Vlug was a Ghoul. Vlug was not a ghost. Ghosts are sad, wafty things, forever moaning about unfinished business and rattling chains like amateur percussionists. Vlug, on the other hand, is a ghoul, a creature of substance, of appetite, and of practical afterlife choices. Where ghosts drift aimlessly through the ruins of their former existence, Vlug had dug in, both metaphorically and quite literally, preferably into something well-aged and buried at least six feet deep. He had no interest in haunting the living; he preferred his company quiet, decomposed, and not prone to screaming. But still, something about the thrill of the chase, the old ways of his kind, called to him. And that was how he found himself standing in the crypt, bow tie askew, waiting to catch himself a human.

Although he’d, in his time, eaten many things. He’d dined on the desiccated remains of kings, nibbled the toes of deceased monks, and once, in a moment of regrettable desperation, munched disconsolately on an organic vegan. The vegan had the peppery taste of lentils and unwarranted moral superiority, which rather spoiled the lunch.

But Vlug was a ghoulish gourmet and living humans are an epicurean delight, a delicacy, and not just because they were hard to come by. The Ghoul And Associated Trades Dining Club had a long and noble history of pursuing fresh humans, their exploits passed from ghoul to ghoul in whispered tones in candlelit tombs. The problem was, humans had this annoying tendency to be alive and object very strongly to being consumed.

Still, Vlug had a cunning plan. It involved bait. And, regrettably, Gerald.

Gerald was what ghouls denominated a Non-Traditional Thinker, which meant that if you handed him a bone to chew on, he’d decide to try it out as a musical instrument instead. He was, as Vlug often put it, “A fat few long-bones short of a skeleton.”

But he had one thing going for him: He could read and this was important because, as Gerald had pointed out, the best way to catch humans was to make them come to you.

So, with much head-scratching and pencil sharpening, Gerald wrote a book.

It was called The Tomb at the Edge of the World: One Man’s Journey into the Unknown by ‘Professor Archibald Winstanley-Featherbottom III’. It was filled with thrilling nonsense about ancient curses, forgotten catacombs, and ominous warnings that a certain local crypt must never be entered under any circumstances whatsoever.

He left it, carefully ‘aged’ with the judicious application of tea-stains, in the personal library of Lord Roderick Ponsworthy-Hoggit, who was known for three things: A laugh like a slightly miss-tuned foghorn, unfortunate moustaches and a complete inability to ignore anything even vaguely supernatural.

Within a week, Lord Ponsworthy-Hoggit and a group of adventurous academic chums broke into the crypts alluded to in Geralds tome. They went equipped with torches, notebooks, and an unshakable belief that a grammar school knowledge of Latin, when appropriately shouted, could dispel ghosts.

Which was no use whatsoever when they encountered Vlug, waiting in the darkness, dressed in what could only be described as ‘Formal Ghoul Wear’ comprising slightly tattered dinner jacket and a bow tie that had, clearly not so much been tied as defeated in battle.

Vlug leapt forward, arms wide, mouth open. And the first thing he heard was: “Ah-ha! At last! A genuine specimen of Homo Necronomicus!” To his horror, he was immediately sketched, catalogued, ineffectually photographed and bombarded with bizarre questions.

“What’s your dietary structure?” And “Do you experience post-mortem regret?” And, perplexingly, “What are your views on cryptozoology as a branch of Humanities Science?”

And strangest of all: “Have you considered speaking on the academic lecture circuit?”

It was as this last question was raised that Vlug realised he had been sold a pup by that bloody Gerald. Again.

Suffice it to say, that’s how the Ghoul And Associated Trades Dining Club found itself less in the business of catching humans, and more in the business of educating them. You can’t go about the place eating your students. At the very least, the safe-guarding police would take a dim view.

Vlug sighed. At least he got free meals at the university cafeteria.