed by the Glen Hartwell Police Department.

"Banana custard and rum for me," said Tommy Turner. A short, fat man with yellow hair, Tommy was a reformed alcoholic, who Deidre was determined to keep on the leash -- no matter how hard he fought to get off it!

"That sounds good, I'll have the same," said Terri Scott. A tall thirty-six-year-old ash blonde, Terri was the top cop of the area and was engaged to Colin.

"All right, but that will use up all of the rum we have on hand," said Deidre.

"You mean all of my rum!" insisted Tommy.

"Our rum," said Terri. "By drinking your rum, I'm helping you with your drinking problem."

"My drinking problem is that everyone else is drinking my plonk!"

"I hope you're not becoming a plonko like Tommy, babe," teased Colin. "I don't want you turning up stonkered on our wedding day."

"When is your wedding?" asked Natasha Lipzing, a tall, thin, grey-haired lady in her early seventies.

"We were thinking of a week before Christmas," said Terri.

"No, no," said Sheila. "You'll only get one set of presents."

"She's right," said Tommy. "Have it around September, then after people buy your wedding then later anniversary presents, they'll have time to save up again for Chrissy prezzies."

"Technically, he's right," agreed Freddy Kingston, a tall, balding retiree. "Give people at least three months between your anniversary and Christmas, and you get twice as many presents."

"But if they have it just before Christmas, they can go away on their honeymoon over Christmas and New Year's," said Leo Laxman, a tall, thin Jamaican, working at the Glen Hartwell and Daley Community Hospital. "What could be more romantic?"

"He's right," agreed Natasha. It'd be so romantic."

"The question of having a honeymoon, let alone when," said Terri, "is largely dependent upon whether the monsters and maniacs will hold off long enough."

"Yeah, it's difficult getting a weekend off in Glen Hartwell these days," said Sheila, "let alone a honeymoon."


Night-time had fallen, and the Wilhelmina Wreckers were struggling to see, by the time they had smashed all of the windows on the ground and first storeys of the Cartwright Manor House in Chatterton Street, Westmoreland.

"Time to leave?" asked Enzo hopefully.

"Yeah," agreed Gio reluctantly. "We can't reach the second and third storey without ladders, and we need to come back with sledgehammers to take care of the lions, and those concrete buzzards." He pointed to where the gargoyles crouched, seemingly glaring down at the six kids.

"They're Gargoyles," said Cleo, a bit of a mythology buff. "They're supposed to protect old manor houses from invaders."

"Yeah? Well, they did a shithouse job of it tonight," said Gio, making all six kids cackle with laughter as they turned to walk back to Wilhelmina, only a few kilometres away.

"You said it, Gio," said Willy.

As the six kids headed off, the four concrete gargoyles on the top storey of the manor house turned to glare after them.



The gargoyles waited until the children were almost out of sight, then took to flight and headed after them, careful not to get too close for fear of alerting the Wilhelmina Wreckers to their presence.

"That was so sweet," said Rochelle, kissing Willy on the cheek before turning to head home.

"Wait till we get sledgehammers and ladders to go back and finish the job," boasted Giovanni Ricco.

"That'll be even sweeter," agreed Rochelle.

As the kids separated and headed different ways, one gargoyle followed the Riccos, another the Murphys, and Rochelle and Cleo got one each.

"Hey, what have you two bad boys been up to?" demanded Stefano Ricco when Gio and Enzo finally came home for their tea.

"Ah, Papa, don't call Enzo a bad boy," said Violetta Ricco. "He's a good boy, he's just fallen into bad company."

"Does that mean me?" demanded Gio.

"I prefer not to say," said Violetta, handing out their tea of homemade chicken lasagne.

"Yes, you're a bad boy!" insisted Stefan, "Lord only knows what mischief you and your miscreant friends got up to tonight."

"We didn't get up to anything," lied Gio, concentrating on his lasagne, glad to be able to go up to his bedroom straight after tea.

Waiting outside Gio's bedroom window, the Gargoyle sat patiently, looking as though it were a part of the architecture of the building.

Half an hour after starting dinner, the two boys went up to their room.

"If Mum and Dad find out what we did, they'll skin us alive!" said Enzo.

"No, they'll skin me alive," corrected Gio. "You're their golden-haired boy, who just fell into bad company, namely me!"

"It's not my fault if they think that," said Enzo. He stopped as he saw a shadow of something outside. "There's something outside our window."

"Well, as long as we stay inside, we're safe," said Gio.

He took out his mobile phone and started searching through hard porn on the Internet.

"I'm sure, there is," said Enzo.

He walked across to the window, opened it and looked out. Coming face to face with the Gargoyle, which chewed off his face and half of his brain, before he had a chance to scream out.

"So, whatcha see, the Bogeymen?" asked Gio. Looking across, he saw his younger brother leaning out of the bedroom window. "Careful you don't fall, squirt."

When Enzo didn't answer, Gio got up and grabbed him by the shoulder.

"What's so interesting?" asked Gio, pulling Enzo back into the bedroom.

He opened his mouth to scream at the sight of his brother with the front half of his head chewed off. However, he was silenced when the gargoyle reached in through the window and ripped away his face and most of his brain.

Then, climbing, with difficulty, in through the window, the creature spent the next hour or more devouring both boys, leaving little more than bloody skeletons. Then, grinning in delight, the creature climbed back out of the window and winged its way back toward the Cartwright Manor over in Westmoreland.


After separating from the rest of the Wilhelmina Wreckers, Rochelle Hannigan had the peculiar feeling of being followed. She looked back a few times, grateful each time to see no one behind her, unaware of the horror that flapped overhead.

Trying to ignore the glaring of her parents -- whom she knew felt she had fallen into bad company -- Rochelle concentrated on her meal of Australian-style Chop Suey, then went straight up to her bedroom. Only to find that her mother had left her bedroom window wide open.

"God, she's a fresh air freak!' complained the girl, thinking it was colder in her bedroom than out in the night air.

She walked across to the window, grabbed the upper half, and died as a gargoyle reached in to rip away her throat. Then, staying outside the bedroom, the gargoyle happily devoured her juicy carcase, allowing her skeleton to slide down the roof's overhang to land in the back yard.

Then, giving one mighty screech, the gargoyle turned about face and flew off back toward the manor house that it was sworn to defend against invasion.


Cleo Lattanzi made the mistake of taking a shortcut down a dark alley on her way home. Deciding not to waste time, her pursuing gargoyle swooped down to attack her from above.

Screaming in terror, not knowing what was attacking her, Cleo tried to bat the creature off her head with her hands. Only to have both hands chewed away at the wrists and swallowed. Then, as she kept screaming, the gargoyle ripped out her throat, then proceeded to devour her down to the bones.


After splitting away from the others, Willy and Kevin Murphy started down Lemona Avenue, which lived up to its name, having lemon trees and Lemon-Scented Gum Trees upon the verges along the street.

"Don't you dare blab to Mum and Dad what we did tonight!" warned Willy.

"Hey, I'm no snitch!" said Kev, a fan of 1940s and '50s gangster films.

"Well, just as well," said Willy, stopping at a loud snapping sound behind him.

Looking round, he saw a gargoyle standing over the carcase of Kevin, whom it had swooped down upon to break his neck.

"What the ...?" began Willy, too terrified to even run.

The gargoyle leapt from one Murphy brother to the other and broke Willy's neck as easily as it had done his sibling's. Then it devoured the softer parts of Willy's body, before taking off, with Kevin's carcase in its talons, to take the younger Murphy brother back to the Cartwright Manor House to finish him, away from prying eyes.


When it reached nine o'clock, with no sign of their boys, Chloe Murphy rang through to the Mitchell Street Police Station in Glen Hartwell, while her husband, Allan, started into Oxford Street with a military-style torch to look for his two sons.

"That bloody Giovanni Ricco, he's led my boys astray," said Allan, a tall, heavily built man in his mid-forties. "They were good boys before they started hanging out with that thug and his gang."


Terri Scott and the others had settled in to read in the lounge room of the Yellow House, since there was nothing worth watching on TV.

"Ooh, this is a juicy mystery," said Natasha Lipzing, a lifelong fan of murder mysteries -- the gorier the better.

"Give me a good horror story any day," said Freddy Kingston.

"Not us," said Terri Scott. "We live through too many horror stories every day at work."

"I agree," seconded Colin.

"Ah, you cowardly custards," said Sheila

"Personally, I prefer a good sci-fi tale," said Tommy Turner. "Star Wars, the first three films anyway. Star Trek: The Original Generation. The later ones are too damned politically correct."

"Agreed," said Colin. "I like some sci-fi, but also fantasy like The Hobbit tetralogy, Harry Potty and the like. Also the first three star wars films ... the later ones are all crap!"

Before they could say anything else, Terri's mobile started blaring. Taking the phone from her jacket pocket, she spoke for a couple of minutes, then said:

"That was Chloe Murphy, her two sons haven't come home from tea."

"Since when have you been the Missing Persons Bureau?" asked Freddy.

"Well, it makes a change from duking it out with monsters and maniacs," said Sheila as the three cops stood and started toward the front door.

They were in Terri's police-blue Lexus, Sheila driving as usual, when Terri's phone rang again. This time, after talking for a minute or two, she said:

"Looks like we're out of luck, we are gonna be duking it out again with a monster or maniac! According to what someone called Ferdie Mayron says, they've found the bloody remains of what could be the oldest Murphy boy only a few houses down from where he lived."

"I know Ferdinand Mayron," said Sheila, "he lives a few houses away from the Murphys on Lemona Avenue."

"Ferdinand, like the bull?" asked Terri.

"She's making it up this time," insisted Colin. "We're finally gonna catch her out for certain."

"Wanna bet?" asked Sheila, with a cheeky grin.

"No, you smug moo cow," said Colin. "I don't gamble."

"Bark-bark-bark!" teased the Goth chick.

"Don't you dare do that chicken thing with your elbows, while driving my Lexus!" ordered Terri.

"Whatever you say, Chief," said Sheila, still grinning broadly.

"If she's right this time, I'd kill her," said Terri. "If she weren't the only one in the department prepared to wrestle a killer mutant bull and be able to win that is."

When they reached Lemona Avenue, they found two ambulances parked, along with Tilly Lombstrom, Elvis Green, Derek Armstrong, and Cheryl Pritchard, plus a tall, dark-haired man, whom Colin and Terri did not recognise.

"Ferdie!" called Sheila, going across to hug the white faced man, who looked ready to pass out.

"Sheils," he said, hugging her back. "It's good to see someone I know."

How does she do it? Colin mouthed to Terri, who could only shrug.

Walking across, Terri looked at the gruesome sight of the gutted teenager, then asked Ferdie Mayron, "Are you the one who found him?"

"God, no. It was his poor father, Allan. He almost fell over him in the dark."

"What about the other son?" Terri asked one of her officers, Stanlee Dempsey.

"No sign of him yet, Chief," said Stanlee, a huge barrel-chested man in his mid-forties, with short black hair. "And Jessie Baker, Don Esk, Drew Braidwood and more have backtracked to the forest outside town."

Coming up to them, Drew Braidwood, a tall, lanky, blond constable nearing retirement age, said, "We've found two sets of child-sized prints in the forest heading into Lemona Avenue, then suddenly one set just stops, as though something swooped down from the sky and grabbed the younger son."

"In the Glen Hartwell region, we can't rule that out," said Terri. "Where is Allan Murphy?"

"He's already been taken to the hospital," said Derek Armstrong, coming across to them. A tall, muscular, black American, he had spent half of his fifty years working at the Glen Hartwell and Daley Community Hospital.

"We had to leave the boy's remains for you to take some pix, before we looked at it," said Tilly Lombstrom, a tall, attractive fifty-something brunette, and a top surgeon at the hospital.

"Yeech," said Sheila, looking at the gutted remains. She had to fight the urge to throw up while taking the crime scene photos. Finally, she said, "All yours, Tils."

"What's next, Chief?" asked Stanlee Dempsey.

"Next, we arrange a hunt for the missing brother."

"Kevin Murphy," said Sheila.

"Drew said you'd found two sets of kids' prints coming from the forest," said Terri.

"Sure did."

"Then get out your torches and we'll follow them back to wherever they start."

"Well, it's one way to spend your evenings," said Jessie Baker, a huge ox of a man with bright red hair. "We've had a few missing children cases lately, but I don't think this one is going to have a happy ending."

They had barely started, however, when the two sets of child-sized prints turned into six.

"Uh-oh, I hope we don't have a gaggle of missing kids!" said Drew Braidwood.

"And if so, hopefully we'll find them all alive," said Terri.

"Fingers crossed," added Stanlee Dempsey.

They followed the six sets of prints for a couple of kilometres until reaching the neighbouring town of Westmoreland. Then the prints became too hard to find in the dark.

"What now, babe?" asked Colin.

"Now we go home for the night and come back tomorrow with Bulam-Bulam, Slap, Tickle, and Rub," said Terri. Then to Don Esk, "I hope you got the chains for them since last time."

"Sure thing, Chief," said Don, a tall, powerfully built man with short, dark brown hair. He remembered with embarrassment their last case, when his three Alsatian crosses, in a panic, had chewed through their leashes and then run whimpering back to their home. [See my story, 'Padfoot'.]


Straight after breakfast, they set out for Harpertown to pick up Bulam-Bulam, a tall, elderly Aborigine who ran a milkbar in Chappell Street and who also helped out as a police tracker when needed. Although his shop was quite busy that morning, he shut it down when he was told that five children were missing. Using the Elder to trail the prints of the missing children, they found their way back to the Cartwright Manor House on Chatterton Street, Westmoreland.

"Yeech!" said Drew, looking at the state of the manor house. "What happened here? Looks like all of the windows are smashed."

"Happened yesterday night, far as we can tell," said a tall man in what looked like an Armani suit. "I'm Ainsley Cartwright, the owner."

"You don't seem to be stressed about it," said Terri, shaking hands with him.

"I'm not, they've helped me out," said Ainsley. "I'm planning to knock the old wreck down and make a fortune replacing it with apartments.

"You sure it's not heritage listed?" asked Colin. "It's nearly two hundred years old, I'm told."

"No, we've checked," said another man, a tall, weaselly-faced man, dressed in overalls and leather work boots. Holding out his hand, "I'm Marvin Johnston."

"Terri Scott," said Terri, shaking hands.

"Marvin's my partner in crime," said Ainsley with a laugh. Not noticing when the weasel-faced man glared at him.

"I guess that makes me his other partner in crime," said a tall, obese man of fifty-five, who was dressed in a smart grey Harley Street suit. "Thomas Selkirk," he said, holding out his right hand. "But most people call me Selly."

"When they're not calling him much worse," said Ainsley, and the three partners in crime laughed heartily.

"Well, before you start tearing it down, we have to search it for five missing kids," said Terri.

"You'd better get safety gear, it's not very solid inside," said Marvin.

"I've got a better idea," said Colin. "Let's get George and Eunice to do the tricky stuff."

"They'll love you for that," said Terri, taking out her mobile to ring through to the Department of Building and Works.

She had barely disconnected when her phone rang again to tell them that a small skeleton had been found in the back yard of a house at 82 Rosanna Avenue.

"That's the Hannigan household, where Rochelle, a teenager, lives," said Sheila, then amending to, "or possibly lived."

"Okay, we'd better go check it out," said Terri. "Stanlee, Don, Jessie, Drew, stay here to make certain the partners in crime don't accidentally on purpose knock the place down before we've had a chance to check it for missing kids."

"Gotcha, Chief," said Stanlee.


When they arrived at Rosanna Avenue in Westmoreland, they found Derek, Cheryl, Tilly, and Elvis waiting for you again.

"How the Hell did you beat us to the scene, this time?" demanded Terri Scott.

"We're good at our job," boasted Cheryl Pritchard, a tall, muscular sixty-four-year-old, the most senior paramedic in the area.

"So are we," insisted Sheila. "I have single-handedly wrestled with a mad killer moo cow, that turned people to stone, and also with a werebison." [See my stories, 'The Catoblepas' and 'The Werebison'.]

"Settle down, Sheils," said Jerry 'Elvis' Green, the local coroner, nicknamed due to his addiction to the late King of Rock and Roll. "And take the crime scene photos."

"Yours to command," said Sheila, saluting Elvis, before going on to take the photos with her mobile phone.

"What about her parents?" asked Colin.

"Parents and two sisters are already on the way to the hospital," said Tilly.

Half an hour later, the skeletal remains of Rochelle Hannigan were also on the way to the Glen Hartwell Hospital, and Terri and the others returned to the Lexus to start back toward the Cartwright Manor House. However, they had barely started back when they were notified that another teen-sized skeleton had been found in an alleyway in Wilhelmina.

This time, they arrived before Glen Hartwell's sixth and final ambulance, and found two elderly ladies with purple-rinsed and green-rinsed hair, respectively.

"Did you two ladies find the remains?" asked Colin.

By way of answer, the two old ladies, hugging each other for comfort, nodded, too traumatised to speak.

"This time the hands have been chewed off," said Terri, puzzled.

"Maybe she was trying to fight it off when it swooped down at her?" suggested Sheila, before going on to take the crime scene photos.

"Maybe," agreed Terri.

"If this girl and Rochelle Hannigan were amongst the group in the forest last night," said Colin. "Maybe we only have three missing kids now?"

"Perhaps," agreed Terri, as they heard the shrilling of sirens as the ambulance finally arrived.

"What kept you?" teased Sheila, as a tall redheaded paramedic, Julia Prescott, aged twenty-eight, climbed out of the ambulance, along with Leo Laxman and Jesus Costello.

"We got held up in traffic," lied Julia.

"Ooh, you know it's a sin to tell a lie, Jules," teased Sheila. "At least according to Slim Whitman."

"Sheils, your knowledge of ancient songs is pointless," teased Julia.

"How dare you?" said Sheila, pretending to be offended.

"Well, we'll leave it to you slowpokes," teased Terri, "we have to get back to where the action is."

"Where's that?" asked Tilly Lombstrom.

"I don't know," said Sheila. "But we're going back to Westmoreland."


Back at the Cartwright Manor House in Chatterton Street, Westmoreland, George and Eunice had already started exploring the dilapidated building.

"How's it going?" Terri asked Stanlee Dempsey.

"Well, we've stopped the partners in crime from accidentally on purpose tearing it down," said Stanlee. "But no sign of five kids yet."

"Actually, we think it's only three missing kids now," said Colin. "We've found three kid-slash-teen-sized skeletons."

"Yeech," said Stanlee.

Seeing Eunice and George finally appear on the roof, Terri shouted up, "Have you found anything?"

"Yes," called back George, "you'd better come up in the cherry picker." He pointed at a lifting crane beside her.

"Okey dokey," called back Terri.

A couple of minutes later, the three cops were in the cherry picker up near the roof.

"Okay, what is it?" asked Terri.

Eunice pointed to a small skeleton on the roof.

"Also, the gargoyles all seem to be covered in blood," said George.

"You think the kids did that, after smashing the windows?" asked Colin.

"Wait a minute," said Sheila after an epiphany, "gargoyles can fly, can't they?"

"Not the ones made out of concrete," said George, "they're too heavy."

"That's why they stopped making planes out of concrete," teased Eunice. "They kept falling out of the sky."

"You're getting to be quite a sarky moo cow, Eunice," teased back Sheila, "you need to spend less time around George. He's led you astray."

"That'll be difficult," said Eunice, holding up her ring finger. "We're engaged."

"Everyone's getting engaged, except Derek and me!" said Sheila. "Okay, stand back so I can take the crime scene photos."

"Snap the blood-smeared gargoyle as well," said Colin.

"They're all blood smeared," said George.

"Then she'll have to snap them all," said Terri.

"Any sign of any other kids?" asked Colin. "There are still two missing."

"Nope," said Eunice, "just this poor little bugger."

Twenty minutes later, they were back on the ground.

"Your turn next," said Sheila to a worried-looking Tilly Lombstrom.

"I never was very good with heights," said the surgeon, reluctantly getting into the cherry picker, along with Leo Laxman and Derek Armstrong.

"Gee, it's been a busy day, so far today," said Terri as they set off again in her blue Lexus GX.


Over at 77 Dunscombe Street, Wilhelmina, Violetta Ricco, had just seen her husband off to work and was vacuuming the upstairs rooms. She had almost finished and only had her sons' room to go. She turned the handle, stepped inside, saw the mutilated remains of Giovanni and Enzo on the floor, and opened her mouth to scream ... only to faint instead.


"Where to now, Tare?" asked Sheila as they headed away from the Cartwright Manor House.

Terri started to answer, then stopped as her mobile phone rang. Taking out her phone, she spoke for a minute or so, then said:

"77 Dunscombe Street, Wilhelmina. I think we've found the two remaining kids."

"That's where the Riccos live," said Sheila. "They have a devil of a sixteen-year-old son named Giovanni, and a good son, eleven-year-old Enzo."

"I think the operative word now is had," said Terri.

When they arrived at Dunscombe Street, they found an ambulance waiting, with Cheryl, Derek, and Jesus Costello standing nearby.

"Holy Shiite, you blokes have been getting about more today than even we have," said Sheila, by way of greeting.

"Hopefully, it's about to slow down," said Terri, as they headed into the two-storey, red and blue brick house.

"As far as we know, these are the last of the lost kids," added Colin Klein.

"Unless whatever killed them decides to go after the partners in crime next," joked Sheila, unaware of how right she was going to be.


After the police and medics had finally left, Selly Selkirk, Ainsley Cartwright, and Marvin Johnston continued plotting to have the building demolished.

"We'd better get it started tomorrow, before the cops decide to rope it off as a crime scene," suggested Selly.

"No worries," said Marvin, rubbing his hands together lecherously. "We can have this dump torn down to ground level before the cops know what hit it. Those heavy-duty wrecking balls have a fifty-four-hundred-kilo ball; they'll bring it down in forty-five minutes at most."

"Then soon we'll all be rolling in rupees," said Ainsley, rubbing his hands together, only just resisting the temptation to cackle like a cartoon villain.

Separating, the three men went to their cars, not noticing when three of the gargoyles spread their concrete wings and took off to follow one car each.


Leggy eighteen-year-old brunette, Leila Feinberg, the maid-cum-waitress-cum-part-time bottle-washer at the Imperial Motel, was on reception duty at the hotel in Oxford Street, Willamby, when Thomas 'Selly' Selkirk entered the building.

"Hello, gorgeous," flirted Selly as he stopped at the desk to pick up his key. Although a property millionaire, Selly saw no point in spending big on a mansion himself. "Room 234, please."

"Yes, I know, handsome," said Leila, smiling lecherously at the middle-aged man.

"Less flirting, more working," said Heidi Pollock, the tall, curvaceous forty-something redheaded manageress, coming out of the dining room opposite the reception area.

"I wasn't flirting, I was handing Mr. Selkirk his room key."

"Well, keep your knickers on while you're doing it," said Heidi, heading for the dining room on the left of the reception area.

"She is such a crude old bag," whispered Leila, careful not to be overheard.

"Personally, I prefer young, juicy brunettes," teased Selly, doing an obscene slurping noise, while leaning across to take the key. Seeing Leila blush, he added, "Why don't you come up to see me after tea?"

"Why not indeed?" she said, thinking, He might be fat and middle-aged, still it's better than sleeping alone. She was on the pill, her mother had started her at just age thirteen when the brunette had started to act promiscuously. "But we have tea coming up soon, so don't be too long."

"I can be as long as you like," flirted Selly, before turning and heading across to the elevator.

Yeah right, he's probably got five centimetres at most! thought Leila, Still, I've had less!

At that moment, Heidi returned to say, "Less nattering, more serving in the dining room."

"Yes, Mrs. Pollock," said Heidi, just resisting the temptation to do a Nazi salute and goosestep as she followed the redhead into the dining room.


Selly Selkirk walked into his lavender-walled bedroom to change for tea, and immediately shivered from the cold.

Looking around, he saw the bedroom wide open.

That cheapskate redheaded manageress! thought Selly heading across to close the window before he turned to ice. She'll freeze her patrons rather than spend money on an air purifier!

As he reached the window, he stopped and stared. At first, he could not work out what he was looking at, perched outside. It was a dirty grey-blue colour and had a large squid-like beak.

"What the Hell ...?" asked Selly, his final words before the Gargoyle reached into the room and ripped his throat out.

Then, bending low, the creature managed to climb into the bedroom and started to eat Selly's face and head, followed by his neck and chest, before ripping away his clothing to tear open his huge belly, to gorge itself upon kilogrammes of fat. Then, it went on to eat his heart, lungs, liver, and kidneys. It had just devoured his genitals when the knocking came at the door.

"Mr. Selkirk? Selly?" said Leila. "It's the gorgeous young brunette. The ugly old witch sent me up to call you down to tea. We're having beef casserole tonight, I know that's your favourite."


That's strange, thought Leila, I came up in the elevator, and I know he's too fat to walk down two flights of steps.

Knocking again, she said, "Don't worry if you're not decent, I like indecent men!"

Using her passkey, the brunette opened the door, then, seeing Selly lying on the floor near the window, she raced across, looked down, and started screaming.


Unlike the late Selly Selkirk, Ainsley Cartwright was a great believer in 'If you've got money, spend money!' Especially when it came to fine food, expensive cars, expensive clothes, nice houses, and very friendly women. At the moment, he was driving a classic Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud, dressed in an Armani suit, with a tall leggy blonde named Cherylyn Smeggins next to him. Despite her lousy surname, Ainsley was quite taken by Cherylyn, or Shezzy as he called her. She had long blonde hair almost down to her backside, huge breasts, a tiny waist, a huge behind, and a tiny brain, making her his perfect woman.

"Soon be there, Shezzy," said Ainsley.

"Soon be where?" asked Cherylyn in a cooing Marilyn Monroe voice.

"Home and in bed," said Ainsley, correcting himself, "I mean home having fine food and wine and a fine woman with long blonde hair."

"Who is she, the bitch!" demanded Cherylyn in a pique of jealous.

"You, angel face," appeased Ainsley. He didn't mind Cherylyn's tiny brain, her tiny waist, huge chest, and huge behind, more than made up for it.

"Oh, yes, I am a blonde," said Cherylyn as though just realising it.

She'd better be as good in bed as out of it! thought the millionaire as they finally reached his two-storey, yellow brick mansion on the outskirts of Fitzsimmons Drive in Wilhelmina.

"Mr. Cartwright," said Tompkins, his tall, greying, suitably snooty-looking manservant. Seeing Cherylyn, his eyes opened wide in distaste, and he added, "And companion."

"Where?" asked Cherylyn.

"You, my darling," said Ainsley. Taking her by the arm, he led the blonde past the glaring manservant and into the main hallway.

As they entered, Tompkins said, "Dinner will be served in the next few minutes, sir."

"Thank you, Tompkins," said Ainsley, leading the gorgeous, moronic blonde into the dining room, which was lined with original masterpieces including a Goya, a Picasso, and a Monet.

"Look at the pretty pictures," cooed Cherylyn.

"Yes, indeed, ma'am," said Tompkins, before looking toward the ceiling.

Seating his beautiful companion, Ainsley tucked in her serviette, being careful to squeeze her right leg in the process.

On the table before them were cutlery, various glasses, plus deep soup dishes.

After a minute or two, Tompkins returned and poured them generous servings of soup.

"Vichyssoise," said Ainsley, "my favourite."

"Yes, indeed, sir," said Tompkins.

Cherylyn took a tiny sip, dropped her spoon and complained, "Hey, my soup is cold, take it away and warm it up."

"But madam, it's Vichyssoise."

"I don't care if it's bully baize, I want mine piping hot!"

"But, madam."

"Just do it, Tompkins," ordered Ainsley.

A few minutes later, they were both enjoying their Vichyssoise, Ainsley's cold, Cherylyn's piping hot."

"Now, this is great soup," cooed Cherylyn. "If only Thompson would remember that soup should be served hot, not cold."

"I'll remind him later," soothed Ainsley, thinking, I'd better get to screw this bimbo before the night is over!

After their soup, they had roast beef with all the trimmings, followed by Baked Alaska.

"Wow, there's ice cream in this meringue," said Cherylyn, scrumming it up.

There'd better be my cream inside this dumb blonde, before the night is out! thought the millionaire.

After tea, Ainsley managed to manoeuvre Cherylyn up to his bedroom to listen to CDs.

"This place is stifling," said Cherylyn, fanning herself with her hands.

"I'll open the window," offered Ainsley.

Walking across to the large, four-paned window, he slid it up and stared in amazement at the concrete gargoyle sitting outside his window.

"Where did that come ...? he began, stopping as the Gargoyle ripped his face off, then proceeded to devour his head, neck and shoulders.

"Are you throwing up, Ainey?" asked Cherylyn, puzzled by the strange lapping, slurping noises coming from the window, with Ainsley Cartwright now almost falling out of it.

Receiving no answer, the blonde walked across to investigate and stared in horror at the concrete gargoyle eating her date.

Screaming, she raced out into the corridor shouting, "Thompson! Thompson! A giant birdie is eating Ainsley!"

"A what is eating ...?" began Tompkins.


Having heard the screaming from the ground floor, Heidi Pollock, Cameron 'Cam' Pollock, Heidi's husband, a tall fiercely blond man, and half a dozen residents raced up the stairs, or to the elevator, to see what all the screaming was about.

"What the Hell?" asked Cam Pollock, racing into the bedroom.

Unable to stop screaming, Leila pointed toward the gutted remains of Selly Selkirk.

"Jesus!" said Cam, crossing himself.

"What is it, Cam?" asked Heidi.

"No, don't go into the room," he called, trying and failing to stop her.

Soon, there were two screaming women in the bedroom.


Over at the Yellow house, in Merridale, they had finished their tea and were just getting ready to have their dessert, Cherries Jubilee.

"My favourite, Mrs. M.!" said Sheila Bennett.

"I do try to please my favourite guest," said Deidre Morton.

"Just so long as you put plenty of brandy on it," insisted Tommy Turner.

"Yes, Tommy," said Deidre with a sigh. "We know you have to drink your dessert as well as eat it."

"That's one thing I like about Cherries Jubilee," said Tommy, "You can't make it without plonk."

"Plonk!" said Deidre. "I'll have you know this is the finest Napoleon Brandy."

"Don't I know it, I paid for it, now everyone gets it."

"It is better to give than to receive," reminded Natasha Lipzing.

"Not my plonk, it isn't"

Before the argument could continue, Terri's mobile rang.

"Oh, no!" said Sheila as Terri took out her phone.

After a minute or so, the ash blonde disconnected and said, "That was Cam Pollock at the Imperial Motel in Willamby. It seems something has gutted Selly Selkirk, the real estate shark."

"I told you the partners in crime would be next," said Sheila as the three cops headed toward the corridor.

"You can gloat later," said Colin, "for now we have to get to the Imperial."


Like Ainsley Cartwright, Marvin Johnston was looking for a good time that night before going home to his cold, unloving wife. But unlike the millionaire, weasel-faced Marvin had to pay for it. So he stopped his Ford Capri outside the Free Love Sex Lounge in Gordon Street, LePage. Beside the concrete steps outside the front door, stood three women: a tall, night-black goddess with a huge chest, named Sherri, a short, amply chested Asian cutie named Cerille, and a fifty-something blonde in a Madonna Cowgirl Stage costume, Martha.

"Hello, ladies," said Marvin, leering at the three women who did their best not to be sickened at the sight. "'Fraid I can only pleasure two of you tonight." He considered for a moment, then said, "Sherri, and Martha."

"Lucky us," said Sherri, as he grabbed the two prostitutes by their ample backsides to lead them inside.

Lucky me, thought Cerille, managing to smile sweetly, despite her loathing for the weasel-faced demolition man.

Ten minutes later, with $350 having changed hands, Marvin Johnston was lying on his back on the black sheets of a heart-shaped bed, in an all-black lined room, while cowgirl-Madonna gone to pot, Martha, was bouncing up and down on his manhood, waving her cowgirl hat around as though she was riding a mechanical bull instead of a customer's penis.

"Ride him, cowgirl!" cheered on Sherri, clapping her hands, only glad it was Martha riding the wrecker's cock, not her.

Finally, he finished, gushing into Martha's body, then, after bucking the chubby, fifty-something blonde off him, Marvin raised a finger toward the night black goddess Sherri, who gulped in despair, sauntered across toward the dumpy man, hoping to make him ejaculate before entering.

"Lick me clean!" he ordered, pointing to his semen coated genitals.

Gulping to avoid throwing up, the black beauty did as instructed, then, taking off her clothes, lay on her back on the bed, while Marvin climbed aboard her, penetrated her body, then grabbed her huge breasts, seemingly intent upon ripping them off her chest, grunting like a pig, while he fucked her unsubtly.

Finally, the fat man finished and, to her relief, climbed off the black goddess.

"That was terrific!" cried Marvin.

"Terrific," mimicked Sherri, without feeling.

Marvin, now breathing heavily, started to dress, then stopped as a knocking came at the bedroom window.


By the time Terri and the others reached the Imperial Motel in Oxford Street, Willamby, they found three ambulances and a gaggle of medics and paramedics standing around waiting for them.

"Are you three following us?" teased Derek Armstrong.

"Yes, handsome, how about a date?" teased back Sheila, as two of the ambulances took off. "Hey, where are they going.

"Funnily enough, to the hospital," teased Cheryl Pritchard. "It was either that or to an amusement park."

"You can be a sarky moo cow, sometimes, Chezza," said Sheila.

"That's Heidi Pollock and Leila Feinberg," said Derek. "They found this one."

"Yeech!" said Sheila, before following Terri and Colin into the hotel. Up in room 234, on the second storey, Terri, Colin, and Sheila stared in horror at the gutted remains of sleazy Selly Selkirk.

"I think yeech is the appropriate term again," said Terri.

"At this rate, Glen Hartwell will soon run out of sleazy real estate sharks!" said Sheila Bennett. "We've lost a few over the last couple of years."

"Well, I suppose there's some good in every situation," said Colin as Sheila snapped off the crime scene photos.

After they had finished, Terri and the others walked out into the corridor, where Cheryl, Derek, Tilly Lombstrom, and Leo Laxman were waiting.

"All yours, Tils, Laxie," said Terri as the three cops eased past them in the lime green corridor.

"See you soon, at the next one," said Sheila.

"What next one?" asked Derek Armstrong.

"Sheils has this theory that the concrete gargoyles killed the six kids yesterday, and are going to kill the gang of three who plan to knock down the Cartwright Manor House," explained Colin.

"So one down, two to go?" asked Derek.

"If the mad Goth chick is right," said Terri. "And she usually is with her most insane theories."




"We're on the third storey, aren't we?" asked Marvin Johnston.

"Yes," agreed the black goddess, Sherri.

"Then, how the Hell can anyone be knocking at the window?"

"It's probably a tree branch blowing in the wind," suggested Martha.

"There are no tree out there," said Sherri. "There's a customer car park."

Puzzled, still naked from the waist down, Marvin walked across, pulled up the window, then stared in amazement at the concrete Gargoyle staring in at him.

"Hey ...?" began the fat man, stopping as the gargoyle leant into the room and ripped his face off his head, along with half of his brain.

Screeching from terror, Sherri and Martha raced out into the Navy-blue corridor and ran down the steps, collapsing on the ground floor in Martha's case. Running out into, then down Gordon Street in the case of Sherri.


Terri, Colin, and Sheila had barely climbed into the Lexus when Terri's mobile shrilled again.

Taking out a coin, Sheila said to Colin, "Heads or tails, whether the next victim is Ainsley Cartwright or Marvin Johnston?"

After talking for a moment, Terri disconnected and said, "Tails, it's Ainsley Cartwright, at his mansion in Fitzsimmons Street, Wilhelmina."

"Then we should ring Marvin Johnston to warn him that he could be next," suggested Colin, taking out his phone. He checked the police directory, got Johnston's number, then rang it.


In the red-walled lobby of the Free Love Sex Lounge in Gordon Street, LePage, Martha had finally recovered enough to tell the others, "A giant grey bird ate Marvin up in the sable room."

"A giant grey bird?" demanded a tall Amazonian fifty-something blonde, Lysette Carmichael, the madam of the sex lounge.

"Seriously," said Martha, realising how insane it sounded.

"In fairness, Sherri took off like the ghost of Pharlap was after her," said tiny Cerille.'

"Okay, let's go up and check," insisted Lysette.

"Not me, Lizzie, I'm too chicken," said Martha. "And too knackered after running down three flights of steps."

Grabbing Martha by the shoulder, Lysette pulled her to her feet, saying, "Up you come, cowgirl-Madonna, we can use the lift this time."

"But I'm too chicken," protested Martha, not strong enough to resist as the Amazonian blonde dragged her into the elevator.

A few minutes later, Lysette dragged Martha into the Sable Room, followed tentatively by Cerille and three other girls. By that time, the Gargoyle had finished and had returned to the Manor House in Westmoreland. However, Marvin Johnson's gutted corpse lay on the black carpet beneath the window.

"Oh, my God!" cried Cerille. Clutching a hand over her face, she raced out into the corridor, trying not to throw up before reaching the nearest restroom.

Finally releasing Martha, who, caught by surprise, fell onto her hands and knees, Lysette started to creep ever so slowly toward the gutted corpse, as though expecting it to jump up and grab her.

As soon as she was released, Martha crawled out into the corridor, too panicked to even take the time to stand up, followed by the other girls who ran screaming downstairs, too panicked to wait for the elevator.

Refusing to give in to fear, the Amazonian blonde crept closer and closer, until she was less than a metre from Marvin Johnston. Then the mobile phone in his shirt pocket rang, startling her.

Shrieking in terror, Lysette raced out into the corridor and managed to beat most of the girls down to the ground floor. Including Martha, who had taken the elevator.


As they reached Ainsley Cartwright's yellow brick mansion on the outskirts of Fitzsimmons Drive in Wilhelmina, Colin said, "Still no bloody answer."

"Maybe it's a clean sweep already?" suggested Sheila.

"We can always count on Sheils to look on the bright side," teased Terri, as the three cops climbed out of the police-blue Lexus.

Outside the mansion, they saw two ambulances and various medics and paramedics.

As they approached, Cheryl Pritchard teased, "Howdy, slowpokes, nice of ya to finally turn up."

"If it wasn't for one thing, I'd beat her up!" said Sheila.

"The fact that Cheryl's been bodybuilding for twenty-five years longer than you have?" asked Colin.

"Exactly!"

As they entered the mansion, one of the ambulances took off.

"Hey, where's that going?" demanded Terri.

"Just taking away his planned conquest for the night," explained Derek Armstrong, "the poor bimbo saw it happen."

"So he didn't even get to shag her before being eaten alive?" asked Sheila. "The poor bloke. I'd feel sorry for him, if he hadn't been a sleaze."

Inside, they took the usual crime scene photos, then Jesus Costello, Topaz Moseley, a gorgeous thirty-something, platinum blonde nurse, entered the mansion to examine the gutted corpse.

Terri, Colin, and Sheila were just entering Terri's Lexus when her mobile rang again. After speaking for a moment, she disconnected and said:

"That was someone called Lysette Carmichael at the Free Love Sex Lounge in Gordon Street, LePage. You were right, mad Goth chick, they've slaughtered all of the gang of three: Ainsley Cartwright, Selly Selkirk, and Marvin Johnston."

"So what's next, babe?" asked Colin Klein.

"Next, we put a guard around the Cartwright Manor House to stop them from demolishing it," said Terri. "If Sheils is right, the Gargoyles are only attacking those who want to harm the mansion."

"In legend, Gargoyles were placed on the eaves of buildings to protect them against invaders," said Colin. "So, best guess, that's what they're doing now."


The next morning, Terri, Colin, and Sheila got up at six-thirty to have a very early breakfast before heading around to the Cartwright Manor House on the outskirts of Chatterton Street on the edge of Westmoreland.

When they arrived, a builder with a massive crane, wielding a fifty-four-hundred-kilo wrecking ball, was getting ready to start demolishing the ancient manor house.

"Sorry, you're gonna have to hold off," said Terri, calling up to the wrecker.

"Why?" demanded the wrecker, Rodney, a burly redheaded man.

"Because I'm head cop around here, and I say so."

"Have you got a Cease and Desist Order?"

"No."

"Then get out of the way, Hot Stuff, 'cause this derelict building is coming down."

Walking across to the other cops, she said, "He called me Hot Stuff, but refused to stop."

"Yeah, we heard," said Sheila, unable to stop grinning.

"How come you never call me Hot Stuff?" Terri asked Colin.

"I think we've got bigger problems to worry about, Chief," said Stanlee Dempsey.

He pointed up toward the four gargoyles upon the eaves of the third storey of the crumbling manor house. Whereas they had been seated before, now they were crouching, wings spread, as though ready to leap off the rooftop.

As the wrecking ball started to swing, Terrie shouted to Rodney, "Get down, they're coming for you."

"Sorry, Hot Stuff," said the redheaded man. Not seeing as the four gargoyles launched themselves from the manor house, straight toward him.

"Get down!" shouted Colin, Terri, Stanlee, and Sheila, cupping their hands to try to make themselves her over the mechanics of the wrecking crane, and the screeching of the gargoyles,'

"Not in a million ..." began Rodney.

His words turned to shrieks as the four gargoyles landed upon the cabin of the crane, ripped the roof and sides away, before starting to tear the crane operator apart, ripping his head off his shoulders, tearing off his four limbs, then ripping open his stomach to disembowel them.

"Oh, Christ!" said Sheila. She took out her service revolver to shoot at them, but Colin restrained her.

"He's already dead," said the redheaded ex-reporter, "and shooting them won't hurt them, they're made of concrete."

"And it'll just make them come after us," said Terri. "So far, they haven't attacked anyone who didn't attack Cartwright Manor first. Let's keep it that way."

"So what's next, Chief?" asked Stanlee Dempsey.

"Now we go see Don," said Terri.


Donald Frazer was a tall, heavyset man with short blond hair and a ginger moustache. Complete with a vest, checked coat and trousers, pipe, and a deerstalker hat, he looked the part of the archetypical English gentleman farmer. He was also the local magistrate in Glen Hartwell and all of the small towns between BeauLarkin and Willamby.

"So what can I do for you, Terri?" asked Don, as they sat before the teak desk he sat in front of, in his book-lined study.

She explained to him all that had happened lately, then said, "We need you to write out a Cease and Desist Order, to stop anyone from trying to tear down Cartwright Manor House in Westmoreland."

"Will do," said the big man, starting to hunt through the various forms upon his desk in varicoloured plastic trays.

"We also need you to get in touch with Heritage Australia to try to have the manor house heritage listed," said Colin.

"So that no silly bugger can start the gargoyles off again," finished Sheila.

"Will do," assured Don, filling out the Cease and Desist Order. "Although I'm not gonna tell them the real reason why. I'll just say it's an ancient manor house of historic importance to Victoria and Australia."

"Good thinking," said Sheila. "That should keep you out of the loony bin."

"Actually, Queens Grove Sanatorium is conveniently placed," said Don. "Only a kilometre or so away from the Cartwright Manor House."

"That is convenient," said Sheila. "In case they decide to lock us all up there."

"Well, if they do," said Terri, "they'd better put Colin and me in the same room, since we're engaged!"

"Absolutely," said Colin, as they all started laughing.

THE END
© Copyright 2025 Philip Roberts
Melbourne, Victoria, Australia