Study Hall Hood: A Hatty Pearst, Teen Detective Mystery
by Shelly Strood 

There was the loud sound of footfalls behind her. Could it be—the murderer? Hatty had to think quick, or she would be discovered searching for clues in the locker room. Thinking the obvious, she tried each locker until one near the end was found unlocked, and climbed inside. The door closed with a faint click just as she heard footsteps in the room.

Hatty was nervous as could be. Her heart raced, and beat her liver by ten seconds in a photo finish. She tried to hold her breath as she heard the loud footsteps approaching. It sounded like Fred Astaire, judging by the tap of the shoes, but it couldn’t be since he had died long ago. It was likely only one other person—the murderer!

She had mixed feelings. If the murderer flung open the locker door, she would be able to see who he was. But if he flung open the locker door, he would see who she was and probably kill her, if he was the murderer. If he wasn’t, that would leave her with doubt. The only way for her to discover if whoever was outside was indeed the murderer of Professor Dimble was to be found in the locker and murdered. That would pretty much put all doubts to rest.

Still, she hoped it wouldn’t happen. She would get no credit for capturing the murderer if he killed her. But it seemed it was becoming inevitable. He must have caught a whiff of her perfume, Liz Taylor’s White Diamonds, because he began to fling open the lockers starting with the first at the far end. Hatty wished she had some kind of weapon, like a gun or a knife or a sharpened stake, if he were a vampire. She wished she were a cop or a secret agent, or someone who could protect herself, instead of a too-curious high school girl with a keen detective mind. Then, she wished she were a princess, with a huge castle and gigantic knockers. It did no good—the mysterious stranger kept getting closer and closer, opening locker door after locker door, until he was almost up to hers.

“Hello?” she heard a loud, bellowing voice, not belonging to the murderer. But it was enough; he was frightened off, and she heard his stylish-but-loud clacking shoes clomp out of the locker room.

When she stepped out of the locker, relieved and breathing doggedly, she saw her savior standing there: Brando, the janitor.

“Mr. Brando! It was sure a lucky thing you heard that strange man and came to my rescue, here in the girl’s locker room!”

“Yeah,” said Mr. Brando, appearing slightly confused. “It’s a good thing. This place is completely empty after school hours. Some guy could have come in here and masturbated all over you and no one would have ever known!”

“I was more afraid of him killing me!” said Hatty, finally catching her breath.

“Oh, yeah. They’d never find out about that either, I guess.”

Hatty looked around the smallish, somewhat sensual locker room. “Jeez-louise, if you didn’t see him as he ran out, then where did he go?”

Brando thought for a moment, and it was painful. “I suppose he could have gotten out through the crawlspace.” Hatty asked him what crawlspace he was referring to. “I’ll tell you. The crawlspace over there, behind the showers. There’s a small, janitor-sized cubby hole in the wall where a body could squeeze in, then escape through a hidden passageway to the football field!”

“My goodness! That’s where he’s gone, I’ll bet anything! Come on, we’ve got to catch him—he’s probably the man that murdered Professor Dimble!”

“Yeah!” cried Brando. “And I’ll bet he’s done other despicable things, like leaving child pornography magazines in that crawlspace. I’ll bet you anything!”

For more of this great story, buy Shelly Strood’s
Study Hall Hood: A Hatty Pearst, Teen Detective Mystery Freak Outs and Head Trips in Atlantic City
Intelligent beasts don’t go to Atlantic City of their own free will. Neither did I, and would never have set foot in the rectum of America had I not been on assignment for Boner magazine to cover the first of its kind Monty Python Fan Base Convention.

Harvey Potluck and the Sophomore Slump
It was peculiar to think he had nearly not made it at all. A mysterious spell and night of binge drinking of hard liquor had caused him to miss his cab ride back to the Academy. The shame of it all!

Hamilton Castlewaite
Such worries were no longer my concern. My frigate had capsized in the dreadful storm, and most of my crew were drowned. Some of them were even white men. A frightful experience, being near-drowned.

The Adventures of Sollsberry Stake
Rush wus’n playin on bein cowboys an injuns, but he’sn all lonesome goin ‘bout it cuz’n it wuz only him. He ast me if’n I wanted to play with ‘im, but I sed I wus’n too busy huntin up treasure.