The Teacher's Tales of Terror by Chris Priestley

1
    Mr Munro
    It was the beginning of March and the air was chill and dank. Mrs Nesbitt, the head teacher of St Apollonia’s School, stood in the playground, peering up at the darkening sky through her wire-rimmed spectacles. She shivered and hoped that the snow that was forecast would not arrive.
    St Apollonia’s was marking World Book Day by having a special celebration of the school’s Victorian heritage. All of the staff and pupils had been asked to dress up for the occasion and, in the main, the pupils – or at least their parents – had made a reasonable effort.
    The snow would spoil the formal group photographs that were going to be taken in the playground that afternoon. There was a lovely old class photograph in the office from the 1890s and Mrs Nesbitt thought it might be nice to have similar ones done of each of the present year groups with their teachers.
    Turning away from the glowering sky, she was somewhat startled to see a strange man standing in front of her. She had not heard his footsteps at all. It was as if he had materialised out of the cold air itself.
    He was tall and thin, his face pallid and sour, with a large expanse of forehead beneath a sharply receding hairline. He wore a dark three-piece suit, and a watch chain twinkled across his waistcoat. He had the air of a butler about him, thought Mrs Nesbitt – or an undertaker, perhaps.
    ‘You requested a supply teacher,’ he said after a moment, seeing the confusion on her face.
    ‘Ah – Mr Munnings?’ she said. ‘Of course.’
    ‘Munro,’ he said, correcting her. ‘It is Mr Munro.’
    ‘Oh – I’m terribly sorry,’ she replied. There seemed something strangely familiar about him. ‘Have you worked at St Apollonia’s before?’
    ‘Many years ago, yes,’ he replied, looking across the tarmac to the school entrance.
    His tone of voice gave the distinct impression that his previous experience of the place had not been a joyful one. Though looking at his cheerless expression, she doubted whether many of his experiences were joyful.
    ‘It was very good of you to make yourself available at such short notice,’ said Mrs Nesbitt. ‘I’m afraid Mr Filbert has been taken ill. He was so looking forward to today. It’s such a shame.’
    Mrs Nesbitt looked at Mr Munro’s clothing and smiled.
    ‘And thank you so much for taking the trouble to get into the spirit of our Victorian Day. Your suit is very . . . very authentic .’
    Mr Munro raised an eyebrow and let it fall slowly before speaking again.
    ‘Where should I go?’ he said.
    ‘You are with 7UM, Mr Munro,’ she replied. ‘They are a lively bunch.’
    ‘Indeed?’ said Mr Munro with more than a hint of disapproval.
    ‘What lessons do you have planned?’ asked Mrs Nesbitt.
    Mr Munro held up a rather battered old leather briefcase.
    ‘I shall be reading them some stories,’ he said.
    ‘Oh lovely,’ said Mrs Nesbitt. ‘Can I ask you what you’ve chosen?’
    Mr Munro tapped his briefcase.
    ‘I have brought a volume of Victorian short stories. I hope they may find them diverting.’
    Mrs Nesbitt laughed.
    ‘ Might find them diverting ,’ she repeated. ‘Oh, that’s very good. You really have got into the swing of it. But what sort of stories are they? As I say, they’re a lovely group – lovely – but they’re likely to become a wee bit restless if –’
    ‘I think these stories will be sufficient to keep them quiet,’ said Mr Munro.
    Mrs Nesbitt forced a smile. She did not like being interrupted and in any case she was not sure that the exercise was about keeping the class ‘quiet’. She was about to point this out when her secretary came pattering towards them down the steps of the school.
    ‘Mrs Nesbitt,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Sorry to disturb you, but there has been a bit of an incident.’
    ‘What sort of incident, Mrs Jackson?’
    ‘It’s Luke Driscoll,’ she said. ‘He’s brought a spear into school – a real spear. He says it’s