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  Horror High And The 101 Damnations

  eISBN 9781742745763

  Random House Australia Pty Ltd

  Level 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney, NSW 2060

  http://www.randomhouse.com.au

  Sydney New York Toronto

  London Auckland Johannesburg

  First published by Random House Australia 2005

  Copyright © Paul Stafford 2005

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry

  Stafford, Paul, 1966–.

  The 101 damnations

  For children aged 9–14 years.

  ISBN 978 1 74166 039 5.

  I. Title. (Series: Horror high; 1).

  A823.3

  Cover illustration and design by Douglas Holgate

  Internal illustrations by Douglas Holgate

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Imprint Page

  The Rollcall

  The Lesson

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  A Sneak Preview of 'Horror High And The Interghouls Cricket Cup'

  A dozen conversations buzzed around the rollcall room, spreading slanderous gossip and allegations against fellow students like flies spreading dirt and disease. It was just like any other day at Horror High.

  The classroom door suddenly wrenched open under its own power, then slammed shut with a crash. Everyone scattered in panic.

  Silence.

  A spiral of scarlet smoke writhed slowly up through the floorboards, twisting and whirling hypnotically. When the smoke cleared, there crouched Grimsweather the Rollcall Master, glowering. His mouth frothed with white foam and his eyes radiated pure beetroot-red hate, like two overcooked hateful beetroots.

  ‘Dandyline!’ he screeched. ‘Out! Execution! Lunchtime! No reprieves! No excuses! No buts!’

  ‘But, but, but …’ stammered Geoff Dandyline, his pearly white clodhopper choppers forming a gleaming canopy over his downpipe lip. ‘But, but …’

  ‘Not your butt, Dandyline, your head,’ sneered Grimsweather. ‘I want your head removed from your stupid neck, as per standard execution procedure. That you would get your butt mixed up with your head is a natural and understandable mistake, but unless you want me to introduce my size twelve boot of knowledge to your smelly seat of ignorance, I suggest you exit. Capiche?’

  ‘Huh?’ mooned Dandyline.

  ‘Out!’ howled Grimsweather.

  Dandyline knew better than to argue. He shivered, rubbed his neck, stood, scratched his butt, staggered to the front of the classroom, passed his classmates, passed Grimsweather and angled reluctantly towards the door.

  His shaking hand had just touched the door handle and was in the act of turning it when Grimsweather crowed out triumphantly, ‘April Fool!’

  There was a moment of silence before the class began laughing, half in relief and half in the knowledge it was better to laugh at one of Grimsweather’s pathetic jokes than become a victim of one.

  Dandyline let out an immense sigh of relief. ‘Really, sir? A joke, sir? Thank you, sir. Nice one, sir. For a second there I thought you’d lost your mind again, sir.’

  Grimsweather’s gloating smile instantly became small and dangerous, like a Mafia dwarf. ‘What exactly do you mean by “again”, Dandyline?’

  The bucktoothed class dunce instantly sensed the shaky ground he was back on. He worriedly licked his teeth like an over-protective cat gozz-washing her favourite kitten, and gulped. ‘Not again, sir. What I meant to say, sir, was, like, for the first time ever …’

  ‘But you said “again”, Dandyline. Are you suggesting I’ve lost my mind in the past?’

  ‘Oh no, sir. Never, sir. Not possible, sir.’

  The Rollcall Master gently nodded and almost purred, ‘Haven’t got a mind to lose, eh Dandyline?’

  Dandyline visibly relaxed. ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘What!’ Grimsweather roared.

  ‘No sir! I mean, sorry, sir. My mistake, sir. Big mistake, sir. Big mind you have, sir. Big mind, huge brain, very nice, very smart, sir.’

  ‘Just shut up, Dandyline.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I said “Shut up”, Dandyline.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Grimsweather’s breath hissed like a tyre leak. ‘That means, Dandyline, a cessation of speech from your stupid mouth.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I know, sir. People tell me to shut up all the time, sir, so I know exactly what it means, sir.’

  ‘So what exactly do you think it means, Dandyline?’

  ‘Shut your big, fat, ugly, ignorant, gaping, great trench of a mouth, sir.’

  ‘What?’ screamed Grimsweather, leaping out of his seat.

  ‘That’s what I think it means, sir, though I could be wrong.’

  Grimsweather gripped the desk for a long moment then sat again, sighing. ‘Could be wrong? Could be wrong? You were born wrong, Dandyline. Now do me, the class, the school and the world a favour and shut up!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Grimsweather shot the dense boy an evil glare. Dandyline grinned broadly in return, his jumbo buckteeth sliding out from under his top lip like a jump-jet’s hydraulic landing gear.

  Grimsweather shook his head as though there was something loose in his brain, and slowly opened the huge leather-bound rollcall book. He took a deep breath and began reading. ‘Dandyline.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  Again he sighed. ‘I’m reading the roll, Dandyline, and unfortunately your name is first on it. So, if you are present – in body if not necessarily in mind – please answer “present”. Got it? “Present”, Dandyline.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Grimsweather spoke very softly, very slowly, as though addressing a very young, very stupid child. ‘“Present”. When I call your name, you answer as follows – “Present”. Now. Let’s try it one more time. Dandyline.’

  Dandyline grinned. ‘Yes, sir?’

  Grimsweather’s eyes flared like someone had embedded illegal firecrackers in his skull and lit the fuses (also illegal – called murder).

  And there was murder in those eyes as Grimsweather shouted, ‘Present!’

  ‘Where?’ asked Dandyline eagerly.

  ‘What?’ snapped Grimsweather.

  ‘Where’s my present? Oh, I know – this is another of your April Fool’s jokes, isn’t it, sir. Well, you won’t catch me a second time.’

  Grimsweather looked ready to whip out a crossbow and get medieval on the entire cl
ass, but instead took three deep breaths like his shrink had taught him. ‘Dandyline, you’re like a disease that nobody wants to catch a first time, let alone a second. I’ll assume you are here today, even if your brain is still in yesterday.’

  Dandyline opened his mouth but his reply was chopped off dead by Grimsweather’s vicious glower.

  ‘Nathan Grim-Reaper,’ read Grimsweather from the rollcall book. ‘Nathan Grim-Reaper? Where is Mr Grim-Reaper today? Anybody know?’

  ‘He’s busy with the April Fool’s Day Committee, sir,’ answered Dandyline. ‘He’s the committee head this year.’

  ‘Dandyline,’ hissed Grimsweather, ‘if I were you I wouldn’t interrupt and I certainly wouldn’t interrupt mentioning heads, or yours might roll.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Just saying, sir, that Nathan Grim-Reaper won’t be here today. Because, apart from being head of the committee, he also has to get his missing book back, sir, or his mother will murder him. Don’t like his chances, sir.’

  ‘Dandyline, did I ask you?’ said Grimsweather. ‘Do I look like the sort of idiot who would listen to a single stupid word you said?’

  ‘No, sir,’ replied Dandyline brightly. ‘You look like an entirely different idiot altogether, sir.’

  ‘What!’ shrieked Grimsweather. ‘What did you say, Dandyline? You’re heading for a beheading unless you can explain that last comment, boy.’

  ‘Err, nothing, sir. That is, what I meant to say was, well, like, you know, and that …’

  ‘Have you ever made sense in your life, Dandyline, or is it against your religion?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Dandyline replied, grinning. ‘My religion is make-up, sir.’

  ‘Make-up?’ A nauseating vision of Dandyline preening in front of a mirror, painted up with lipstick and eye shadow and pineapples in his headdress sashayed into Grimsweather’s head to the party beat of Caribbean kettledrums.

  ‘Make-up?’ gaped Grimsweather. ‘You mean lipstick and eye shadow?’

  Dandyline beamed. ‘I mean I make it up as I go along. Sir.’

  Grimsweather gritted his teeth. ‘I hope you washed your neck, Dandyline, because it’s got a date with the guillotine. Lunchtime execution!’

  ‘Aww, sir. My mum’s getting sick of washing blood off my collar.’

  The trouble started (as it often does in dozy, ozone-depleting stories like this) with a cheapo mail-order catalogue, an April Fool’s Day prank gone wrong, and an over-protective father who refused to allow his son a pocketknife, pocket money or even a pocket.

  It was Saturday morning in the Grim-Reaper household, and Mr Grim-Reaper was embroiled in an argument with his son, Nathan.

  It wasn’t that old man G-R wanted an argument. Au contraire, he just wished to relax over morning coffee and the weekend edition of the Tombstone Times – the quality newspaper for the well-read undead – but Nathan was on the bug again. Lately it seemed he was constantly on the bug about something.

  This time Nathan reckoned he needed pocket money.

  ‘I feed you, clothe you and pay your school fees; what do you want pocket money for?’ Mr Grim-Reaper hissed irritably, in a voice reminiscent of the Ringwraiths from Lord of the Rings.

  Boy, was he sick of comparisons to that film. Everyone he met these days, first thing they’d say after he’d introduced himself, “You sound just like those spooky Ringwraiths from the Rings Trilogy.” He couldn’t wait to get his death grip on that fatso Kiwi film director and feed him and his Oscar to an orc.

  ‘What do you want pocket money for?’ Mr G-R repeated, sounding now like a car radiator boiling over.

  ‘I want to buy a pocketknife,’ replied Nathan, as reasonably as he could manage. Always attempt to reason with your recalcitrant parent, the Undead Teenagers’ Handbook advised; adults pride themselves on being reasonable, so try to act like an adult.

  ‘What do you want with a pocketknife?’ Mr Grim-Reaper hissed. ‘You don’t even have a pocket.’

  ‘Well, I would have a pocket if you let me wear jeans like all the other kids at school,’ reasoned Nathan.

  ‘Seven hundred generations of Grim Reapers have worn menacing black robes,’ growled father G-R, ‘so why should you be any different?’

  He took a sip of his coffee. It was cold.

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Nathan, ‘and seven hundred generations have carried a scythe. I wouldn’t need a pocketknife if you let me carry a scythe. Why should I be the first not to have one?’

  ‘I’ve told you a hundred times – you’re too young. You’ll get one when you’re older. Scythes are dangerous. You’ll cut yourself, or take somebody’s head off, next thing you’ve got a lawsuit on your hands. First you prove yourself responsible, then you get a trainer scythe.’

  A trainer scythe was made of rubber, and the equivalent of trainer wheels on a bicycle – baby stuff. Nathan frowned appropriately in response.

  ‘Then in the meantime let me have a pocketknife,’ Nathan begged.

  ‘But you don’t have a pocket.’

  And so on …

  Nathan was notoriously argumentative, his father was worse, and if you know anything about Grim Reapers and arguments you’ll know they’re like a dog with a bone: they just won’t let it go. And you know how the saying goes – lay down with dogs, get up with fleas, start chasing cats …

  All of which is totally irrelevant and beside the point.

  The point was this: Nathan was chafing under his father’s over-protectiveness. His dad wouldn’t let him do anything. Wouldn’t let him take any risks. Wouldn’t let him act like a normal teenager.

  Same old story.

  Nathan tried telling his dad straight but the silly old geezer didn’t get it; he’d just turned 50,000 years old and his teenage years were way too far gone for memory. Nathan consulted his teenage advice book, which was also useless; it suggested proving you were responsible through responsible behaviour, and demonstrating reasonableness by acting reasonably.

  Big help. Thanks a bunch.

  Nathan even resorted to watching Finding Nemo on DVD with his dad, pointing out how Nemo’s over-protective father was just like Nathan’s over-protective father. But Nathan’s over-protective father didn’t get the message at all, cried at the soppy bits, got scared at the scaredy bits, scarfed all the M&Ms and raved about how clever the animators were: ‘Those images look so lifelike … they should’ve got the Oscar, not that fat Lord of the Rings swindler.’

  It was useless. Nathan had to do something or he’d go completely bonkers. Something had to change; he needed some freedom, some independence, some control over his life, and soon.

  And then, when all hope seemed lost, Nathan was thrown a lifeline from a most unexpected source – Parent-Teacher Night at Horror High …

  Every kid on the planet loathes and dreads Parent-Teacher Night – fact. Makes no difference if the kid is an academic genius or the class clown or the red-headed school dunce, they all hate Parent-Teacher Night equally and for good reason.

  The rationale is obvious. Even the never-muck-up, always-suck-up students know that on Parent-Teacher Night their teacher won’t resist the opportunity to fully shank them and load up their parents’ heads with all kinds of horrible lies and fallacious gibberish.

  On that night, teachers will hoodwink parents of even the finest students into believing their kids are lazy, brainless, fat-witted and completely incapable of any future employment, except maybe night shift in a dog food factory.

  Why do teachers say these rotten things? Because they can.

  The simple truth is that Parent-Teacher Night is the only night of the year when a teacher can get revenge for having a job worse than sewer inspector or rhino bum scrubber. And if you think they’re going to body-swerve that opportunity, you’re nuts.

  Teachers all over the world sharpen their poisonous tongues all year in anticipation of that one night of revenge, knowing for that one night they’ll get to fabricate the most insanely outrageous falsehoods and get away with
it.

  Notice that? Doesn’t matter that your parents totally realise your teacher would steal the stink off a goat’s behind and sell it to a blind man as a sports jacket. Doesn’t matter that your parents regard the teacher as less trustworthy than Saddam Hussein’s moustache; when it comes to Parent-Teacher Night, suddenly everything that teacher invents about your doings in class becomes gospel truth.

  And you’re in for it …

  Teachers are born bad and grow steadily worse with age. Everybody knows it, and even the Teachers’ Association has given up refuting it. A teacher has the shifty morals of a potbellied hyena and the low stinky habits of a backward jungle ape.

  This explains why they become teachers in the first place and why they scratch and sniff at themselves and squabble over the last banana, but it doesn’t explain why Nathan’s teacher told Mr Grim-Reaper the biggest whopper of the lot – that Nathan was a good student in class and a pleasure to teach.

  I mean, what was that about? Nathan was a rubbish student and an all-round pain in the neck. He never did homework, cheated in class tests, stole loose change out of the teacher’s desk, made life hell for substitute teachers and scrawled rude words on the chalkboard – a normal, typical student, in other words, just like yourself.

  What Nathan wasn’t was a good student and a pleasure to teach, so why did Mr Fearbody, Nathan’s Maths teacher, spout all that bilge to Mr Grim-Reaper at Parent-Teacher Night?

  I’ll tell you why. Old Fearbody was a timorous and delicate chap with a face like a peapod and spindly hands like your granny. After a hard day at work he liked nothing better than settling down to a quiet evening of knitting by the radio, listening to old waltzes. The highlight of his night was a cup of warm cocoa before bedtime, with a marshmallow on top on his birthday.

  And he was scared to death, scared beyond death, of Mr Grim-Reaper. The hissing voice, the black robes, the razor sharp scythe, the icy fear that gripped his heart when the man addressed him, made Fearbody’s faint soul nearly abandon his body and flee north to return to its Maker.