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That's nexplayground.com to explore active family gaming today.
Hello, friends, and welcome to Sleep Tight Stories.
Each week we share a few shout-outs and birthday wishes for listeners who help support the show.
It's a small way we say thank you, and it always makes us smile.
A big shout-out to our favorite three musketeers, KP, Ronan, and Bryn.
Mama and Daddy are so incredibly proud of the amazing tiny humans you are.
Your compassion, kindness, and tenacity shine brighter each day.
We love you forever and are so lucky to be your parents.
And a big hello to Audrey, 6 years old, from Vancouver Island.
Happy, belated birthday to our little girl, Cameron Quinn, turning 5, from Attleboro Massachusetts, on October 19th.
Keep being awesome!
Love, Mama, Mommy, Casey, and Jillian.
Happy 6th birthday to Scarlett from Canada on November 4th.
You're such an amazing little girl and the best big sister.
We're so proud of you.
Love, Mom, Dad, Archer, and Winston.
Happy golden birthday, Holly, from Mom, Dad, and Rosa.
We are proud of your creativity and the ways you help our family.
Happy 10th birthday, Leora.
We are so happy to celebrate you.
Your light shines far and we are so proud of you.
You are kind, smart, generous, and funny.
We love you.
Ima, Daddy, Ari, and Mila.
Wishing our special girl Penny from Wellington, New Zealand, a happy ninth birthday.
You are fun, creative, and make us laugh every day.
We love you so much.
Love, Dad, Mom, Ollie, and Kiki.
Happy ninth birthday, Evie June, on November 3rd.
Watching you grow into such a strong, caring, and brave girl fills our hearts with pride.
Keep shining on the rugby field, with your art, and in everything you do.
We love you endlessly.
Love, Mommy and Daddy.
Happy seventh birthday, Gatton.
We love you and are so proud of you.
Love, Mommy, Daddy, and Braken.
Happy birthday to Loretta June in Mission, Kansas.
We are so proud of you.
Love, Mom, Dad, and Iggy.
Happy eighth birthday, Darian from Perth, Australia.
Mommy and Daddy are so proud of your kindness, hard work at school and how awesome you're doing in basketball and soccer.
Keep dreaming big.
We love you so much.
And a special happy ninth birthday to Roya Bailey Snyder from Duluth, Minnesota.
You are our bright light and our brave, kind girl.
From mom, dad, Jamie, and Doxy the Dash Hound.
Happy birthday to you all and thank you for supporting the show.
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Now on to our story.
Have you ever had a substitute teacher?
Do you have a favorite one?
Greg finds out he has a substitute teacher this week.
But when he hears who it is, he is not feeling very happy.
Greg dumped his gym bag by his locker with a satisfying thud.
Monday mornings weren't so bad when you'd scored two goals at Sunday's game.
He was still replaying that second one in his head, the way he'd faked left and then slipped the puck right past the goalie's blocker.
When Marcus practically tackled him, Dude, dude, did you hear?
Hear what?
Greg spun his combination lock.
Third try.
He could never remember if it was 23 or 32 in the middle.
Mrs. Henderson's out all week.
Marcus's eyes were huge.
Substitute teacher.
Greg's entire body relaxed.
Yes, a whole week of substitutes meant movies.
Maybe some coloring sheets if they were unlucky.
And definitely... But it's Mrs. Compton.
The combination lock slipped from Greg's fingers.
Down the hallway, someone dropped their binder.
Papers exploded everywhere, but nobody moved to help.
Everybody was just standing there, staring.
No, Greg said, no way, not her.
That's what I heard, Marcus whispered.
My sister had her last year for three days and came home crying.
Crying!
And my sister doesn't cry about anything.
She once broke her arm and just walked into the nurse's office like it was nothing.
Greg had heard the stories.
Everyone had.
Mrs. Compton had been teaching for like a hundred years, maybe longer.
Some kids said she'd taught their grandparents.
She had this super wrinkly face that looked like it had forgotten how to smile.
And she gave out homework like other teachers gave out candy.
Except the opposite of candy, like broccoli.
Homework broccoli.
And English was double period today.
His stomach did this horrible swoopy thing.
English was already his worst subject.
He could never remember what a verb was or an adjective, or if a comma went there or over there, or maybe nowhere at all.
Last week he'd written there.
When he meant there and Mrs Henderson had circled it in red pen so many times, it looked like a target.
How are we supposed to survive?
Marcus moaned.
Greg shook his head.
He pulled his English binder from his locker the one with the torn cover and the doodles of hockey sticks on the back and trudged toward homeroom like a prisoner walking to his doom.
This was it, the worst week of his entire life, and it hadn't even started yet.
Mrs. Compton was already there when they walked in.
She was tiny. way smaller than Mrs. Henderson, barely taller than some of the sixth graders.
But somehow, she filled up the whole room, like gravity worked different around her or something.
Her hair was pulled back so tight, Greg wondered if it hurt.
Deep wrinkles creased her face, especially around her mouth, which was set in this straight line that looked like it had never curved upward.
Not even once.
Her eyes swept across the classroom, and when they landed on Greg, he quickly looked at his desk.
The usual Monday morning chaos kids chatting about their weekends, someone tossing a crumpled paper, the hum of 20 different conversations had completely vanished.
You could hear the clock ticking.
You could hear Tommy breathing too loud through his mouth.
Good morning, Mrs. Compton said.
Her voice was crisp, like a fresh apple getting bitten.
I'm Mrs. Compton.
We have a great deal to accomplish this week.
She turned to the whiteboard and started writing in perfect, scary handwriting.
Monday Schedule Math Fractions Quiz English Novel Study Double period.
Science, lab reports do.
Homework, math worksheet.
Read, chapter one to three.
Science, corrections.
Greg felt his soul leave his body.
Novel study?
Double period?
Three chapters of reading?
Marcus was making this face like he was watching a horror movie.
Sarah had her head down on her desk.
Even perfect student Jennifer looked worried.
I have high expectations, Mrs. Compton continued, not even looking at them, just kept writing.
Homework will be checked every morning, every single morning.
I expect it to be complete, neat, and demonstrate genuine effort.
Someone in the back, probably Andrew, made this tiny whimpering sound.
Mrs. Compton's head snapped around like a hawk spotting a mouse.
Complete silence.
She didn't even say anything, just looked, then turned back to the board.
Any questions?
Nobody moved.
Greg wasn't even sure anyone was still breathing.
Excellent.
Let's begin with math.
Greg slumped in his chair and stared at his English binder.
The hockey stick doodles looked back at him, all cheerful and hopeful, from last week when life was good and Mrs Henderson was healthy and substitute teachers were the fun kind who let you play heads-up seven-up.
This was going to be the longest week in the history of the entire world.
Maybe even longer.
By the time English rolled around, Greg had already survived a fractions quiz.
Barely.
And watched Mrs Compton make Andrew redo his entire math worksheet because his handwriting was illegible.
Andrew had looked like he might actually cry.
Clear your desks, Mrs. Compton announced.
Everything off except a pencil.
Here it comes, Greg thought, the nightmare part.
Probably grammar worksheets.
Maybe diagramming sentences which he was pretty sure was just a form of torture adults invented to make kids suffer.
But Mrs. Compton walked to her bag and pulled out a book.
Not a textbook, a real book.
The cover showed a kid in hockey gear standing in front of these creepy old arena doors that were glowing blue.
Wait, hockey?
We're going to read a novel this week, Miss Compton said, out loud, as a class.
Greg wanted to sink through his chair and melt into the floor.
Reading out loud was the absolute worst.
He always stumbled over words, lost his place.
Read too fast or too slow, or The book is called The Haunted Rink.
Mrs Compton continued.
It's about a boy who gets locked inside an old hockey arena overnight and discovers it's not as empty as it seems.
Marcus elbowed Greg, raised his eyebrows like, Did she just say hockey?
Greg shrugged, trying to look as though he didn't care.
But, okay, maybe that sounded kind of cool.
Mrs. Compton opened to the first page.
Chapter 1, she read.
And then, her voice changed.
Not like teacher reading out loud voice.
Like actual storytelling voice.
She did this thing where she paused at the scary parts.
Made her voice go all dramatic and deep.
When the main character's friend dared him to stay in the arena, she made the friend sound all teasing and mean.
When the character got nervous, she read slower, quieter, so everyone had to lean in to hear.
Greg forgot to slouch, forgot to doodle on his binder, forgot that this was English class and he was supposed to hate it.
The main character his name was Tyler had just discovered that the arena's old Zamboni was still running.
By itself, at midnight.
Mrs. Compton's voice dropped to barely a whisper.
Tyler stepped closer.
The machine's engine rumbled like something alive.
Something hungry.
Something that had been waiting in the dark for...
She stopped.
Just stopped.
Closed the book.
What?
Half the class said at once.
The tiniest hint of something flickered in Mrs. Compton's eyes.
Maybe amusement?
But her face didn't change.
We'll continue tomorrow, if you complete tonight's reading assignment.
Wait, no!
Sarah burst out, then immediately looked terrified that she'd spoken.
But Mrs. Compton didn't get mad.
She just said, read chapters one through three tonight.
I want you to know what happens before we discuss it.
She started passing out books.
When she got to Greg's desk, she set one down in front of him.
He stared at the cover, the glowing blue doors, the hockey kid who looked about his age, maybe a bit older.
You play hockey, Mrs. Compton said.
Not a question, a statement.
Uh, yeah, how did you... This book has quite a lot of hockey in it.
Technical details, game strategy.
You might find it interesting.
She moved on to the next desk before Greg could figure out what to say.
At lunch, everyone was complaining.
Three chapters, Jennifer said.
That's like 50 pages probably.
My sister warned me, Marcus groaned, poking at his sandwich.
She said Mrs Compton assigns more homework than any teacher in the entire province.
Maybe the country.
I heard she once made a kid rewrite a book report seven times, Andrew added.
Seven!
But Greg was kind of thinking about the book.
Like, what was up with that Zamboni?
And why was the arena haunted?
And Tyler seemed like a pretty good hockey player, maybe even better than Greg, which was annoying, but also made him want to know more.
Dude.
Marcus waved a hand in front of Greg's face.
You okay?
You look weird.
I'm fine.
You look like you're thinking about something.
I'm not thinking about anything.
Greg lied.
You're thinking about that book, aren't you?
No.
You totally are.
Be quiet.
Marcus stared at him like he'd just announced he was moving to Mars.
Greg, it's English homework.
You hate English homework.
I don't hate it.
I just... Greg stopped.
The book has hockey stuff in it, okay?
So it might not be completely terrible.
That's all I'm saying.
Mrs. Compton has broken him, Marcus announced to the table.
It's been four hours and she's already broken him.
Everyone laughed, but Greg just shrugged and took a bite of his pizza.
That night, after hockey practice, after dinner, after his mom reminded him twice that he had homework, Greg flopped onto his bed with the haunted rink.
Just three chapters.
He could skim it, probably.
Just enough to not get in trouble tomorrow.
He opened to Chapter 1.
Tyler was at hockey practice when his teammate dared him to stay in the old Riverside Arena overnight.
Greg turned the page, and then another.
Tyler had just found out the arena was built on top of an old ice rink from like the 1940s.
And apparently, a junior league goalie had died there in some mysterious accident.
And now, Greg, his mom's voice from downstairs, it's 830.
Have you started your homework?
I'm doing it, he called back.
He wasn't lying.
This was homework.
He was literally reading the assigned chapters.
He just kept going.
Chapter four started with Tyler discovering a secret passage under the Zamboni room.
The ghost goalie, his name was Eddie, wasn't trying to scare Tyler away.
He was trying to warn him about something.
Something way worse than a ghost.
Greg, bedtime.
He checked his phone.
9.15.
Wait, how did that happen?
He'd read seven chapters seven.
He hadn't even noticed.
His mom appeared in the doorway stopped, stared are you reading?
It's for school.
You're reading without me asking you 17 times first mom, it's homework.
She pressed her hand to his forehead.
Are you feeling okay, mom?
This is just unexpected.
She smiled.
I'm proud of you honey, but seriously, lights out now.
Greg marked his page Chapter 7, right where Eddie was showing Tyler the old team photos hidden in the basement and turned off his lamp.
In the dark.
He kept thinking about the story, about what might be lurking in the arena, about whether Tyler would make it out before morning.
He couldn't wait for English class tomorrow, which was probably the weirdest thought he'd ever had in his entire life.
Tuesday morning, Mrs. Compton started English with a question.
Why do you think Eddie is helping Tyler?
Normally Greg would have become very interested in his desk or his pencil or anything that wasn't making eye contact with the teacher.
But his hand shot up before his brain could stop it.
Mrs. Compton's eyebrows rose maybe half a millimeter.
Greg?
I think... I think Eddie's not actually mad about dying.
He's mad that nobody remembers him.
Like they tore down the old rink and built the new arena and just forgot about all the players who used to play there.
So maybe he's trying to get Tyler to, like, tell people about what happened?
The classroom was quiet, but not the scared kind of quiet from yesterday.
More like people were actually listening.
Excellent observation, Mrs. Compton said.
She wrote something on the board.
What evidence supports that theory?
Jennifer's hand went up, then Marcus's.
Then even Andrew, who never said anything in English if he could help it.
Greg sat back, his face hot but in a good way.
He'd gotten it right, or at least not wrong.
The week kept going like that.
Mrs. Compton was still strict.
She checked homework every single morning.
She made them redo sloppy work.
But she also read in those amazing voices, did this creaky whisper for Eddie that made everyone's arms get goosebumps.
When they got to the part where Tyler discovered the old championship trophy hidden in the boiler room, she paused right at the cliffhanger and you could hear people actually groan.
Greg noticed other stuff too.
When Sarah struggled with a math word problem about distances, Mrs. Compton rewrote it to be about how far Sarah had to travel for her dance competitions.
Suddenly, Sarah got it.
When Marcus couldn't sit still during silent reading, he kept tapping his pencil, bouncing his leg, driving everyone crazy.
Mrs. Compton walked over and quietly handed him this squishy stress ball thing.
Didn't make a big deal about it.
Just set it on his desk and moved on.
Marcus squeezed it and actually focused for the rest of the period.
On Thursday, Greg realized something weird.
He'd finished all his English homework every night this week.
Without being asked.
Without complaining.
Who even was he anymore?
Friday, last day.
Mrs Henderson would be back Monday, which should have been good news, except Greg kind of didn't want Mrs Compton to leave.
She finished reading the last chapter of The Haunted Rink.
Tyler and Eddie had saved the arena from being demolished by finding proof that it was a historical landmark.
Eddie finally got his name on a plaque in the lobby.
The ending was perfect.
Happy, but also a little bit sad, the way real endings usually were.
Well done this week, Mrs. Compton said as they packed up.
You should all be proud of the work you accomplished.
People actually smiled, even Andrew.
Greg's friends were already halfway to the door, but he hung back.
His stomach felt all fluttery and weird.
He approached Mrs. Compton's desk like he was approaching a dragon's cave.
Except the dragon might not be evil after all.
Um, Mrs. Compton?
She looked up from organizing her papers.
Still had that stern face.
Still looked like smiling was against her personal rules.
I just, uh...
I wanted to say, uh, I actually didn't hate English this week.
The corner of her mouth twitched.
Barely.
You could have missed it if you blinked.
Of course you didn't.
You're far more capable than you give yourself credit for, Greg.
She reached into her bag and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
Handed it to him.
Here's a list of other books you might enjoy.
Some have hockey, some don't, but I suspect you'll like them all the same.
Greg unfolded it saw at least 20 titles written in her perfect handwriting, little notes beside each one.
Mystery, adventure, funny.
This one made me cry.
You, you made this for me?
I made one for everyone, she gestured at her bag.
I like to know my students.
Oh.
Greg's throat felt tight.
Thanks.
Keep reading, Greg.
You have a good mind for stories.
Monday morning, Mrs. Henderson was back.
Oh, I've missed you all so much, she said, giving her usual warm smile.
Let's have an easy day getting back into things.
Free reading period to start.
Everyone grabbed books or magazines.
Tommy pulled out a comic.
Jennifer opened something about horses.
Greg pulled out The Mystery of the Missing Medal, the first book from Mrs. Compton's list.
Marcus stopped mid-throw of a paper airplane, stared.
Are you reading?
Like, voluntarily?
It's free reading time.
Yeah, but you usually just draw hockey stuff in your notebook.
Well, this book's got this part where the kid has to solve a mystery at his hockey camp.
And there's this suspicious coach and... Greg stopped.
Never mind.
You're weird now, Marcus said.
But he said it like it wasn't a bad thing.
Greg shrugged and kept reading.
Mrs. Compton had been scary.
Super strict.
Gave way more homework than any substitute should legally be allowed to give.
But she'd also known exactly which book would make him actually want to read.
She'd cared enough to make everyone a personal list.
She'd believed he could do better before he'd believed it himself.
High expectations weren't mean, Greg realized.
They just meant someone thought you were capable of meeting them.
He turned the page.
The main character had just found a suspicious note in the locker room.
Already getting good.
Maybe next time they got a substitute teacher, he'd actually hope it was Mrs. Compton again.
Though he probably wouldn't admit that to Marcus.
At least not today.
And that is the end of our story.
Good night.
Sleep tight.
