Attack of the Meteor Monsters

by Chris Priestley

  ‘Although it makes the world go round, they say,’ said Mildew. ‘Look at old Luckless and Miss Bronteen.’

  They gazed off wistfully. Several minutes wafted by.

  ‘I shall miss those girls,’ said Mildew. ‘Even though they had more tentacles than perhaps they ought.’

  ‘They say love is blind.’

  ‘Not that blind, Sponge,’ said Mildew. ‘But all the same.’

  They returned to their wistfulness for a moment. Mildew licked his lips, clearly struggling to find the right formula of words with which to frame his next question.

  ‘Did you get at all wibblish about Spoon?’ he said.

  ‘What?’ said Sponge, blushing and spluttering a mite. ‘Me? No. Of course not. If anything I thought it was you who – whom – were – was – a bit wibblish about Felicity Fallowfield.’

  ‘Of course not!’ said Mildew.

  ‘Milk, then,’ said Sponge.

  ‘Milk?’ spluttered Mildew. ‘Milk? Me? Me and Milk? Of course not. No. No.’

  ‘Or Ella. The girl from the future? She kissed you. More than once.’

  ‘Really, Sponge,’ said Mildew with a grin. ‘I can’t be held responsible for my irresistibility. It is a curse as much as a blessing.’

  The boys returned to their books.

  ‘Girls, eh?’ said Mildew after a while.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Sponge.

  ‘I think this moment calls for a stiff biscuit, Sponge,’ said Mildew.

  ‘I think you’re right,’ said Sponge. ‘I’ll certainly join you if you’re having one.’

  Mildew got up and sauntered over to his locker.

  ‘It just so happens that I have a batch of the finest bourbons from Furtnose and Mayfly.’

  ‘Gosh,’ cried Sponge, wide-eyed.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Mildew with a waggle of his eyebrows. ‘I’ve been saving them for just such an occasion.’

  Mildew opened the drawer of his bedside locker.

  ‘What on earth?!’ he cried. ‘There are only two left!’

  After staring in confusion for quite a while, he pulled out a piece of paper.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Sponge.

  ‘It’s a note,’ said Mildew, reading it for the seventh time.

  ‘From whom?’

  ‘From Milk.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘It says,’

  The boys stared at the note, then at each other, then at the note again.

  ‘I’ve suddenly lost all interest in girls, Sponge.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Sponge.

  The two boys walked over to the window and stared up into the sky. It was dusk and stars were beginning to twinkle in the twilight. A full moon was rising above Pig’s Pike like a massive dinner plate – but without any dinner on it.

  There was a long and wolfish howl from outside.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Sponge. ‘You don’t think Mr Particle may have had another trip in the time machine?’

  ‘I fear that may be the case,’ said Mildew.

  ‘What should we do?’ said Sponge.

  Mildew shrugged.

  ‘Biscuit?’ he said with a sigh.

  ‘Why not?’ said Sponge.

  Is that a Viking in the school grounds?

  Could there be a ghost in the attic?

  Is there a werewolf wandering the corridors?

  More importantly, who has stolen the School Spoon?

  Can Mildew and Sponge save the day (and Christmas)?

  A time-travelling, brain-boggling, mirth-making adventure awaits!

  Turn over for a sneak peek!

  ildew and his friend Sponge were taking a much needed breather on the twice-weekly jog up the side of Pig’s Pike. They stood panting, gazing down at the blackened and gloom-laden, gargoyle-infested monstrosity that was their school.

  Maudlin Towers School for the Not Particularly Bright Sons of the Not Especially Wealthy sat between the twin hills of Pug’s Peak and Pig’s Pike in the windswept north country of Cumberland, squatting like an obscenely ornate jet brooch pinned to the bosom of a sour-faced duchess.

  Mildew’s full name was Arthur Mildew, but no one in the school used first names. Sponge’s full name was Algernon Spongely-Partwork, but everyone called him Sponge. They were not happy.

  ‘I’m not happy, Sponge,’ said Mildew.

  ‘Me neither,’ said Sponge with a sigh.

  Mildew helped Sponge take off the backpack that their criminally insane sports teacher, Mr Stupendo, insisted the boys wore on these runs as an extra layer of torture. Mildew groaned with the effort, dropping the backpack to the ground.

  ‘What on earth have you got in there?’ he said. ‘It weighs a ton.’

  ‘Stupendo caught me filling it with socks again and forced me to load it up with the contents of my trunk.’

  Mildew opened the pack and saw items of clothing, shoes, several books and a brass telescope.

  ‘Why on earth do you have a telescope?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t really know,’ said Sponge. ‘My Uncle Tarquin bought it for me last Christmas. I’d forgotten I even had it to be honest. I wish I hadn’t.’

  ‘Bad luck,’ said Mildew. ‘It’s rather heavy.’

  ‘I know. By the way – why have you got a bandage on your arm, Mildew?’ asked Sponge. ‘Did you have an accident in the half-term hols?’

  ‘I’ve tried to tell you three times now, Sponge,’ said Mildew. ‘But every time I do, you start to hum to yourself and I get interrupt–’

  ‘Put some pep into it, Mildew!’ shouted Mr Stupendo, stroking his horribly large mus-tachios, his bald head glistening like a damp egg. ‘Why, at your age I could lift a dead sheep over my head with barely a bead of sweat!’

  Mr Stupendo had been a circus strongman before the life of a sports teacher had tragically caught his eye.

  ‘But, sir,’ pleaded Mildew, ‘my knees.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Mr Stupendo, cuffing him round the ear and sending him sprawling headlong into the bracken. ‘You’re far too young to have knees, Mildew. Come on! The last one to the top is a Russian.’

  Mr Stupendo bounded up the path. There were pitiful groans from the boys around him as Mildew got to his feet, and their wretched, downtrodden whining suddenly stirred something in him.

  ‘Look here,’ he cried, waving his fist in the air. ‘What say we show old Stupido what we’re made of and beat the old hippo to the top?’

  ‘Shut up, Mildew, you blister,’ said Kenning-worth, cuffing him playfully round the ear and sending him sprawling into the bracken once again.

  Mildew saw the boys disappearing up the track as he got to his feet. He spat out a piece of the indigenous flora and stared down at Maudlin Towers, a cloud-shadow darkening its already grim and grimy, gargoyle-encrusted walls. Surely, he thought, this must be the very worst of schools.

  ‘Are you all right?’ said Sponge.

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Mildew with a sigh that he hoped might hint at the enormity of his despond.

  ‘Someone needs to teach Kenningworth a lesson,’ said Sponge. ‘My mother says he – ’

  ‘Shhh,’ said Mildew, pointing down towards the school grounds. ‘Never mind Camelfroth or your mother. What’s that?’

  ‘What?’ said Sponge.

  ‘There!’ said Mildew. ‘Running along the bottom of the ha-ha.’

  ‘The ha-ha?’ said Sponge.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mildew. ‘The ha-ha.’

  ‘The ha-ha?’ said Sponge.

  ‘Stop saying ha-ha!’ said Mildew.

  ‘But what do you mean?’ said Sponge. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The ditch at the end of the sports field, you chump,’ said Mildew. ‘It’s called a ha-ha.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Sponge. ‘Really? What’s it for?’

  ‘To stop sheep wandering into the school grounds,’ said Mildew.

  ‘Why on earth would sheep want to wander into the school?’ said Sponge, shaking his head and smil
ing. ‘If I were them I’d – ’

  ‘Never mind that,’ said Mildew. ‘Look! There!’

  Sponge followed Mildew’s pointing finger. Running along the bottom of the ha-ha was a man. That was quite extraordinary in itself as the only man in Maudlin Towers with any inclination to move at speed was high above him leading a chorus of ‘Mildew is a Russian!’

  But more unusual still was the fact that this man appeared to be wearing a winged helmet and carrying, albeit with some difficulty, what looked, even from that distance, remarkably like a large axe.

  ‘Wait,’ said Mildew, and rummaging around in Sponge’s backpack, he produced the telescope.

  Mildew searched for the figure and focused in on its blurred form.

  ‘There’s a Viking in the ha-ha!’ said Mildew.

  ‘A Viking? But there can’t be,’ said Sponge.

  ‘And yet there is,’ said Mildew, handing him the telescope.

  The boys stared at the Viking in silent amazement as he disappeared out of sight behind a laburnum bush. Before they could say anything, Mildew and Sponge were knocked down like skittles and trampled on by the rest of the boys as they returned from the peak of Pig’s Pike.

  ‘Last one to the bottom is a poet!’ trumpeted Mr Stupendo as he bounded by.

  ildew and Sponge returned to the school to shower and get changed. If anything, the boys dreaded this more than the exercise itself, the freezing water for the shower coming straight from the beck that ran – rather quicker than the boys – down the side of Pug’s Peak.

  They dressed as hurriedly as possible and headed off to discuss the mysterious sighting, finding a quiet spot just outside the trophy room.

  ‘Who shall we tell first about the Viking, Mildew?’ said Sponge when his jaws had finally stopped rattling with the cold. ‘Although I wonder if they’ll believe us.’

  ‘Of course they will,’ said Mildew. ‘Why wouldn’t they?’

  ‘Well, I saw it myself and I scarcely believe it,’ said Sponge.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ said Mildew. ‘We need to pick our moment. We don’t want to be mocked.’

  ‘Any more than usual,’ said Sponge.

  ‘Quite,’ said Mildew. ‘Oh no, here comes Kenningworth. Quick – in here.’

  The boys ducked into the trophy room as Kenningworth and some of the other boys strode down the corridor towards them. They said nothing until they heard the footfalls die away.

  The trophy haul at Maudlin Towers was a sorry sight. The school had a long history of failure in almost every branch of the sporting arena. Were it not for the school’s own tournaments – like the dreaded Fell-Runner’s Cup – the room would be empty save for a couple of items of special significance to the school’s history, like the much revered School Spoon.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ said Sponge.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It sounded like breathing.’

  ‘Breathing?’

  ‘In the room with us. But not us.’

  Mildew and Sponge surveyed the room but saw no sign of anyone else.

  ‘There’s no one here, Sponge,’ said Mildew. ‘You’re imagining things.’

  Sponge didn’t look convinced.

  ‘Can we go, Mildew? I don’t like it.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said with a smile. ‘You are such a – ’

  Suddenly there was a loud sneeze and both boys almost leaped out of their skin.

  ‘Eeeek!’ squeaked Sponge, knocking into Mildew, who banged into one of the cabinets, nearly knocking it over.

  They hurried from the room without a backward glance and off to their maths lesson with Mr Painly, who walked to the blackboard and began to write in chalk thereon.

  ‘Very well. If x = 5 and y = Brazil, what is the square root of Thursday?’

  Could there be buried treasure in the school grounds?

  Why have all the teachers been replaced by pirates?

  What is that no-good nose-hair Kenningworth up to?

  And who is that strange new boy called … um … Newboy?

  Can Mildew and Sponge save the day (and their school)?

  A treasure-hunting, extra-thrilling rib-tickling adventure awaits!

  Chris Priestley was born and grew old. He has lived in various places for varying amounts of time. He enjoys eating toast and looking at things. Despite all attempts to stop him, he has written and illustrated this book himself. The relevant authorities have been alerted.

  Do you dare read all the Tales of Terror?

  Edgar can’t resist the strange and twisted stories his Uncle Montague tells when he goes to visit him in his creaky old house. Tales of gruesome curses and unquiet ghosts trip off his tongue. He seems to have an endless supply.

  But what is Montague’s own connection to the spine-chilling stories he spins? As night draws in, Edgar begins to suspect that his uncle has saved the most terrifying twist till last …

  ‘Genuinely spooky’ Charlie Higson

  ‘Scare yourselves silly’ Observer

  Do you dare read all the Tales of Terror?

  On a storm-lashed night, two sick children wait alone for the doctor. But instead a young sailor knocks on the door, begging for shelter. In return he offers them stories.

  Ethan and Cathy love hair-raising tales, and the sailor knows plenty – of plagues and pirates and the terrors of the sea. But it’s only as the new day dawns that the children will learn the most blood-curdling tale of all. And that they are at the heart of it …

  ‘Wonderfully macabre and beautifully crafted stories’ Chris Riddell

  ‘A fantastic page-turner with a really scary ending’ Independent

  Do you dare read all the Tales of Terror?

  Robert is taking the train by himself for the first time, and he’s expecting a thrilling journey. But when the train stalls at the mouth of a gaping tunnel and an elegant woman suggests whiling away the hours with stories, Robert realises he is destined for something much, much spookier …

  These are tales with a difference, each one more deliciously chilling than the last. Who is this mysterious storyteller, and why are her tales so dark and bizarre?

  ‘A wonderfully nightmarish journey of the imagination’ Daily Mail

  ‘A classic in the making’ Independent

  BLOOMSBURY CHILDREN’S BOOKS

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  This electronic edition published in 2019 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY CHILDREN’S BOOKS and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  Text and illustrations copyright © Chris Priestley, 2019

  Chris Priestley has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work

  All rights reserved

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  ISBN: 978-1-4088-7312-0 (PB)

  ISBN: 978-1-4088-7313-7 (eBook)

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