Sarinaka's Curse

• Daniel Faust, Grade 5
• Short Story
• 2007

“On darkest night
The tomb’s unrest
Shall haunt thee
Who dreams upon claiming
My sacred chest

For in my chest
My sacred chest
Lays the Key to power
Over tomb’s rotting devour.”

So read my history teacher Mr Vinola one cold, winter afternoon. “Now I want a two-page report on Sarinaka’s tombs curse before the bell goes-

BRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!!!!!!

Suddenly I was attacked by an overwhelming surge of bodies rushing to the classroom door. “I want that report by tomorrow!” cried Mr Vinola after the stampede of school children. “Detention for anyone who forgets!”

You’re probably wondering who I am. Well, my name is Ian Jinous. I’m a ten year old history geek with no friends. Well, I have one friend, but I’d rather keep that to myself.
I was slowly trudging out of school when-
“Hey, Ian!”
Oops. Did I say I had only one friend? Make that one and a half.
“Ya wanna come ovva to my place?” said my incredibly brainless semi-friend, Stuart Pid (well, I think that’s what he said).
“Mr Vinola’s given us extra homework, due tomorrow, so I’m terribly sorry Stu,” I replied.
“Huh?” asked Stuart. I sighed inwardly.
“In other words, no.”
“Uh. Okay,” he shrugged and loped away.

All night I dreamt about Sarinaka’s tomb. And treasure.

“Lays the key to power
Over tomb’s rotting devour,”
said a bored-looking Mr Vinola.
“Lays the key to power
Over tomb’s rotting devour,”
he recited, eyes dull.
“Lays the key to power
Over tomb’s rotting devour.”
I was just about to tell him he’s repeating himself, and none of us were listening anyway, when something really creepy happened. His face melted off.

I gasped. Somewhere behind me I heard Stuart scream. I didn’t blame him. We were staring into the flaming eye sockets of Mr Vinola’s skull.
“Don’t touch my treasure!” he, no, she demanded with such force the roof started to cave in.
Just before I was crushed, I caught three words on the blackboard:
I AM SARINAKA

What could be in that chest? I wondered when I woke, drenched with sweat. What . . .

The next day at school Mr Vinola was away. “He, ah, burnt himself on some, er, hot coffee,” the principal answered to questions aroused by the teacher’s absence.
Our new teacher for the day’s name was Miss Terr, an extremely ugly specimen who previously taught at Brookvale Primary. She was also very mean.
“Sit down!”
“Is that gum!?”
“You call this work!?”
“BE QUIET!!!!”

All day long. Well, until lunchtime.
“Stay back, Ian,” Miss Terr called after me. I nervously stopped and backed into the classroom.
“Y-Yes Miss Terr,” I stumbled. “What d-do you want?”

Miss Terr smiled an evil grin and recited:
“On darkest night
The tomb’s unrest
Shall haunt thee
Who dreams upon claiming
My sacred chest.”

“You’ve been dreaming,” Sarinaka boomed. “Now you pay the price!”

With those chilling words tormenting my mind I felt my burning soul swirl down into the dark abyss. . .

. . .Down to join the tombs unrest.