My heart thundered in my chest as I reached for the door handle. With my free hand I reached up and wiped away a lake of sweat from my fore head. Bracing myself I opened the door and stepped through. A ferocious beast lurked on the other side of the door waiting for an opportunity to tear me to pieces.
“You’re late again Miss Lican.” Hissed Mr Moor, my maths teacher.
“Sorry sir”, I mumbled, “I just…”
“Don’t give me another excuse young lady…” he interrupted, “you’ve earned yourself a detention after school…”
That’s how it all began. It wasn’t even my fault I was late, I couldn’t ignore that text and then I needed to go to my locker..and before I knew it I was 15 minutes late and now I had a detention…on Halloween of all days. I had so many plans that evening I couldn’t afford to waste time at school!
So anyway, since the meeting with Mrs Lake, the headmistress, if I’d missed the detention would have been worse than murder I went along. Our school finished quite late in the day and it was getting dark, with a full moon rising, as I made my way across the playground to my maths room; I had maths in one of the old Portakabins at the back of the school.). A pale white mist had descended during the afternoon, deadening the sound of my footsteps and lending the usual bustling tarmac a quiet, ghostly air.
For the second time that day I reached the wooden door, with its cracking and faded red paint that served as the portal to my own personal hell. I was so keen to get the torment over with that I wasn’t paying attention as I walked in. When I noticed that the lights were off and the room seemed silent and empty the door was already shut behind me. I put my bag down on the nearest desk and called out into the shadows.
“Hello? Mr Moor?”
At first there was no response. Then there was a creak of the floor behind me. I span round to find a hideous apparition or Mr Moor behind me. Now, Mr Moor was a portly man with thin hair and giant glasses. Or at least, that’s how you would normally describe him. For some reason in this early evening moonlight he looked far more menacing. His glasses were broken, his mouth was open in a slavering snarl and two of his teeth were sharp and pointed. His arms were raised, fingers hooked like claws.
“Nice vampire costume sir…” I muttered nervously.
“Not a costume!” he snarled and dived towards me.
At this point, you’re probably expecting me to describe how I screamed and ran. Not that the full moonlight, glinting off the shards of Mr Moor’s glasses triggered my own transformation allowing me to make a quick snack of my attacker.
I told you I had plans that evening.
Werewolves always have plans on Halloween.
by Simon Marriot