High Moor by Graeme Reynolds Read Free Book Online

attempted to tune the television into the video player. John glanced across the room and tried to catch Michael’s eye, but the other boy just looked at his feet. Lawrence Mitchell glared back at John and slowly ran his finger across his throat.
    “You are dead,” he mouthed. John ignored him and waited for his moment.
    The educational videos that they were forced to watch with alarming regularity were an ordeal that none of the assembled children enjoyed. They ranged from embarrassing old programmes from the depths of time about water safety with Rolf Harris, to newer, but no less dull, items about industry or road safety. The last one they had to sit through had been about rivers or something and it had gone on for over an hour. They'd missed play time because of that one. John, however, had a plan.
    Mr Jones stood up and beamed in triumph as the two white lines appeared on the TV screen. He turned off the tuning signal and retrieved today’s video tape. Miss Watson and Mr Smith closed the curtains to the hall. Shafts of sunlight pierced the darkness, and dust motes danced in the beams before winking out of existence as they passed into shadow. John fished in his pocket and retrieved a small grey box.
    During the last torturous video session, John noticed that the VCR at school was exactly the same model as the one he had at home. Over the course of the last week, a plan had formed, and now he was ready to put it into action.
    “Quiet please,” said Mr Jones, “That means you, Karen Burke.”
    The murmur of conversation faded. Mr Jones stood for a moment until he was sure that he had everyone’s undivided attention. “Today, our video is about crop rotation in the seventeenth century. This will tie into your class projects, so I expect you all to pay attention.” A chorus of groans rose from the children. Mr Jones ignored them and pressed play on the video recorder.
    The television screen was filled with static and then turned black. White letters displayed the inspired title, “Crop rotation in the seventeenth century,” and a feeble rendition of Greensleeves warbled from the elderly television’s speakers. Then the tape stopped and rewound to the beginning.
    Mr Jones looked confused, ran a hand across his bald head, and pressed play again.
    The screen turned black once more and the first few bars of Greensleeves played, then the programme stopped and the tape ejected from the VCR.
    Mr Jones made a show of examining the video cassette, then placed it back into the machine. “Er…we seem to be having some technical difficulties.”
    As soon as he hit play, the tape went into fast forward. The titles flashed by, and a man in a corduroy waistcoat, not unlike the one worn by Mr Jones, appeared on the screen. The man's arms waved in the air as if performing some sort of energetic dance. At the back of the hall, someone cheered.
    Mr Jones stopped the tape and ejected it, his bald head going as red as the few remaining tufts of hair around his ears. He pushed open the flap at the front of the machine and blew into it, then switched the machine off and back on again.
    He squinted at the VCR with suspicion in his eyes, put the tape back into the machine, and pressed play. The titles came up and the music started. He hovered near the VCR, but the titles and the music faded and the man in the corduroy jacket appeared once more, less animated than on his previous visit. Satisfied that the machine was now behaving itself, Mr Jones walked across the hall to his seat.
    The second Mr Jones sat down, the VCR started to record over the program. He flew from his seat, arms flailing, and dove at the possessed video recorder. He slipped on the polished wooden floor and landed in a tangle of gangly arms and legs in front of the first year students. The hall erupted in laughter as Mr Jones, still on his knees, hit the eject button and retrieved his precious tape from the demonic VCR.
    He dusted himself off and tried to regain some