Horrid Henry Wakes the Dead

by Francesca Simon

  Copyright

  Text © Francesca Simon 2009

  Cover and internal illustrations © Tony Ross 2009

  Cover and internal design © 2011 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Jabberwocky, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

  www.jabberwockykids.com

  Originally published in Great Britain in 2009 by Orion Children’s Books.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.

  Source of Production: Versa Press, East Peoria, Illinois, USA

  Date of Production: June 2011

  Run Number: 15469

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  1. Horrid Henry and the TV Remote

  2. Horrid Henry’s Scool Election

  3. Horrid Henry’s Bad Present

  4. Horrid Henry Wakes the Dead

  More Horrid Henry Books!

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  Horrid Henry pushed through the front door. Perfect Peter squeezed past him and ran inside.

  “Hey!” screamed Horrid Henry, dashing after him. “Get back here, worm.”

  “Noooo!” squealed Perfect Peter, running as fast as his little legs would carry him.

  Henry grabbed Peter’s shirt, then hurtled past him into the living room. Yippee! He was going to get the comfy black chair first. Almost there, almost there, almost…and then Horrid Henry skidded on a sock and slipped. Peter pounded past and dived onto the comfy black chair. Panting and gasping, he snatched the remote control. Click!

  “All together now! Who’s a silly Billy?” trilled the world’s most annoying goat.

  “Billy!” sang out Perfect Peter.

  NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

  It had happened again. Just as Henry was looking forward to resting his weary bones on the comfy black chair after another long, hard, terrible day at school and watching Rapper Zapper and Knight Fight, Peter had somehow managed to nab the chair first. It was so unfair.

  The rule in Henry’s house was that whoever was sitting in the comfy black chair decided what to watch on TV. And there was Peter, smiling and singing along with Silly Billy, the revolting singing goat who thought he was a clown.

  Henry’s parents were so mean and horrible, they only had one teeny tiny TV in the whole, entire house. It was so minuscule Henry practically had to watch it using a magnifying glass. And so old you practically had to kick it to turn it on. Everyone else he knew had tons of TVs. Rude Ralph had five ginormous ones all to himself. At least, that’s what Ralph said.

  All too often there were at least two great shows on at the same time. How was Henry supposed to choose between Mutant Max and Terminator Gladiator? If only he could watch two TVs simultaneously, wouldn’t life be wonderful?

  Even worse, Mom, Dad, and Peter had their own smelly shows they wanted to watch. And not great shows like Hog House and Gross Out. Oh no. Mom and Dad liked watching…news. Documentaries. Opera. Perfect Peter liked nature shows. And revolting baby shows like Daffy and her Dancing Daisies. Uggghh! How did he end up in this family? When would his real parents, the King and Queen, come and fetch him and take him to the palace where he could watch whatever he wanted all day?

  When he grew up and became King Henry the Horrible, he’d have three TVs in every room, including the bathrooms.

  But until that happy day, he was stuck at home slugging it out with Peter. He could spend the afternoon watching Silly Billy, Cooking Cuties, and Sammy the Snail. Or…

  Horrid Henry pounced and snatched the remote. CLICK!

  “…and the black knight lowers his visor…”

  “Give it to me,” shrieked Peter.

  “No,” said Henry.

  “But I’ve got the chair,” wailed Peter.

  “So?” said Henry, waving the clicker at him. “If you want the remote you’ll have to come and get it.”

  Peter hesitated. Henry dangled the remote just out of reach.

  Perfect Peter slipped off the comfy black chair and grabbed for the remote. Horrid Henry ducked, swerved, and jumped onto the empty chair.

  “…And the knights are advancing toward one another, lances poised…”

  “MOOOOMMMM!” squealed Peter. “Henry snatched the remote!”

  “Did not!”

  “Did too.”

  “Did not, wibble pants.”

  “Don’t call me wibble pants,” cried Peter.

  “Okay, stinky poo poo,” said Henry.

  “Don’t call me stinky poo poo,” shrieked Peter.

  “Okay, wibble bibble,” said Horrid Henry.

  “MOOOOOMMM!” wailed Peter. “Henry’s calling me names!”

  “Henry! Stop being horrid,” shouted Mom.

  “I’m just trying to watch TV in peace!” screamed Henry. “Peter’s annoying me.”

  “Henry’s annoying me,” whined Peter. “He pushed me off the chair.”

  “Liar,” said Henry. “You fell off.”

  “MOOOMMMMMM!” screamed Peter.

  Mom ran in, and grabbed the remote.

  Click! The screen went black.

  “I’ve had it with you boys fighting over the TV,” shouted Mom. “No TV for the rest of the day.”

  What?

  Huh?

  “But…but…” said Perfect Peter.

  “But…but…” said Horrid Henry.

  “No buts,” said Mom.

  “It’s not fair!” wailed Henry and Peter.

  Horrid Henry paced up and down his room, whacking his teddy, Mr. Kill, on the bedpost every time he walked past.

  WHACK!

  WHACK!

  WHACK!

  He had to find a way to make sure he watched the shows he wanted to watch. He just had to. He’d have to get up at the crack of dawn. There was no other way.

  Unless…

  Unless…

  And then Horrid Henry had a brilliant, spectacular idea. What an idiot he’d been. All those months he’d missed his fantastic shows…Well, never ever again.

  Sneak.

  Sneak.

  Sneak.

  It was the middle of the night. Horrid Henry crept down the stairs as quietly as he could and tiptoed into the living room, shutting the door behind him. There was the TV, grumbling in the corner. “Why is no one watching me?” moaned the TV. “C’mon, Henry.”

  But for once Henry didn’t listen. He had something much more important to do.

  He crept to the comfy black chair and fumbled in the dark. Now, where was the remote? Aha! There it was. As usual, it had fallen between the seat cushion and the armrest. Henry grabbed it. Quick as a flash, he switched the TV over to the channel for Rapper Zapper, Talent Tigers, and Hog House. Then he tiptoed to the toy cupboard and hid the remote control deep inside a bucket of multicolored blocks that no one had played with for years.

  Tee-hee, thought Horrid Henry.

  Why should he have to get up to grab the comfy black chair hours before his shows started w
hen he could sleep in, saunter downstairs whenever he felt like it, and be master of the TV? Whoever was sitting in the chair could be in charge of the TV all they wanted. But without the TV remote, no one would be watching anything.

  Perfect Peter stretched out on the comfy black chair. Hurrah. Served Henry right for being so mean to him. Peter had gotten downstairs first. Now he could watch what he wanted all morning.

  Peter reached for the remote control. It wasn’t on the armrest. It wasn’t on the headrest. Had it slipped between the armrest and the cushion? No. He felt around the back. No. He looked under the chair. Nothing. He looked behind the chair. Where was it?

  Horrid Henry strolled into the sitting room. Peter clutched tightly onto the armrests in case Henry tried to push him off.

  “I got the comfy black chair first,” said Peter.

  “Okay,” said Horrid Henry, sitting down on the sofa. “So let’s watch something.”

  Peter looked at Henry suspiciously.

  “Where’s the remote?” said Peter.

  “I dunno,” said Horrid Henry. “Where did you put it?”

  “I didn’t put it anywhere,” said Peter.

  “You had it last,” said Henry.

  “No I didn’t,” said Peter.

  “Did too,” said Henry.

  “Did not,” said Peter.

  Perfect Peter sat on the comfy black chair. Horrid Henry sat on the sofa.

  “Have you seen it anywhere?” said Peter.

  “No,” said Henry. “You’ll just have to look for it, won’t you?”

  Peter eyed Henry warily.

  “I’m waiting,” said Horrid Henry.

  Perfect Peter didn’t know what to do. If he got up from the chair to look for the remote, Henry would jump into it and there was no way Henry would decide to watch Cooking Cuties, even though today they were showing how to make your own granola.

  On the other hand, there wasn’t much point sitting in the chair if he didn’t have the remote.

  Henry sat.

  Peter sat.

  “You know, Peter, you can turn on the TV without the remote,” said Henry casually.

  Peter brightened. “You can?”

  “Sure,” said Henry. “You just press that big black button on the left.”

  Peter stared suspiciously at the button. Henry must think he was an idiot. He could see Henry’s plan from miles away. The moment Peter left the comfy black chair Henry would jump on it.

  “You press it,” said Peter.

  “Okay,” said Henry agreeably. He sauntered to the TV and pressed the “on” button.

  BOOM! CRASH! WALLOP!

  “Des-troy! Des-troy!” bellowed Mutant Max.

  “Go mutants!” shouted Horrid Henry, bouncing up and down.

  Perfect Peter sat frozen in the chair.

  “But I want to watch Sing-Along with Susie!” wailed Peter. “She’s teaching a song about raindrops and roses.”

  “So find the remote,” said Horrid Henry.

  “I can’t,” said Peter.

  “Tough,” said Horrid Henry. “Pulverize! Destroy! Destroy!”

  Tee-hee.

  What a fantastic day, sighed Horrid Henry happily. He’d watched every single one of his best shows and Peter hadn’t watched a single one of his. And now Hog House was on. Could life get any better?

  Dad staggered into the living room. “Ahh, a little relaxation in front of the TV,” sighed Dad. “Henry, turn off that horrible show. I want to watch the news.”

  “Shhh!” said Horrid Henry. How dare Dad interrupt him?

  “Henry…” said Dad.

  “I can’t,” said Horrid Henry. “No remote.”

  “What do you mean, no remote?” said Dad.

  “It’s gone,” said Henry.

  “What do you mean, gone?” said Mom.

  “Henry lost it,” said Peter.

  “Did not,” snapped Henry.

  “Did too,” said Peter.

  “DID NOT!” bellowed Henry. “Now be quiet, I’m trying to watch.”

  Mom marched over to the TV and switched it off.

  “The TV stays off until the remote is found,” said Mom.

  “But I didn’t lose it!” wailed Peter.

  “Neither did I,” said Horrid Henry. This wasn’t a lie, as he hadn’t lost it.

  Rats. Maybe it was time for the TV remote to make a miraculous return…

  Sneak.

  Sneak.

  Sneak.

  Mom and Dad were in the kitchen. Perfect Peter was practicing his cello.

  Horrid Henry crept to the toy cupboard and opened it.

  The bucket of blocks was gone.

  Huh?

  Henry searched frantically in the cupboard, hurling out jigsaw puzzles, board games, and half-empty paint bottles. The blocks were definitely gone.

  Yikes. Horrid Henry felt a chill down his spine. He was dead. He was doomed.

  Unless Mom had moved the blocks somewhere. Of course. Phew. He wasn’t dead yet.

  Mom walked into the living room.

  “Mom,” said Henry casually, “I wanted to build a castle with those old blocks but when I went to get them from the cupboard they were gone.”

  Mom stared at him. “You haven’t played with those blocks in years, Henry. I cleaned out of all the baby toys today and gave them to charity.”

  Charity? Charity? That meant the remote was gone for good. He would be in trouble. Big, big trouble. He was doomed…NOT!

  Without the clicker, the TV would be useless. Mom and Dad would have to buy a new one. Yes! A bigger, better, fantastic one with twenty-five surround-sound speakers and a mega-whopper 10-foot super-sized screen!

  “You know, Mom, we wouldn’t have any arguments if we all had our own TVs,” said Henry. Yes! In fact, if he had two in his bedroom, and a third one to spare in case one of them ever broke, he’d never argue about the TV again.

  Mom sighed. “Just find the remote,” she said. “It must be here somewhere.”

  “But our TV is so old,” said Henry.

  “It’s fine,” said Dad.

  “It’s horrible,” said Henry.

  “We’ll see,” said Mom.

  New TV here I come, thought Horrid Henry happily.

  Mom sat down on the sofa and opened her book.

  Dad sat down on the sofa and opened his book.

  Peter sat down on the sofa and opened his book.

  “You know,” said Mom, “it’s lovely and peaceful without the TV.”

  “Yes,” said Dad.

  “No squabbling,” said Mom.

  “No screaming,” said Dad.

  “Tons of time to read good books,” said Mom.

  They smiled at each other.

  “I think we should be a TV-free home from now on,” said Dad.

  “Me too,” said Mom.

  “That’s a great idea,” said Perfect Peter. “More time to do homework.”

  “What??” screamed Horrid Henry. He thought his heart would stop. No TV? No TV? “NOOOOOOOOOOO! NOOOOOOOOOOO! NOOOOOOOOOOO!”

  BANG! ZAP! KER-POW!

  “Go mutants!” yelped Horrid Henry, bouncing up and down in the comfy black chair.

  Mom and Dad had resisted buying a new TV for two long, hard, horrible weeks. Finally they’d given in. Of course they hadn’t bought a big mega-whopper super-duper TV. Oh no. They’d bought the teeniest, tiniest TV they could.

  Still. It was a bit bigger than the old one. And the remote could always go missing again…

  Yack yack yack yack yack.

  Horrid Henry’s legs ached. His head ached. His bottom really ached. How much longer would he have to sit on this hard wooden floor and listen to Mrs. Oddbod twitter on about hanging up coats and no running in the corridors and walking down staircases on the right-hand side? Why were school assemblies so boring? If he were principal, assemblies would be about the best TV shows, competitions for gruesome grub recipes, and speed-eating contests.

  Yack. Yack. Yack.
Yack. Yack.

  Zoom…Zoom…Squawk! Horrid Henry’s hawk swooped and scooped up Mrs. Oddbod in his fearsome beak.

  Chomp.

  Chomp.

  Ch—Wait a minute. What was she saying?

  “School elections will be held next week,” said Mrs. Oddbod. “For the first time ever you’ll be electing a School Council President. Now I want everyone to think of someone they believe would make an outstanding president. Someone who will make important decisions that will affect everyone, someone worthy of this high office, someone who will represent this school…”

  Horrid Henry snorted. School elections? Phooey! Who’d want to be School Council President? All that responsibility…all that power…all that glory…Wait. What was he thinking? Who wouldn’t want to be?

  Imagine, being president! He’d be king, emperor, Lord High Master of the Universe! He’d make Mrs. Oddbod walk the plank. He’d send Miss Battle-Axe to be a galley slave. He’d make playtime last for five hours. He’d ban all salad and vegetables from school lunches and just serve candy! And Fizzywizz drinks! And everyone would have to bow down to him as they entered the school! And give him chocolate every day.

  President Henry. His Honor, President Henry. It had a nice ring. So did King Henry. Emperor Henry would be even better though. He’d change his title as soon as he got the throne.

  And all he had to do was win the election.

  Shout!

  Shriek!

  “Silence!” screeched Mrs. Oddbod. “Any more noise and playtime will be canceled!”

  Huumph, that was one thing that would never happen when he was School President. In fact, he’d make it a rule that anyone who put their hand up in class would get sent to him for punishment. There’d only be shouting out in his school.

  “Put up your hand if you wish to nominate someone,” said Mrs. Oddbod.

  Sour Susan’s hand shot up. “I nominate Margaret,” she said.

  “I accept!” yelled Margaret, preening.

  Horrid Henry choked. Margaret? Bossyboots Margaret, president? She’d be a disaster, a horrible, grumpy, grouchy, moody disaster. Henry would never hear the end of it. Her head would swell so much it would burst. She’d be swaggering all over the place, ordering everyone around, boasting, bossing, showing off…