Big Stinky Fear

The following takes place following: Missing

“The town of Widdlington boasts an annual death rate of seventy-two per one thousand people — seven times higher than the national average of the United Kingdom.

And no, it’s not due to obesity, or that incident with radon leaking into people’s homes — though that didn’t exactly help either.

No, it’s because Widdlington, the capital of Waldonia, is perched on a supernatural hotspot — a spiritual party town attracting all manner of troublesome critters. Some of them are even good friends of mine.

It’s no surprise, then, that many of our townsfolk meet swift and often gruesome ends, long before their time. To most, this is a terrifying reality they refuse to face. They stick their heads in the sand, ignoring the shadows as they try to muddle through their short, miserable lives.

But for me — Wally F. Walchak, plucky and unscrupulous reporter for The Waldopolis Chronicle — this reality is the bread and butter of my very existence.

Two nights ago, Fiona Malone, forty-five, a former government minister whose reputation had seen better days, vanished after leaving her home, allegedly taking the Number 7 bus to the Masters Council stop in Waldomere. This marks the latest in a curious string of disappearances — an unusually high number in such a short span, even for this town — with most cases traced back to the Waldobury area.

Adding to the unease, three mutilated bodies have been discovered in the past nine days, seemingly dumped in the woods near the Stanley Crags above Waldobury Heights. In each case, the police reported trauma to the neck — “likely the result of an animal attack” — but I suspect they’re withholding information from us.

Ms. Malone was particularly notable, not only for her high profile but because she lived in Wexley, in the northeast part of town, with no apparent reason to visit Waldobury at that time of night — especially the Masters Council grounds, a place she politically despised. A sentiment this humble, freedom-loving reporter can certainly empathise with.

As I prowled through the cobblestone pathways of Waldobury, a thought gnawed at me: what secrets do the hills of Waldobury Heights conceal, and what aren’t the WPD telling us?

I like to think I have a nose for this kind of thing — figuratively speaking — and my goblin senses tell me there’s a lot more to this story.

The streets of Widdlington may seem quiet during the day, but there’s always something lurking beneath the surface. You just need to know where to look. And me? I’ve got a knack for finding trouble.”

Wally Walchak clicked the STOP button on his tape recorder and ducked into a narrow alley between two weathered brownstones, his tiny green form blending seamlessly into the shadows. The autumn air was thick with the scent of damp leaves and something… off, a low hum tingling at the back of his squishy skull.

At a small coffee kiosk near Waldonian University, a handful of students gathered, sipping lattes and whispering about the disappearances. Wally’s sharp eyes caught their furtive glances, faces tight with unease. From the safety of a nearby dustbin, its lid slowly lifting, Wally’s ears twitched, catching snippets of conversation.

Wally (narrating): “For most college kids, the biggest worry these days is who can be most offended about the latest microaggression. But these days, even they know something’s not right. You can see it in their eyes. You can smell it all over them... Big Stinky Fear… It's quite intoxicating...”

As the students left, their murmurs echoing in the crisp air, the dustbin lid rose higher, revealing Wally and his worn straw hat. He quickly scribbled cryptic hieroglyphs in his notepad.

Cut to Waldobury Heights later in the day...

Wally scurried through the expansive gardens of the mansions, then ventured into the forest, climbing the craggy hills where the wind howled between the rock formations. Crouching low, he sniffed the damp earth, searching for clues among the scattered pine needles.

Wally (narrating): “Three bodies in nine days, all discovered in this area... And yet, not a whiff of blood? Why here? Perhaps it's some kind of satanic ritual? The residents of these old-money mansions wouldn’t surprise me. They could have at least extended an invitation…”

Wally narrowed his eyes, gazing out over the city. From this vantage point, Widdlington appeared peaceful, a quaint town nestled in rolling hills. But he knew better.

Wally (narrating): “The hills of Waldobury hide more than just wildlife. Something prowls these streets, something far more dangerous than anyone wants to admit. If the police won’t talk, maybe I’ll have to pay someone else a visit.”

As the sun set, casting long shadows across the hillside, Wally slipped back toward town, his notepad filled with more cryptic markings, each a clue leading him deeper into the mystery.

Wally slipped through the alleyways of Waldminster, the dim light of a flickering streetlamp casting eerie shadows around him. Suddenly, a cloaked figure—part skunk, part man—emerged from the darkness. Without a word, the skunkbreed handed Wally a thin folder, its black, beady eyes darting nervously.

Wally (narrating): “You see, information in this town doesn’t come from good old-fashioned police work. If you want the truth, you’ve gotta dig. Sometimes that means meeting shady characters in even shadier alleys.”

After a brief look at the contents, Wally let slip an excited smirk before tucking the folder under his arm and tipping his hat, slipping back into the night with a satisfied grin.

Wally (narrating): “Every thread I pull leads to more questions. That’s the nature of this town—secrets buried beneath secrets. And me? I’m just the goblin crazy enough to untangle the whole mess.”

****

Wally (narrating):Thanks to the autopsy report I obtained from my private investigator, I finally uncovered the missing piece of the puzzle: the victims had been drained of their blood. This critical detail, withheld by the police, explained the absence of blood at the crime scenes. A surge of excitement coursed through me as I realised I was not dealing with an ordinary killer. My mind drifted back to a shadowy corner of memory, where old folklore legends lurked, waiting to be rekindled.

With newfound urgency, I made my way to the Winifred Burkle Library, where dusty tomes and fading pages held the whispers of the past. Sure enough, I stumbled upon the legend of the Stanley Shrike — a monstrous, seven-foot-tall bird said to nest high in the Stanley Crags, silently stalking the nearby forests in search of unsuspecting prey. It was said to stab its victims in the neck with its razor-sharp beak, draining them of blood — a gruesome fate for any unfortunate soul who ventured too close to its lair.

As I pondered the implications of this folklore, a delicious thought struck me: what if the Stanley Shrike was no mere myth? The recent disappearances were fascinating, and the fact that these victims were found without a trace of blood suggested something otherworldly was at play. Why would a creature of legend suddenly begin hunting in the city, far from its ancestral cliffs?

To explore this bizarre theory, I sought out Professor Thaddeus M. Hargrove, the esteemed Professor of Folklore and Mythology at Waldonian University. His office was a cluttered shrine to superstition — shelves sagging under the weight of ancient volumes, maps curling at the edges. At first, he dismissed the tale as childish nonsense; the Stanley Shrike, he insisted, was a fireside fable designed to scare children away from the hills.

But as I pressed him, something in his manner changed. In a weary sigh, he offered a theory: that the recent construction of the Royal Palace above Waldobury Heights might have disturbed the Shrike’s natural habitat. Urban expansion, he suggested, could have driven the beast — if it existed — to venture further afield in search of prey.

Armed with this insight and a stack of yellowing folklore, I, Wally F. Walchak, was ready to declare the case solved. It was the Stanley Shrike — the blood-drinking bird of legend — responsible for the murders and disappearances across town. Perhaps Fiona Malone was sitting in its nest at this very moment, waiting to be its next meal.

All that remained was to present my findings to Mr Travers and turn this revelation into a front-page story. A Woolitzer Prize might even be within my grasp. The thought sent a rush of exhilaration through me as I prepared to dive headlong into the mystery."

The Waldoverse continues in The Stanley Shrike