The Mysterious Corridor E-Book

Elias Zapple

• Herausgeber: Elias Zapple
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Skateboarder Michel is freaking out as his cousin Romain has gone missing. Michel sticks his head through a hole in the garden fence and is sucked into a giant vortex. He ends up in a mysterious corridor, with doors leading to strange worlds. He also meets Duke, a food-obsessed, sarcastic Basset Hound dog, who is searching for his brothers. Together they hunt for their missing relatives, unaware that they are also being hunted by the Master, a villain with a dandruff problem.

Leseprobe

Duke & Michel:

The Mysterious Corridor

By

Elias Zapple

Book One

Copyright

© Elias Zapple, 2009

Cover Illustration by Elliott Beavan

Interior Illustrations by Andrea Brajnovic

Disclaimer

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Dedication

For

Lucy Muddles Rabbit

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Disclaimer

Dedication

Chapter One - Goldfish

Chapter Two – The Mysterious Corridor

Chapter Three – Snotty Noses

Chapter Four – Duke

Chapter Five – Mass Murder

Chapter Six – Vortex

Chapter Seven – Zzzzzzzzzzzz

Chapter Eight – The R.G.A.

Chapter Nine – Motorised Flying Desks

Chapter Ten – Speed Demon

Chapter Eleven – Hairy Four-Eyed Monsters

Chapter Twelve – Skaters’ Paradise

Chapter Thirteen – Skateboarding

Chapter Fourteen – The Rivers of Pus

Chapter Fifteen – Sticky Translucent Glue

Chapter Sixteen – Smoked Mackerel

Chapter Seventeen – Battery Cells

Chapter Eighteen – Witdims

Chapter Nineteen – Old Grannies

Chapter Twenty – Hippies

Chapter Twenty-One – 2:59 PM

Chapter Twenty-Two – Tin of Peaches

Chapter Twenty-Three – Fondant au Chocolat

Who is Elias Zapple?

Also by Elias Zapple

A Request from Elias Zapple

1

Goldfish

Michel knew what was down at the end of his garden, a grave for his goldfish, Rocky, which had probably already been dug up and eaten by the neighbour’s cat - Michel had never checked for fear that it was true - a fence and beyond that a driveway.

He had sometimes jumped the fence and skateboarded up and down the driveway as it was quiet and the tarmac was really smooth.

There you have it, at the end of Michel’s garden in this particularly quiet and residential part of Fulham, London was a goldfish grave, a fence and a driveway. There was nothing else. Nothing. Michel knew it.

2

The Mysterious Corridor

“Mum! Dad!” Michel yelled and screamed as he was thrown and spun around within the pitch-black, tornado-like vortex. His hair shot up and rocked from side to side as the skin on his face began to move like a wave pool.

What was happening? Was this real? Michel blinked his eyes repeatedly, expecting to wake up in his bedroom at any second. Nothing.

“Help!”

Was he in some kind of sick dream like that feeling you have that you’re falling out of bed?

“Mum!” Michel shouted as loud as he could.

Suddenly, the lights were turned way up and he landed with a little bump on something soft in a very, very, very long, bright white corridor.

“Ouch!”

Michel felt his head and body, checking for broken bones. Of course there weren’t any, it was just a dream that he couldn’t wake from. Probably his cousin wasn’t missing either. But the bump felt so real. What kind of dream was this?

“Get off me, you buffoon!” a voice shouted from beneath Michel.

Michel jumped up and turned around in shock. His eyebrows met his hairline and his jaw met the floor. The voice seemingly came from a plump, old Basset Hound with big drooping ears that was wearing a British racing green coloured cardigan. Michel stared, mouth so wide open that a train could’ve confused it for a tunnel. Michel surveyed the area quickly. There was nobody around except him and this dog. The voice couldn’t have come from the dog.

“You haven’t died, have you?” the dog asked.

Michel was naturally speechless.

“Hello? Another moronic alien, I fear,” the dog said.

Michel rubbed his eyes. The dog was still there and he was still in this corridor. He re-examined his head again. Was he dead? Was this some kind of afterworld? No. It was not possible. Michel touched the white, concrete walls; they were cold. He bent down and felt the floor. It was all so real.

“I say, it is quite rude not to answer when one’s being spoken to. Even ruder not to answer to your cultural superior.”

Michel stared at the dog.

“Deaf as well as imbecilic.”

Michel reached out and touched the Basset Hound.

“Hold on there one second! Are you clean? Get your hands off me at once or I shall report you!”

The dog felt real. But a talking dog? Maybe he was hallucinating?

“I must be dreaming or something.” Michel held his head. He was dizzy and sat down against a wall.

“I can bite you if you’d like? I’ve had my tetanus shot.”

Michel’s eyes widened and he quickly moved away as the dog inched his mouth towards Michel.

“Stay away! I don’t know who or what you are or what’s going on but just stay away. Mum? Dad? Someone!”

Michel got up and ran a little down the corridor.

“That’s it, leave me here,” the dog moaned, still sprawled on the white tiled floor. “You just drop on me from out of nowhere, don’t even ask how I am and then run away when I could’ve suffered any number of injuries.”

Michel spun around this way and that. On each side of the corridor there were doors, illustrated with images and with signs on them. This was insane.

‘Toilet World’, ‘Granny Planet’, ‘Spaghetti Universe’. Each door was about 10 feet apart and illustrated and labelled with the most peculiar names and images. Toilet World had a door covered in pictures of happy-looking toilets, Granny Planet had a door covered in pictures of angry, old biddies walking with the aid of walkers and threatening people with walking sticks, and Spaghetti… well you get the idea. Michel began to sweat profusely. He felt ill. He was ill.

“Spaghetti Universe?” Michel paced back towards the dog.

“Everything made out of spaghetti, I hear.”

“Mum! Dad!”

“Where are you from, Scruffy?”

“Please stop talking to me. I don’t wanna get any crazier than I already am.”

Michel put his hand to his forehead. He was burning up. All this couldn’t be happening. He steadied himself against the wall then turned to the dog. Suddenly, everything went blurry and he collapsed to the floor, next to the dog.

“Hello? Hello…” the dog’s voice trailed off.

3

Snotty Noses

“Mum!”

Michel’s mum forcibly ushered him out of the kitchen, where she was making her fondant au chocolat, and into the lush garden.

“But Mum!” Michel whined as the kitchen door was swiftly closed on him. He looked down at his three-year-old cousin, Romain, who giggled and burped then wobbled unconvincingly up the garden. A smooth flow of pale, green snot swayed like a swing from Romain’s nose. Michel grimaced.

A week before, Michel’s parents had told him that Uncle Jeff and Romain would be coming over to visit from France. Michel and his parents had just moved into a Victorian house in Fulham, London and his uncle, being an architect, was eager to see the ‘new’ place. Nothing to sweat over, right? Wrong.

Romain was a mischievous toddler with a tendency to get into trouble quicker than Michel could do a kickturn on his skateboard. Romain also had a snot problem. It was like his nose was a tap that could never be turned off.

When Romain was born, Michel was quite excited by it all. Michel didn’t have any brothers or sisters because his parents decided it would be too much aggravation. Not because Michel was a bad kid but because his dad was English and his mum was French, so they were continually trying to get Michel to support their respective national sports teams. Michel sometimes felt like a rope in a game of tug of war.

Michel had hoped to mould Romain into his own image so that he could become like the younger brother he’d always wanted - Michel mark II. The first two years were cool and Romain was kinda cute, especially when he wore the Death’s

Harvest T-shirt Michel had gotten for him. Then he turned two and started to get into trouble all the time, which Michel always got the blame for. Michel didn’t need this aggravation. However, when you’re twelve, what can you do when your parents tell you to look after your baby cousin?

“Seriously dude, how can you make so much snot?” He reached down into the pockets of his skinny black jeans and got out his mobile to text his mates. ‘Cant sk8 l8r cos gotta look after cuz. So lame. L8rs.’