“But WHERE do your customers come from?” said Joe to Fuzzby one afternoon. “I’ve never seen any monsters in the street and they have to come from somewhere.”

It was a question that had been bothering him all day. They’d been particularly busy, with the specials proving very popular with the customers. Joe looked at the board.

Sausage à la bogey was a favourite of the round monster called Bradwell. His knitting was coming on very well. “Just got the sleeves to do,” he rumbled, showing his enormous jumper to Joe. “Then I’ll start work on the socks.”

“There aren’t enough sheep in the world to make wool for those feet,” Barry muttered, looking at Bradwell’s gigantic paws.

Gordon, the monster who digested his food before swallowing it, wasn’t fussy about what he ate and ordered the splatterbugs and the toad tongue. There was a brief awkward moment when he accidentally spat on Lemmy Guzzelin, and the rest of the Guzzelins thought he was about to eat them, but fortunately the little rock monster wasn’t affected by the acid and things quickly calmed down.

“There’s a door in the alley,” said Fuzzby in answer to Joe’s question. “It leads to… somewhere else. And that’s where the monsters come from.”

It was the kind of answer Joe’s mum would give when she didn’t really want him to know the truth.

“I didn’t see any door,” said Joe. Then he remembered that he hadn’t seen the door of the diner at first. Perhaps these magic doors only showed themselves when they wanted to be seen.

“Come outside,” said Fuzzby. “I’m expecting a special visitor at any minute.”

Joe followed Fuzzby into the alley. There was no sign of any other door.

“Any moment now…” said Fuzzby, just as the wall opposite began to shake and tremble. Light streamed briefly from between the old bricks and with a scraping shudder a section of the wall slid back, leaving a gaping hole filled with darkness. Joe held his breath.

From the hole emerged the tip of a tree branch. Then the whole branch, then another branch. Finally an entire tree stepped out into the alley, or rather ‘grew’ into the alley, as it didn’t have anything Joe would call ‘feet’, more like a load of roots. The tree gave itself a shake, sending leaves gently falling all around them. There were strange fruits hanging from its branches that appeared to move by themselves, but with a gasp Joe suddenly realised that they weren’t fruits at all, but eyes.

Many eyes. The eyes focused on Fuzzby.

“They make these doors too small, you know,” sighed a rather grand voice from somewhere inside the tree trunk. Joe noticed a mouth-like crack in the bark. “One has such trouble fitting through.”

“Afternoon, Mrs Trumptious,” Fuzzby said to the tree in his usual cheery way.

“You could always saw a bit off,” said Barry from the doorway.

The tree shuddered and turned its fruit-eyes on to the cat with contempt.

“I am not some common-or-garden shrub that benefits from a bit of rough pruning,” said Mrs Trumptious with a haughty ruffling of leaves. “I need proper cultivation.”

“Show some respect, Barry,” Fuzzby scolded.

“Beg your pardon, Mrs Trumptious,” said Barry, squirming back into the diner. But under his breath he muttered, Fuzzby introduced Joe to the tree.

“A hooman?” creaked Mrs Trumptious, sweeping an eye-laden branch down low to inspect him. “I’m not sure I approve, Mr Bixington. Such troublesome little creatures. Far too fond of fire and axes.”

“He’s a good lad,” said Fuzzby. “He’s been a great help to me.”

“He’s about the same size as one of my saplings,” said Mrs Trumptious. “Twig? Where are you, Twig?” The eyes peered around, looking up and down the alley at the same time.

A small girl stepped shyly from behind the tree trunk. Joe thought she looked like a girl who had fallen into a hedge and decided she liked it so much she had brought it along with her. Instead of hair she had a sprinkling of tiny leaves. Her skin was papery and she had thin, short branches that looked like arms.

“Hello, hooman,” she said in a giddy voice, staring at Joe with curiosity. “You’re very squishy-looking.”

“Why don’t we go inside and have a cup of tea?” said Fuzzby before Joe could reply. “And some chips, of course.”

“Yes, please, Mr Bixington,” said Mrs Trumptious with another dramatic sigh. “I’ve a family of robins nesting in my canopy and it’s giving me quite a headache. Mud tea would be perfect.” There was a twitter of birdsong from her upper branches. “And a few worms,” she added.

With some difficulty and several showers of leaves, Mrs Trumptious crammed herself into the diner, turning it into a temporary garden.

“Thank goodness it’s not autumn,” grumbled Barry, “or we’d be clearing up for days.”

“Why don’t you and Twig go and make a milkshake for yourselves while Mrs Trumptious and I have a chat?” said Fuzzby to Joe. “We’ve some important things to discuss.”

Joe wasn’t sure he was happy about being lumbered with this strange plant-girl, but he took Twig into the kitchen.

“Do you really work here?” asked Twig dizzily. “That’s amazing! I bet you know lots about making food.”

“I suppose so,” said Joe, though really it was Fuzzby who did all the work.

Twig looked about the kitchen at all the different pots and pans, and the shelves filled with strange ingredients. “If I worked here I’d be eating all the time,” she said.

“All these delicious things! Beetle-wing ice cream, chewy worm spaghetti, stinky coughy pudding, curly dog dumplings!” She ran over to a large vat in the corner and peered in. “Cold frog custard! My favourite. It must all make you so hungry!”

“Not… exactly,” said Joe as the custard oozed out a bubble with a wet PARP! sound. “I usually stick to hooman, er… human food.”

“I like ice cream,” said Joe. “Especially the type with bits of marshmallow or chocolate cookies in it.”

Twig looked blank. “Marsh mellow?” she said, puzzled. “Is that a type of swamp creature?”

Joe realised that this conversation was going nowhere. “But I do like chips,” he said.

“Everyone likes chips!” said Twig, brightening up. “There’s nowhere else that does them as well as Fuzzby.”

Joe felt very proud at this. Twig was obviously impressed that he worked in such an important place.

“They don’t even make chips as good as his anywhere in Monsterworld,” she added.

Monsterworld? So that was what was on the other side of the wall, thought Joe.

“What’s Monsterworld like?” he asked eagerly.

“Haven’t you been?” said Twig. “I’ve been to Hoomanworld loads of times. You hoomans all look the same. Squishy and miserable. And none of the trees can talk. Everyone looks different in Monsterworld, and the trees are much more friendly.”

Joe listened with excitement. He really wanted to visit Monsterworld, but it seemed as if Fuzzby wasn’t keen on him going. He hadn’t even told Joe about it! But why? It didn’t sound like there was anything to be afraid of, according to Twig.

“I’d love to do some cooking,” Twig said suddenly. She was waving a spoon around, pretending to stir an imaginary pot of soup. “Do you think I could?”

Joe wasn’t sure. Twig looked like the kind of person who could set fire to herself at the bottom of the sea. “Maybe we could do something simple,” he said.

On the kitchen counter a tray of gobfruit and rat hair cupcakes was cooling. Fuzzby had taken them out of the oven earlier in the day.

“Why don’t we put some icing on the cakes?” said Joe. “That’s a good start. Then we… erm… you… can eat them afterwards.”

“Yes!” said Twig. “Let’s look for things to decorate them!”

They hunted through Fuzzby’s collection of ingredients. Joe found some fly teeth, some crystallised eyeballs and a jar of fruity burpsweets.

They dolloped green, gloopy icing on the cakes and sprinkled the tops with the teeth, eyes and sweets.

Twig found a pot filled with glittery powder. “It will make them all sparkly,” she said excitedly. She shook the pot over the cakes, dusting them with plenty of glitter.

“I’ll make a milkshake now,” said Joe.

But before he could do anything, the cakes started to move about in front of their eyes, slowly shuffling around the tray. One after the other, they grew little stalks. The stalks quickly turned into little legs. The cakes began to get up off the tray and walk around, twitching and stomping unsteadily on their little feet.

“They’re alive!” marvelled Joe. “What was that glitter stuff?” He took the pot from Twig and saw a label on its side. zombie powder, it said. “You’ve turned the cakes into zombies!” Joe gasped.

The little zombie cakes lurched towards them, staring with their crystallised eyeballs and gnashing their fly teeth – except for one cake that had five eyeballs pointing in different directions and walked round in a circle.

“Oh dear,” said Twig. “I don’t think I can eat anything that has a face.”

The cakes squeaked in their little zombie voices: “BRAAIINNSS!”

“I think they might want to eat us,” said Joe, grabbing a broom for defence. “Or at least our brains. If they bite us we’ll turn into zombies too!”

“BRAAIINNSS!” squeaked the zombie cakes.

“Can’t we do something?” said Twig anxiously. “Get Fuzzby!”

“He’ll never let me back in the kitchen again if he sees this!” said Joe.

The zombie-cakes had jumped down from the counter and were slowly advancing towards them, chanting “BRAAIINNSS!” all the time.

“I heard you the first time!” said Joe.

He swept them into a corner, but the zombie cakes were undeterred. They trudged menacingly towards the two children, icing dripping from their misshapen faces like pus and leaving a trail across the floor. Joe again attempted to push them back with the broom, but a couple of the zombie cakes clung on to the end of it. He tried to shake them off, but they held on tightly and started crawling up the broom handle.

“What shall we do?” asked Twig in a panic.

Joe had read somewhere that the only way to destroy a zombie is to cut off its head, but as these zombies were all head and no body, that might be difficult. He grabbed a large knife and sliced through the nearest zombie, chopping it into bits. Little cake body parts lay lifeless on the floor, surrounded by crumbs.

“Ooh,” said Twig. “You’ve cut it into bite-sized portions! How clever!”

But the bits of cake twitched and grew legs of their own, making even tinier zombies.

“BRAAIINSSS!” came their little high-pitched squeaks.

“They’re bite-sized, but they’re going to be doing the biting!” cried Joe.

He scanned the shelves around him. Maybe Fuzzby had anti-zombie powder he could use. There was a jar labelled gungefruit marmalade. Marmalade was sticky… He grabbed the jar.

“This is no time for a sandwich!” said Twig.

Joe started pouring the marmalade out of the jar, the odd-shaped chunks of festering fruit hitting the floor with a SPLUT!

“It’s sticky!” he explained. “It might trap them and give us some time to escape!”

But the march of the zombie cakes was relentless. Their little feet kicked the fruit out of the way and they waded through the sugary marmalade with crumbly determination.

“BRAIINNS!”

Joe looked around the kitchen in desperation. There was the great big vat of frog custard, all cold and runny. He had an idea. I wonder if zombies can swim, he thought.

Meanwhile, Twig had climbed on to one of the lower shelves as the zombie cakes crowded beneath her.

“BRAIINNSS?” they squeaked at her hopefully.

“Look out!” Joe called to Twig. “I’m going to unleash the custard!”

He gave the vat a push, tipping it over on to the floor and spilling out the sickly yellow goo. It bubbled as it rolled in all directions, releasing spurts of amphibian-smelling gas. It slopped through the kitchen, sending a cold wave of frog-flavoured horror in all directions. Joe jumped on to the counter out of its reach, but the cupcakes weren’t so lucky. The little zombies were swept to their doom, engulfed by the surge of custard and dragged down into its depths. The cries of “BRAAIINNSS!” sank with them beneath the surface until only harmless, soggy cupcakes were left.

“The custard must have washed the zombie powder off them,” said Joe. “They’re back to normal now.”

“I don’t think I’m hungry any more,” said Twig.

Just then, Fuzzby and Barry poked their heads round the kitchen door.

“What are you two up to?” said Fuzzby, surveying the mess. “Cake, fruit and custard, if I’m not mistaken.”

“And not a trifling amount!” said Barry. “Get it? I should be on TV.”

“Who’s this little fellow?” said Fuzzby, ignoring the cat. The big green monster carefully picked up a wriggling cupcake. It was the zombie that could only walk round in circles – and it had survived because it had been left behind!

“BRAAIINNSS!” it squeaked at Fuzzby.

“Well, well. A zombie cupcake,” said Fuzzby with a look at Joe. “You don’t see many of those.”

“We had a bit of an accident…” began Joe.

“Never mind,” said Fuzzby, who was in a good mood about something. “We’ll keep him as a pet and feed him scrambled pterodactyl eggs. Zombies can’t tell the difference between scrambled eggs and brains, if I remember correctly. What shall we call him?”

Joe thought for a moment. “We’ll call him Cuthbert,” he decided. “Cuthbert the zombie cake. What do you think of that, Cuthbert?”

The zombie looked at them with his five crystallised eyeballs.