Horror High 2 by Paul Stafford Read Free Book Online Page A

whimpered, closed his eyes, prayed.
    The killer bowler fired a cannonball of death. The air sizzled with hate and craziness and too many bad metaphors. Fleabag threw his bat up in front of hisface, desperately fending off the red missile that would take his head off at the stump if it connected.
    With Fleabag dead, the vampires would win by default.
    The ball nicked the bat and sailed up in the air, a genuine Heavens-to-Betsy, lollypop catch.
    No! No! After all the hard work, all the heartache, all the blood, sweat and tears … to lose in the final second.

Like most things in low-market books of gibberish like this (from the simplistic story summary on the back cover to the author’s faked credentials on the front), the above chapter heading is bogus, spurious, erroneous and wrongus.
    There’s nothing unlucky in it at all …
    The two vampire fielders raced for the ball, cracked heads, fell dead. The ball landed on the ground, rolling. Fleabagopened his eyes, amazed to find himself still alive.
    â€˜Run!’ screamed Jason-Jock.
    Fleabag stared down the pitch, saw his captain running and sprang out of his crease like a jumping-jack. Then he saw the kitten. It had wandered out of the crowd, meandered through the field looking for some attention and settled onto the pitch. Fleabag stopped dead in his tracks. He was petrified of kittens. Nothing could induce him to budge. His team screamed and howled from the benches. The vampire team hissed and spat and cursed from the sidelines.
    Pandemonium reigned.
    Screams and whistles. Shouts and incriminations. Threats of violence from parents. Unsavoury advice from old ladies.
    It was deadset chaos.
    Then, out of nowhere, Principal Skullwater streaked across the midnight pitch, his withered and wrinkled form as nude as the Creator created him. Bad form all round, from my observations, but I won’tget in the way of time-honoured cricketing traditions like streaking, and certainly won’t put myself in the way of a streaking Skullwater.
    He skipped across the pitch, aged bits and wrinkles flying everywhere, collared the kitten in one swift move and popped it in a sack. ‘Plump and young and juicy,’ muttered Skullwater as he sprinted past on his naturalistic way. ‘This kitten will do nicely for my dinner.’
    Then the naked principal was gone, vanished into the darkness. So had the kitten.
    And Fleabag ran, ran like the devil was on his tail. The vampire fieldsman pegged the ball from the outfield, straight at the wickets. The stumps tore apart like the little pigs’ house of sticks just as Fleabag crossed the crease.
    But Fleabag was safe. He’d made it.
    The werewolves had won the Cup.
    The howls of joy! The yelps of delight! The baying for vampire blood! The capering of those delighted dogs as theyjostled and snarled and rough-housed and rolled and scuffled and scrambled and snapped their teeth, before completing the whole victory ceremony with a big, deep sniff of each others’ butts.
    It’s a werewolf thing …
    Â 
    Next Monday the truck from Death Valley High delivered the portable classroom. It was a sweet victory finale for Horror High, a fully swish scene. I was supposed to cut the ribbon at the opening ceremony, but the security guards wouldn’t let me through.
    The two flash portable classrooms now squatted side by side, housing all the overflow students, with their two portable toilets housing all the overflow from the students … the finer details of which we definitely don’t need to examine here.
    Principal Skullwater pranced about, grinning, gaping, slapping backs and praising the victorious werewolves. Now he was their best mate, their biggest supporter, head of their fan club, the one and only person who’d believed in themfrom the very start, and never doubted they’d do it.
    The shonky sod.
    He’d checked the new portable classroom out, made sure everything was in its place and now