The Creeps

Praise for John Connolly’s Samuel Johnson Series

“Laugh-out-loud funny . . . a cross between Eoin Colfer and Terry Pratchett.”

—Los Angeles Times

“Whimsical and wicked . . . Connolly’s tale screams to be shared.”

—Minneapolis StarTribune

“It is Madeleine L’Engle by way of Douglas Adams. The Gates is a fun book and an awfully funny one, as well.”

—Chicago Sun-Times

“Delightfully fresh and imaginative.”

—Houston Press

“A wholly original novel.”

—People

“Delightfully horrific and hilarious.”

—Eoin Colfer

“Connolly’s graceful prose, laced with acerbically witty footnotes, is a joy to read, and he easily alternates among slapstick comedy, powerful drama, and skin-crawling horror.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Brilliantly funny, often touching, with enough action to keep adventure fans on the edges of their chairs, this novel combines top-notch writing with cutting wit.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“The Infernals is a wonderful morality tale delving into the nature of evil, quantum physics, dark matter, and the hubris of scientists who play God. . . . A rollicking tale makes it a delightful treat for young and old readers alike.”

—Portland Press Herald

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For Cameron and Alistair

I

In Which a Birthday Party Takes Place, and We Learn That One Ought to Be Careful with Candles (and Dangling Prepositions)

IN A SMALL TERRACED house in the English town of Biddlecombe, a birthday party was under way.

Biddlecombe was a place in which, for most of its history, very little interest had ever happened. Unfortunately, as is often the case in a place in which things have been quiet for a little too long, when something interesting did happen it was very interesting indeed; more interesting, in fact, than anybody might have wished. The gates of Hell had opened in a basement in Biddlecombe, and the town had temporarily been invaded by demons.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Biddlecombe had never really been the same since. The rugby team no longer played on its old pitch, not since a number of its players had been eaten by burrowing sharks; the voice of the captain of the Biddlecombe Golf Club could still occasionally be heard crying out from somewhere at the bottom of the fifteenth hole; and it was rumored that a monster had taken up residence in the duck pond, although it was said to be very shy, and the ducks appeared to be rather fond of it.

But the creature in the pond was not the only entity from Hell that had now taken up permanent residence in Biddlecombe, which brings us back to the birthday party. It was not, it must be said, a typical birthday party. The birthday boy in question was named Wormwood. He looked like a large ferret that had suffered a severe attack of mange,¹ and was wearing a pair of very fetching blue overalls upon which his name had been embroidered. These overalls replaced a previous pair upon which his name had also been embroidered, although he had managed to spell his own name wrong first time round. This time, all of the letters were present and correct, and in the right order, because Samuel Johnson’s mother had done the stitching herself, and if there was one thing Mrs. Johnson was a stickler for,² it was good spelling. Thus it was that the overalls now read WORMWOOD and not WROMWOOD as they had previously done.