The Vampire Teacher and Other Stories

By Kit Brewster

"I reckon he really is a vampire," said Trev when they were discussing the incident behind the bike sheds. "If he is, it's not fair," complained Ben, "I know there's a shortage of teachers, but they can't go digging up vampires and sending them to teach kids!" Is the teacher really a vampire, or is it a misunderstanding?

The vampire teacher is not the only horror in the book. There's Van Gogh's ghost, a ghost bridegroom and Scrooge's fourth ghost, Rose Hall, Borely Rectory and a haunted well. There is also a series of stories about a different kind of monster—bullies. Variety is provided by some science fiction stories and some reworkings of traditional fairy tales, though even they have a touch of the macabre.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Book Blitz
• Release date: May 3, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224983674

Kit Brewster

Christopher Brewster, or Kit, as he is known to his friends, has been writing stories since he was a young child. He rediscovered his passion for creative writing when, in 1984, he became an English teacher in a Rotherham school, where he enjoyed making up stories for his pupils. When one of them said, "We think your stories are even better than those in books. Why not write a book yourself, Sir?" He decided to send some of his stories to several publishers. One of them asked him to add some questions to a story so it could be used for educational purposes, and this led him to write a wide range of successful educational text books. He has since written for many other educational publishers including Cassell, Folens, Longman, and Scholastic, but recently has returned to his first love, which is creative writing, especially fiction and poetry. Kit Brewster is not the author's real name, but the nom de-plume he uses for his children's writing. He uses other pseudonyms for his adult fiction and historical writing. However, in keeping with his love of codes and puzzles, he has encoded his real name somewhere in this book.

Book preview

THE VAMPIRE TEACHER

Mr Pyre, the new History teacher, looked like a piece of History himself. Though he must have been under 65, he looked 80 at least. His tiny black eyes were sunken in dark sockets, and his bloodless lips were drawn tight over large white teeth. His threadbare suit was cut in a style that was decades out of date.

And he was strict. Within minutes he had the classroom rearranged like those in the Victorian photographs with everyone sitting in rows.

Sit up straight! he growled.

Everyone sat up straight – even Matthew. Now get out your exercise books!

We all looked at each other blankly, until Lucy said hesitantly, We haven’t got any, sir – we usually write on paper.

Mr Pyre frowned. He obviously disapproved of modern teaching methods, but for the time being, he had no choice. He gave out some paper. Then he turned to the board, and was surprised to find that it was made of white plastic, and eventually gave up looking for the chalk, and used one of the marker pens. He asked the class to copy down a long list of words. The lesson ground boringly on for what seemed like hours until at last, at long last, the bell went.

Matthew looked up gleefully and grinned at Ben, but Mr Pyre’s next words soon wiped the smile from his face.

I want you to learn them all for homework. I shall test you tomorrow, and anyone who gets even one date wrong will stay behind after school for an hour!

What’re you doing, Matt? said Ben as they trooped out into the yard.

Matthew was frowning over his piece of paper. Trying to learn these – what do you think!

Ben was gobsmacked. He had never known Matthew try to learn anything in all the time he had known him.

What for?

Do you think I want a detention with that... that...

He couldn’t think of a suitable word for a moment, but suddenly it came to him, ... that VAMPIRE!

Ben laughed.

Yes! That’s what he is – a vampire! joked Matthew.

But the joke turned sour on him when, at morning break, Mr Pyre caught him fighting in the yard. He grabbed him by the shirt collar and frog-marched him into school. The strange thing was that Matthew did not come to school next day, and it was rumoured that he was last seen leaving Mr Pyre’s classroom with blood on his neck and shirt collar.

I reckon he really is a vampire, said Trev when they were discussing the incident behind the bike sheds.

If he is, it’s not fair, complained Ben, I know there’s a shortage of teachers, but they can’t go digging up vampires and sending them to teach kids!

Come to think of it, I’ve never seen him eat school dinners!

Yeah, and his hands are really cold!

They frowned at each other for a moment, then Trev said, I think we should complain to the Headmonster.

The Headmonster (or -master to give him his official title) couldn’t have been more different to Mr Pyre. He was plump, rosy-cheeked, and quite a jovial sort of person. However, as he listened to the boys’ complaints his usual toothy smile faded and was replaced by a frown. Finally he said,

Boys, rumour is a terrible thing. It is cruel and unfair. Never listen to rumour. You must always look for hard evidence before making a judgement. And anyway, can’t you use your common sense – vampire! I’m surprised at you!

He’s right, said Ben afterwards, I feel a right fool!

Yes he is right, said Trev, but not about that. He was right about getting more evidence. Let’s follow Mr Pyre home tonight. If he’s a vampire he’ll live in a coffin. If he’s not, he’ll live in a house.

It was not the best possible evening for a vampire hunt. The gloom and fog would have looked great in a film, but were a bit scary in reality. Still, Trev and Ben managed to keep their spirits up reasonably well. Until, that is, Mr Pyre turned in the direction of the church.

They followed him as far as the churchyard gate – which was as far as they dared to go. They watched him walk along a narrow path between the graves, and pause before one of the headstones. What happened next was difficult to see because of the gloom and fog, but he seemed to sink down out of sight, as though the grave had swallowed him up.

That was enough evidence for Trev and Ben. They ran faster than they ever

did in Games lessons, and spent the night haunted by visions of Mr Pyre rising from his grave to drink their blood.

Next day, before going to school, Trev and Ben decided to look again at Mr Pyre’s grave. In the bright morning light, the events of the previous evening seemed exaggerated, and they half expected to find something that would explain them away. What they saw sent shivers down their spines. On the gravestone was written these words:

HERE LIETH

THE MORTAL REMAINS OF V. M. PYRE

WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE ON 15TH SEPTEMBER

1984

R.I.P.

It’s true! gasped Trev. Our History teacher’s been dead for over thirty years! No wonder his suit looks out of date!

Never mind his suit, said Ben, what if he gives us a vampire bite instead of detention!

We’ve only one chance, said Trev. We must present this evidence to the Headmonster!

The headmaster couldn’t see the boys until 4.30. He showed them in and invited them to sit down. As they did so he locked the door to his study. I know what you want to see me about, he explained, and we wouldn’t want to be disturbed, would we? Now why don’t you tell me all about it...

Trev did the talking while Ben watched uneasily. The head seemed to be listening sympathetically, but the way he picked his teeth as he listened made Ben feel uneasy.

At last Trev had finished. The headmaster stood up, smiled a toothsome smile, and said, My, my, what foolish boys you are after all. You can’t see the evidence even when it’s staring you in the face!

Er... what do you mean, said Trev, his gaze riveted on the headmaster’s gleaming white teeth.

If you’d have stayed a few minutes longer you’d have seen Mr Pyre get up again and go on his way home. You see, he often visits his wife’s grave on his way home from school. He told me about her. Her name was Vanessa, and she died many years ago but he never really got over it.

He gave them a toothful grin, and continued, So you see, Mr Pyre is not a vampire after all...

Then he drew back his lips in a snarl which showed the full extent of his long, pointed fangs and finished his sentence: ... but I am.

HARLEY HORSE

The problem was Mondays . Every Monday, mum took Katie to the Saddle club. But because it was seven miles away, she didn’t think it was worth coming home. So she waited. That meant Kimberley had to wait too, and Kimberley hated horses.

It’s not fair! she wailed. I’m bored!

Well, why don’t we go and watch Katie riding? suggested mum, brightly. That would be even more boring!

Why don’t you join a club, too?

Is there a Harley club I could join? A what?

Kimberley couldn’t believe her ears. Surely everybody knew about Harleys! They’re motorbikes! American motorbikes. They’ve got high handlebars, low seats, and look really gobsmacking, especially if you wear dark shiny sunglasses when you ride them!

Don’t be silly! replied mum. "There are no clubs like that round here.

Anyway, motorbikes are for boys!"

That’s sexist! said Kimberley, shocked.

Mum, who was all for equal rights for women, realised that she’d put her foot in it and said no more.

On the way back Kimberley felt spiteful, and started to take it out on Katie: I don’t know what you see in horses. They’re stupid!

No they’re not, they’re cute, and mum says I can have one for my birthday – so there! said Katie smugly.

I’m having a Harley then!

Katie, I never said you could have a horse for your birthday, shouted mum over her shoulder. They cost too much and they’re difficult to look after.

Harley’s are easy to look after, said Kimberley.

You can’t stroke a Harley, said Katie.

You’re not having a Harley, either! said mum. But they weren’t listening.

You can’t go a hundred miles an hour on a horse!

You can’t jump on a Harley!

Stop arguing! pleaded mum. But they didn’t take any notice.

There’s no brakes on a horse, they’re dangerous!

They’re safer than Harleys!

Well, horses do poos!

So what. Harleys go rusty and fall to pieces and get sent to the scrap yard!

Kimberley lashed out. The Volvo screeched to a halt and mum turned round to glare at them both.

How dare you fall out when I’m driving! It could cause an accident! Right. Kimberley, get in the front. And there’ll be no TV for either of you until you’ve made friends!

Next Monday, Kimberley agreed to have a go at horse riding. After all, it would be better than hanging around with nothing to do. Cathy, the stable girl, took her to one of the horses.

This is Twinkle, she said. She’s very placid. Just right for beginners. Kimberley looked uncertainly at the horse.

I can’t ride that thing, she said. It’s got no handlebars. How am I going to steer it?

Cathy looked at her strangely. You use the reins, of course, pull to the right, and she’ll turn right. Pull to the left and she’ll turn left. Its easy!

Kimberley was not convinced, but she allowed herself to be helped into the saddle.

Where’s the key? she asked. Cathy looked blank.

Mum, who was watching over the stable door, butted in. Shut up, Kimberley, you’re just trying to be clever!

No I’m not, moaned Kimberley. I never wanted to ride a horse in the first place!

Luckily for Kimberley, reinforcements arrived in the shape of Timothy, the stable boy.

Can I do anything to help? he asked.

Yes you can, said Kimberley, get me off this thing. Timothy helped her down. Mum sighed.

Listen, said Timothy. I overheard what you were saying and I agree with you. Harley’s are stacks better than horses.

Kimberley smiled.

How about if I fixed up some Harley handlebars to that horse? I could fix the reins so that when you turned the handlebars the horse would turn.

Could you! beamed Kimberley.

Easy! said Timothy proudly. There’s a scrap yard over the fence back there. They’re sure to have some old bikes in. And while I’m at it I’ll fix up a headlight and indicators too.

Great! said Kimberley. When will it be ready?

Is next week OK?

Kimberley couldn’t wait until Monday. But it came at last and she wasn’t disappointed. Timothy helped her into the saddle. By the way, he said, I’ve got permission to rename the horse. Guess what I called her?

Er... Harley?

Better still, said Timothy.

Kimberley looked surprised. What could be better than Harley?

Harley Davidson!

Kimberley laughed with joy. She turned the key in the ignition and the key turned a little rod which prodded the horse into a walk. At the same time it turned on a cassette recorder which throbbed with the sound of Harley engines.

Great! said Kimberley, shivering with delight.

She drove Harley out into the yard and changed gear. As she flicked the gear lever with her toe, a voice came from the cassette recorder saying trot on, and Harley began to trot. But Kimberley wasn’t so pleased this time. Ugh! she groaned. The suspension’s terrible!

Still, the indicators that she used at the next corner more than made up for it. She trotted round the yard hands held high on the Harley Handlebars, head held high as she looked down at the other girls on their ordinary horses. They looked back with envy.

Next Monday another horse had been done up like a Harley, and the Monday after there were two more. By the end of the month all the horses had been converted and there was much discussion amongst the girls about how to make them even more realistic:

We could strap petrol tanks on their necks!

We could paint them black!

We could get Harley Davidson badges and glue them on!

We could teach them to roller skate so they’d go faster!

There was despair on the Saddle Club committee. The chairperson, Mrs Marjorie Waddington-Smythe, said, "I just don’t know what has got into the