Who was the phantom custard-cream thief? There may have been no custard-cream biscuits left in the tin, but there was a suspicious trail of steaming droppings leading from it. Droppings that looked strangely custardy and creamy.*

The droppings led all the way from the clearing, through some very jungly parts of the deepest, darkest, jungliest jungle to the mouth of a cave.

Mr Meek grimaced. “Oh no.”

He was afraid of the dark. Going down into the vaults of the LIBRARY was bad enough, but this was infinitely more terrifying. There was a long list of things that gave him THE WILLIES.

Keeping in mind his daughter’s fury if he didn’t return home with a FING, Mr Meek took a deep breath, and stepped inside the dark, damp cave.

His footsteps echoed in the blackness.

SHONT SHONT SHONT…

“HELLO!” he called out.

“HELLO!” a voice came back.

The man was spooked out of his skin. To hide his fear, Mr Meek put on his bravest, boomiest voice.

“Who’s there?” he demanded.

“WHO’S THERE?” was the defiant reply.

“I asked first.”

“I ASKED FIRST.”

“No, you didn’t. I did.”

“NO, YOU DIDN’T. I DID.”

“You are being ridiculous!” he shouted into the darkness.

“YOU ARE BEING RIDICULOUS,” came the reply.

“No, I am not.”

“NO, I AM NOT.”

“Yes, you are.”

“YES, YOU ARE.”

“Show yourself!”

“SHOW YOURSELF!”

“You go first!”

“YOU GO FIRST!”

“Stop repeating everything I say.”

“STOP REPEATING EVERYTHING I SAY.”

“Hang on…”

“HANG ON…”

“Am I talking to my own echo?”

There was silence for a moment, before Mr Meek’s voice bounced back. “YES.”

Now he was seriously spooked.

Father fumbled in what was left of his pocket for a box of matches. Trembling, he lit one.

STRIKE!

FIZZ!

With the flicker of light from the match, he searched out the darkest corners of the cave.

Something was moving.

Something small.

Something furry.