The door was more than anything Mika could ever have imagined a door to a dungeon could be. Much more. Then again, he’d never seen a door to a dungeon before. Few had of course. And those few mostly never ever came back to talk about it. Mika was delighted.

At fifteen, out of school and more importantly, still out of work, his father urgently prodded his back and Mika shuffled forward, awestruck.

‘It’s a trade, lad,’ he father whispered into the ear of his son while backing away from the terrible promise of what lay behind such a door. ‘Remember lad, steady wage, good prospects. Give a good impression, and we’re – I mean, you’re – set for life.’

Mika turned to ask a question but found his father already half way back down the dank corridor they had just walked and already almost out of the castle to the outside world. ‘Good luck, lad,’ his father called over his back faintly as he made his escape. Mika turned back to look at the door.

It was big. But then again he thought, it would be wouldn’t it? And old. And dirty. This was definitely a door to somewhere very horrible. Despite being an enthusiastic torturer of small insects and his brother, his body had decided for itself as he felt his courage treacherously sliding down his body and desperately searching for an exit from his luckily chosen brown coloured trousers.

Clenching hard, and remembering this was his calling, Mika lifted the large and rusting steel ring knocker below the “No Hawkers” sign that sat dead centre on the door and brought it down. The sound of steel on oak boomed around him. It was a satisfyingly horrible sound that seemed to summon the demons of Hell itself. Despite his best efforts, as the sound faded, some of his courage exited with a loud squeak of happiness.

Mika waited shamefaced as the echo of fart and steel on oak faded down the endless corridors and stone walls. Then, from behind the immense door came a thunk. Followed by the slow and suitably tortured screech of metal on metal. Then another heavy clunk followed by yet another click and finally the slam of something very, very heavy.

Mika swallowed as The Door creaked open. *Mika would have recognised the sound from endless horror films had he been around today. WE all know that a creaking old door is scary. Mika however, just thought it needed some oil.

That door needs oiling, Mika thought. A face had appeared in the opening. It was undoubtably the face of the Head Torturer. A thatch of blood red hair sat above a puffy, round and pockmarked vizage that was filled by two complimentary coloured bloodshot eyes. Hard as nails, they glowered down at him, looked him up and down, and decided they didn’t like what they saw.

‘Can’t you read? No Hawkers!’

‘Um, I’m not selling…’

‘You’re not? Whatdaya want then? I’m a busy man you know!’

‘Erm, I’m… I’m the new, your new, erm, apprentice?’

The face that held those eyes moved in way that made Mika uncomfortable. One side seemed independent of the other as one eye slowly opened wide while the other narrowed. Then what appeared to be a mouth turned into what Mika hoped was the hint of a smile. Broken and stained teeth stood silent guard over the black holes between them. It was the smile a very hungry and dangerous wolf would have been proud.

‘You are? Oh, right. The apprentice. I remember now. Rita isn’t it?’

‘Mika,’ said Mika.

Well, you’d better come in then Rita’.

‘Mika,’ answered Mika determinedly.

‘What is?’

‘My name. It’s Mika.’

‘Oh. Is it? Sorry. Well, never mind, we all have to make do with the names we’re given I suppose. I’m Stevolovich the Terrible, if you didn’t know. The Head Torturer to the King, merciless and fearless, and feared by all that cross this door and those that do, never escape! Well, some escape. The King can be kind. Sometimes.’

Stevolovich the Terrible paused and then tried to smile.

At least Mika thought it a smile. That is, it might have been a smile…if you looked sideways when the smile wasn’t looking.

‘But you can call me George. Only in private mind. Can’t have people thinking I’m anything but terrible. Part of the job description you know.’ George prodded Mika in the chest with a gnarled finger. ‘First thing you should learn as an apprentice is that appearances matter. First impressions and all that.’

What might have been a smile vanished and George pushed Mika ahead of him and through the terrible door. ‘Come on, let me show you around,’ he said, almost jovially.

Mika, with some effort, closed his mouth and swallowed. The change from the ‘Terrible Stevolovitch’ to an easy going ‘George’ had been, well… disconcerting. That wasn’t really the right word. Weird might be better. The terrifying monster that had appeared at the door had transformed as if by magic into a mild mannered old man that seemingly wouldn’t hurt a fly. Mika was confused.

‘This is my office,’ George said, waving an arm as thick as a tree trunk. Mika trailed in his wake.

“You have an office?’ Mika said, even more bewildered.

“Oh yes. Got to keep records. Can’t be torturing the same poor fellow twice in the same way, now can we?’

Mika hadn’t been expecting boring bureaucracy in a torturer’s dungeon. He hadn’t exactly been sure what he expected, but paperwork hadn’t figured anywhere at all in his imagination.

George turned to a dark, heavily scored and obviously well worn wooden cabinet and slid out a deep drawer. As Mika watched, his excitement jumped several notches. This was more like it. This was what he wanted to see. The tools of the trade. Now he would start to learn all those terrible secrets on how to extricate the things the King needed extricating from the terrible people who stupidly didn’t agree with the King. The King of course, as everyone knew, was right about everything. Even the things he got wrong were right, as only he knew what he was doing.

George waved Mika closer. ‘Come have a look at these little beauties, Rita’.

‘Mika,’ replied Mika automatically, as he moved to stare into the depths of the drawer.

Mika looked. Then looked up at George, before looking back again into the drawer.

If George ever could be described as beaming with pride, despite it not being very obvious from what served as an expression, then George was beaming.

‘Butterflies?’ Mika asked in confusion.

‘Yes! Aren’t they beautiful! All my little beauties. Lovely aren’t they? Got to have a hobby in this job, me lad! Don’t you have a hobby, Rita?’

‘Mika,’ corrected Mika with stubborn irritation.

This was definitely not what he was expecting. “Yes, I’ve a hobby of sorts. I like to torture butterflies, and insects and my brother, whenever I can. That’s why my father sent me here, to learn the trade. He said I’d fit right in.’

George was taken aback. ‘Did he now?’

Mika stuck out his chest proudly and looked George right in the eye. Which was a bit difficult to be honest as you couldn’t be entirely certain which eye was focused on you at any one time.

‘Yes! Yes, he did!’

‘And you don’t like butterflies?’

‘Only when they sizzle and burn and curl up under the heat of my magnifying glass!’

‘Ah, so you enjoy torturing them?’

‘It’s the best! I get to decide their fate! That’s why I want to be your apprentice, so I can learn the trade! Be the best torturer ever! For the King! Sift out all those who don’t agree with him!’

‘Ah. I see. Well. Let me show you something,’ George said, and ushered Mika back towards the heavy door of the Dungeon.

‘What?’ asked Mika expectantly, thinking that at last he would handle some of the terrible instruments of torture that he’d always dreamed of using.

George paused, then transformed before Mika’s eyes back into Stevolovich the Terrible. Back straightening, face – or what passed for a face – turning the deep puce of dangerous intent. There was no smile to be imagined there.

Mika was impressed enough to take a step back.

‘You, me lad, are looking at the wrong profession,’ Stevolovich the Terrible growled. ‘Any torturer needs some compassion and sensitivity for his clients. Show professionalism and respect for their death and the means of their demise – never a celebration!’

‘What, what…’ Mika stuttered, now utterly confused.

‘What you are and what you should be, is not a torturer, me lad, but a politician.’

With that, Stevolovich the Terrible spun Mika around and with careful aim, kicked him out of the dungeon.

Standing over the confused pile of legs and arms that now lay in a heap on the castle’s stone floor outside the dungeons entrance, he went on: ‘Remember this, me lad, if ever you do eventually become a politician, hope you don’t see me again sooner than you think – I might enjoy my job more than I should!

Watching bemused from his seat on the cold stone floor, Mika watched as George stomped away, the heavy door to the dungeon creaked in protest as it slammed shut behind him. That door really could do with some oil, Mika thought as he dusted himself down. That and a change of torturer for sure. Now he knew his path. There needed to be a new King.

To be continued…?

If, dear reader, you have made it this far, my apologies. I was going to write about humour in horror for this weeks spot. But it’s so hard to do. So instead I decided on Sunday to try and write a short story instead. The above is, I’m afraid, the rather rushed and horrible result.

The point I wanted to try and make is that we as humans have the amazing and sometimes awful ability to adapt to any circumstance. ‘I was only obeying orders’, is a famous excuse for the most horrifying acts. Human beings can seemingly rationalise almost anything. Humour is a great counterpoint to the absurdities. And a great teacher, too. Life of Brian and Young Frankenstein are two fine film examples that still crease me up. And make me think. The world is currently in a terrible and dangerous state. We need to laugh as much as we need to pause and think. Humour helps us do both.