Horror High 2 Read Online Free PDF Page A

replaced the lid and scrambled out; they shovelled the soil back in place, slapped each other excitedly on the back and scarpered into the night, howling at the solemn old moon.

Next day the team met back at the tree house where they’d stored the pilfered bones overnight. Jason-Jock had borrowed his mum’s coffee grinder, and now the werewolves set to reducing the six foot skeleton to a bag of dust.
    I’ve had some crapulent jobs in my time – including writing no-hoper stories for fat-witted teenagers who wouldn’t know a … hang on, that’s this job – but noteven I would’ve accepted a prospect as totally incorrect as the one facing the werewolves now.
    There was no easy way around it. First they had to smash the bones into pieces with a masonry hammer and feed those bits into the coffee grinder. The bones were brittle but it still took hours, and the resulting bone dust came out mixed with coffee grounds, a curious combo of grey and brown – like nothing you’re likely to find on the menu board at Starbucks anytime soon. It smelt of desecration and deep dodginess.
    Dodginess? According to my spellcheck that word doesn’t exist, and it sure doesn’t even begin to describe how the evil concoction smelt dry, let alone how it smelt after the bilious brew was infused with water. It was a powdered death shake that even Grubby baulked at.
    But drink it they must and drink it they did. One by one, sip for sip, each of the werewolves slowly slurped the sickening slop. To absorb the dead cricketer’s skill,they had to absorb this dead cricketer swill, and if that’s cheating buy me a ticket on the next bus home.
    Finally, after an hour of gagging and half-barfing gulps, it was gone. Chomper glared at Jason-Jock after the last dregs drained out of his cup.
    â€˜That’s the single most disgusting thing I’ve ever done. This had better work.’
    Â 
    What happened next all depends on your definition of the term ‘work’. It ‘worked’ on the eleven young werewolves in a most spectacular, volatile and uncompromising manner, causing four days of projectile vomiting, stomach cramps, rampant nausea and explosive buckshot diarrhoea.
    They missed three important class tests, a heaps fun school Mufti Day (including a teacher-pupil lung transplant swap) and a vicious schoolyard fist-fight between an ADHD mummie and a cross-eyed imp.
    In terms of inheriting WG Grace’s superb cricketing skills, the ‘magic’ brewgave the werewolves runs, but not the sort of runs they were hoping for, between wickets after whacking a cricket ball.
    The other werewolves were understandably annoyed at Jason-Jock and his rubbish magic book. But, as if they hadn’t suffered enough, the worst was yet to come.
    WG Grace might have been an exceedingly talented cricketer, but he was also an exceedingly bad-tempered old geezer. Despite being dead nearly 100 years, the fieriness of his temper had not diminished one jot. Now his bones had been disturbed, his skeleton smashed to bits, ground to dust and drunk by a pack of hooligan werewolves. And his favourite cricket bat was busted.
    Now – surprise, surprise – he wanted revenge.

The first the young werewolves knew about the hellbroth of trouble brewing was the day after they’d recovered from the poisoning. They were meeting in the tree house, Chomper had just arrived – late as usual – and the team was discussing their options for future life, mulling over what they’d do once they were kicked out of school.
    Grubby was going to volunteer for medical experiments. Howler was thinkinghe might join a sledge team and race around the Arctic Circle. Fleabag reckoned he might train as an attack dog, and they all laughed at that despite the depressing baseline theme of the topic. Imagine Fleabag as an attack dog, terrified of everything from laughing clowns to kittens.
    And imagine being kicked