It was already quite dark and there was a bitter chill in the air. Mr Munro was most of the way through the park and nearing the gates that opened on to the street where he lived when something made him stop and turn round.
Spittle-like snow was falling wetly. On the brow of the hill he had just crested was a ragged silhouette. It was only a group of children – presumably on their way home from school as he was – but for some reason he found them unnerving.
Mr Munro turned back towards his house and quickened his step. He had not walked more than a few paces when he felt the need to stop and turn round again.
To his horror he saw that the children were now only a few metres away and that these were not just any children – they were the very same children who could not have been in the computer suite.
Mr Munro could not look for more than a few seconds. He ran, clutching his briefcase to his chest, all the way to his front door and fumbled for his keys. He staggered inside and slammed the door, deadlocking it behind him.
He put his briefcase down on the hall table and went to the window to look out. The children were standing at the entrance to the park. The snow was falling more heavily now, the flakes lit by the street lamp. He gulped drily and pulled the curtains shut.
He turned on the television. For the first time in his life he watched a talent show, glad of the harmless inanity which drowned out all thought of the children for a while.
But only for a while.
Mr Munro glanced anxiously at the curtains and felt compelled to get up and confront his fears.
‘They are imaginary,’ he said to himself as he gripped the curtains. ‘Imaginary. They are not there.’
He opened the curtains and let out a whimper. The children were clustered just outside the window staring in, their faces pale and wan in the streetlight. The girl with the long hair smiled at him, snow swirling round her like a flock of white moths.
Mr Munro shut the curtains again.
‘You are not there!’ he shouted. ‘You are not there!’
He opened the curtains once more and the children were gone. A car drove past, but otherwise the street was empty. Mr Munro felt his heart lighten with relief and he clapped his hands together. He felt like Scrooge when the dreaded Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come becomes nothing more than his bed curtain.
‘God bless us, everyone,’ he said with a smile.
But he thought he would still take that holiday. A rest-cure was what he needed. A cottage. A cottage by the sea. Yes. The sea.
He was forced to acknowledge that he was clearly not a well man. He felt tired. His head hurt and he ached as though he had the flu.
Perhaps a holiday was not the thing at all. Perhaps he needed to be in a hospital – a place where his illness might properly be treated. The thought of ending up in such a place dampened his spirits, as he readied himself for bed.
He settled himself beneath the blankets and picked up the book that lay on his bedside table – Tales of Mystery and Imagination by Edgar Allan Poe – but immediately replaced it.
‘Not tonight, I think,’ he said to himself with a shudder as he leaned over and switched off the light and let the darkness embrace him.
And in that darkness, a voice spoke out, the speaker so close that Mr Munro could feel the chill breeze of their breath on his startled face.
‘Please, sir,’ it said, ‘can we have another story?’
About the Author
Chris Priestley is the author of the chilling and brilliant Tales of Terror series and the haunting novel The Dead of Winter. He is also a talented artist. His illustrations and cartoons have been published in many national newspapers and magazines, including the Independent and the Economist. Chris lives in Cambridge, where he continues to write his seriously scary stories. To find out more about Chris, visit www.chrispriestley.blogspot.com
Also by Chris Priestley
Uncle Montague’s Tales of Terror
Tales of Terror from the Black Ship
Tales of Terror from the Tunnel’s Mouth
The Dead of Winter
Bloomsbury Publishing, London, Berlin, New York and Sydney
First published in Great Britain in March 2011
by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
36 Soho Square, London, W1D 3QY
This electronic edition published in 2011 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Copyright © Chris Priestley 2011
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A CIP catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9781408823026
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The Teacher's Tales of Terror Page 5