Horror High 2 Read Online Free PDF

out of Horror High. They didn’t have to imagine it anymore. Now it was going to happen, sure as.
    During a lull in the lugubrious conversation they heard the ladder scraping against the tree house platform, shaking and juddering and jigging, swaying under the weight of someone slowly climbing up. But who was this? The whole team was present.
    A head appeared, grey hair, parted dead in the middle and severely combed down, old-fashioned style. Then a forehead like an ancient tree trunk, deeply lined, and down the lower branches two eyebrows like cockatoos’ nests that held glaring black eyes instead of eggs. Then a bulbous red vein-shot nose and a massive bushy beard covering a crazy angry mouth. Themouth was panting, fighting for breath. ‘Why … the … dickens … did you … build this … blasted thing … so blanking high …’
    â€˜Who are you,’ asked Jason-Jock, ‘and what are you doing in my tree house?’
    With interview skills like that, JJ clearly had a future on A Current Affair .
    The old bloke dragged himself up onto the platform and glared poisonously at the team. He was slumped on all fours, hyperventilating, trying to catch his breath.
    Finally he hissed, ‘I’m WG Grace and I’m here to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget!’
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    It took a long time and a stack of pleadings, wheedlings, excusings and super suck-up entreaties to prevent the 19th-century cricketer from following his original plan of grinding the 21st-century werewolves’ bones to dust, as a fitting revenge for desecrating his grave and dishonouring his memory.
    It was Jason-Jock who finally convinced the angry old coot to forgive them.He briefed – if ‘briefed’ means begging on your hands and knees, crying like a little girl – WG Grace on their dastardly dilemma; how, if they lost the cricket match they’d be expelled from school; how they were sure to lose since they were useless; how they’d dug his bones up because they’d identified him as the finest cricketer ever.
    The fuming ghost smiled grudgingly at this, nodded with humility and stroked his stonking great eiderdown beard. ‘Yes, it were true,’ he muttered.
    Nineteenth-century ghosts are suckers for flattery, a fact worth remembering if you’re ever in a tight spot with the Dead.
    This ghost was mondo vain about two things: his undisputed cricketing prowess and his heaps chunky beard. It looked like a shimmering waterfall of grey hair pouring out his mouth, tumbling all the way down his shirtfront into his trousers and fanning out into rippling runnels as it slopped into his strides.
    He was scarily hairily.
    Jason-Jock had already complimented WG’s undisputed cricketing prowess, so when the werewolf cricket captain informed the England cricket captain that Principal Skullwater had targeted the werewolves because they were hairy, WG Grace’s mind was galvanised.
    WG was so hairy that, if reduced to a mathematical equation for purposes of assessment, he’d have been classified ten per cent human, ninety per cent hair.
    One hundred and thirty years ago he’d been the butt of everyone’s jolly jokes, the prey of every smart alec with a hokey hair harangue. In a period of history when baldness had been all the fashion for men, women, children and even small dogs, WG had been heinously harassed for his hirsute handicap. A modern day fancy-pants sports psychiatrist would’ve classified him as a certified victim of hairism and sued someone for heaps.
    WG had hoped that’d all changed in the passage of a century of enlightened thinking. How wrong he was and how mad thatmade him. He frothed at the mouth to hear that in these supposedly tolerant times hair was still such a divisive issue.
    He’d hoped society would’ve evolved and matured in the 90 years he’d been lying in a hole, but he was sadly mistaken. Hippies had come and