A few words about some seasonal stories

And speaking of the so-called Mr Priestley - if that is indeed his name - he has apparently produced yet more of his Tales of Terror.  Once again he fails to acknowledge out collaboration.

These new tales are rather tastelessly gathered into what is no doubt intended to be a frightfully festive collection.  I am informed by Franz that Christmas Tales of Terror - oh, the hours it must have taken for Mr Priestley to come up with that - is, at present, only available as an 'ebook'.

No, I have no idea either.

Ghostly Netherlands

It is many years since I visited the wonderful city of Amsterdam.  Mr Priestley has apparently set his as yet to be published novel, Through Dead Eyes in that location, and I am sure it is merely coincidental that during his last visit to Pity's End I happened to tell him the story of a boy called Alexander who was haunted by a girl called Hanna - a girl who had died long before during the Dutch Golden Age.

Their fates became horribly entwined when Alexander bought a Japanese mask and put it on.

Mr Priestley's publishers are kind enough to send me advance copies of his work and I see that apart from moving the story to a contemporary setting and shortening the boy's name to Alex, Mr Priestley has once again shamelessly appropriated one of my stories.  I have written to his publisher and I await their response.  Franz is very vexed.

The intended publication date is March 2013, but I urge you not to buy it.

In which I relay some information concerning a scheme entitled 'Booked Up'

Very well then. I have now had permission to pass on the news relayed to me by Mr Priestley a few days ago. In fact Mr Priestley called me this morning saying that he hoped I was joking when I said that I might forget to mention it. His voice rising to a harsh falsetto, he implored me to see how important it was for the book and for the Uncle Montague 'brand'. The Uncle Montague brand? How dare he! I am not a 'brand'!

But, fearing for the brittleness of his mental state, I will do as he bids.

It seems that there is a scheme called, for reasons best known to the organisers, 'Booked Up'. It is a philanthropic enterprise that provides every child who begins secondary school with a book, chosen from a set list. The list for the books being provided this coming September includes Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror.

Despite my contribution to the book being scandalously suppressed, it is hard not to take some pride in seeing my name included there. I certainly do take a great deal of pleasure in the thought that these macabre tales will disturb the sleep of yet more children.

A great deal of pleasure indeed. . .

In which I receive a diverting postal communication

I rarely receive any post. Postmen used to be made of sterner stuff in my youth I feel. Our local postie seems increasingly reluctant to come to Pity's End and has taken to hurling any postal communications I do receive over the garden wall and then running away, whimpering like a poet.

Just such a package thudded against the door this morning and Franz scuttled off excitedly to retrieve it. Opening it with the rusty dirk I keep for such purposes, I discovered it to be from Mr Priestley's publisher, Bloomsbury.

It contained a suggested cover for Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror the proposed reissue of the three Tales of Terror book in the spring of 2011. Mr Robert's illustrations have been dropped in favour of a more sombre treatment. Though I am fond of Mr Robert's Gorey-esque illuminations, I feel that this cover perhaps more accurately represents the dark heart of the tales. It will be interesting to see what readers make of the stories without the relief supplied by his finely crafted decorations.

At any rate I was pleased that Bloomsbury had taken the trouble to send it to me. I note that they did not ask my opinion of it, but I will let that pass. Franz became very agitated on my behalf, but I have tried to explain to him that Mr Priestley is credited with the authorship of these books and we must let him take the lead.

For now.

A pathological need for fame

I met Mr Priestley for a frappuccino in the centre of Cambridge today. He wanted to show me the cover for his new book, The Dead of Winter. It is not coming out until October but he seemed childishly excited about it and I felt it best to humour him. He also wanted to show me his latest piercing but I have a surprisingly weak stomach when it comes to that sort of thing and declined his invitation quite forcefully.

As I have mentioned previously, The Dead of Winter details the extraordinary life of Michael Vyner and in particular his fateful visit to Sir Stephen Clarendon's house - Hawton Mere. Michael left his own record of these events and Mr Priestley was asked to shape them into the form of a novel. Knowing that I had myself visited Hawton Mere and had heard Michael's tale from his own lips, Mr Priestley asked if we might collaborate one more time.

My contribution to the book seems to have been overlooked by the publishers, but I am happy to remain anonymous. Mr Priestley seems to have what I can only describe as a pathological need for fame and financial gain and I have few requirements that are not met by my modest accommodation at Pity's End and the contents of a warm tea pot.

Betwixt lion and man

This is the door knocker here at Pity's End. It is rather a handsome one, I trust you will agree. I have always felt it to be the face of an old friend and it is always a welcome sight when I return to Pity's End.

But for some strange reason Edgar has got it into his head that there is something ominous or even frightening in it. But there is absolutely nothing sinister about it all, as you can see.

Edgar passed these concerns on to Mr Priestley when he was interviewing my nephew prior to writing Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror. The conceit of the book is that Edgar is reminiscing about his visits to my house to hear stories, but Edgar has little talent as a writer. Mr Priestley has fictionalised Edgar's visits and then combined them with the children's stories to make a coherent whole. That is a talent of some sort, I suppose.

When Edgar arrives at my door in the book, he describes how the knocker's face 'seemed to hover unnervingly betwixt lion and man'. Which I suppose it does.

But not in a bad way.

Mr Priestley has been insufferable

Mr Priestley has been insufferable ever since The Guardian newspaper article. He finds every feeble excuse to telephone and within moments he is once again reminding me that 'we' were on the list of 'best children's books ever'.

How the man has the audacity to say 'we' when he alone takes the credit for those stories I do not understand. He is, like all authors, utterly without any sense of shame.

In desperation, I asked Franz to scream down the line whenever Mr Priestley called, and the telephone has not rung for days.

Bliss.

Among the best

I must apologise for my long absence from this this 'blog'. Often I am simply not in the mood to share my thoughts with you - or indeed with anyone. Believe me - I am doing you all a favour. Often my thoughts are of such a dark hue, that I myself can hardly bear to squint into their shadowy recesses.

But I was encouraged to return to the public eye by a rather extraordinary occurrence. I was reading The Guardian newspaper yesterday and noticed that its superfluous second section (which I normally reserve for Franz's litter tray) had a cover trumpeting a list purporting to be the 'best children's books ever'. I hardly know why I bothered to look inside, but when I did, I was amazed to find Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror therein.

It felt rather strange to have my name listed in among the 'best children's books ever'. I had never thought these tales to be suitable for the ears of mortal children. It was also hard to feel any sense of pride. These are not works of fiction after all.

Though they are but entertainments for the readers of Mr Priestley's books, they are each of them a ragged scar upon my soul.

Utter failure

Of course, Mr Priestley's Cumbria Book Appeal was an utter failure. An utter, utter failure.

It was a good cause and I suppose some credit must go to Mr Priestley for initiating the enterprise, but I wonder whether it might have been better never to have thought of the idea than to attempt it with such a degree of incompetence.

Never trust an author.

Cumbria book appeal

My 'colleague' Mr Priestley has asked that I say something about an appeal he is organising. As you will no doubt be aware, the good people of Cumbria were subjected to a biblical deluge at the end of last year and all the misery that accompanied it.

Mr Priestley's idea was to ask his fellow authors (and illustrators) of books for the young, to sign and wrap a copy (or copies) of their book (or books) and deliver them to the children affected by the flooding.

Of course, it came as no surprise to me to discover that Mr Priestley had failed to think this idea through. The local council had far more urgent matters to attend to. Mr Priestley's partially baked scheme has been put on hold.

He has asked me to impress on my many readers, however, that the scheme is still very much alive. More than a dozen authors have chosen to look beyond Mr Priestley's organisational failings and agreed to send their signed books once the details have been finalised.

I wish them all the very best of luck.

In which Mr Priestley pays me an unexpected visit.

Mr Priestley came to see me today. He seemed even more agitated than usual. He is such a nervous fellow. The least little movement from Franz or the children causes him to leap to his feet, his voice higher than Mr Simon Cowell's waistband.

I took this likeness of him using the eye-pod Franz bought me for Christmas. I ask you in all seriousness: is that the face of a sane man?

Chronic ennui

I must apologise for not keeping this 'blog' up to date. I am afraid I have not been well of late. Franz was forced to contact our local doctor - Dr Trewain. He reluctantly agreed to come, despite the fact that he had previously said that he would never set foot in this house again. Come to think of it - he did not 'say' these words, so much as scream them like a girl as he ran out of the garden gate.

The good doctor diagnosed chronic ennui.

Dr Trewain's family are originally from Cornwall, but they have been doctors here for generations. His great-grandfather actually appears in one of Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror. The story is called Offerings and concerns a young boy - the son of the then vicar (the rectory is shown in the photograph above) - and the relationship he develops with a. . .

But I would not want to spoil the ending. I know that there are many, many, many, many, many, many, many people who have not yet read these stories and there is always a chance that you may be able to pick one up cheaply in a remainder bookshop.

The scrimshaw imp

I had collected scrimshaw work for many years before I ever came across poor Edward Salter's tale. Here are a few examples. These evocative engravings, carved into whale's teeth, once gave me an inordinate amount of pleasure. But I cannot now catch sight of one without immediately bringing to mind that grim story: a story Mr Priestley recounts in Tales of Terror from the Black Ship in a tale entitled The Scrimshaw Imp.

I do not count that sailor's scrimshaw tooth among my cursed possessions. There are some things too deep, even for a collection such as mine. No, that tooth is somewhere in the world. Like the Demon Bench End, it simply moves from host to host. At least you who have read the tales have been forewarned. Avoid these objects at all cost.

Franz says that they often turn up on eBay.

Whatever that is.

Reflections on a fear of mirrors

Eisoptrophobia: a fear of mirrors. I have met many people over the years who have this fear. As one gets older, of course, a fear of mirrors is perhaps understandable. I think you know what I mean, ladies. And gentlemen.

This fear of mirrors seems to be a dread that the certainty of reflection will be subverted in some way; that the mirror will ad-lib, so to speak. There is a story in the Tales of Terror collection that addresses this fear, but I cannot tell you which it is without ruining the denouement.

The photograph above is from a favourite motion picture of mine called The Dead of Night. A mirror reflects not the room in which it hangs, but another room in another time and the scene of ghastly crime. The Dead of Night is an example of the 'portmanteau movie' - a collection of stories held together by another. Mr Priestley has 'borrowed' this device for his Tales of Terror books.

Let us be kind and call it an homage.

Some notes concerning the misadventures of my jacket

I gather from my good friend Mr Priestley, that there has been a curious incident concerning the cover for Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror. It seems that design has been 'borrowed' by another author.

This book is apparently by some fellow who writes under the rather preposterous pseudonym of Leander Deeny. No, I have never heard of him either. He is an actor apparently.

I say no more.

The book in question is an Italian translation of his book - Hazel's something-or-other - which was published in this country recently to moderate acclaim. But it is enough that this Deeny person has purloined my illustrator, Mr Roberts, but surely it a step too far when a man wears another man's jacket. It is simply not done. It is simply not done at all.

Not that I blame him personally, you understand. Investigations are still afoot. But the children are very angry: very angry indeed. They insist on paying Mr Deeny a visit to discuss the matter.

Yes, Thomas. Of course you may take your axe.

Some observations on a visit to the ruins of Hawton Mere

I decided to pay a visit to the ruins of Hawton Mere. I have not been there in years and immediately wished I had not returned. Franz accompanied me, as always.

It is a terrible thing to see such a great old house reduced to such a state. It was never what one might call a cheerful place, but it did have its own rather gloomy style. I must confess I always felt rather comfortable there - though I was in a small minority. If those stones could speak, what tales they could tell. Although some stories are perhaps better left untold.

I had hoped to find the ruins free of any. . .presence. But sadly that was not the case. A white form flickered past a gaping door mouth. I am all too used to the supernatural of course, but when I saw her walking along the moat's edge I was not tempted to tarry. Franz took no persuasion to quit that place.

Some places - some things - are too disquieting, even for us.

The tunnel's mouth

Later this year, my - what shall I call him? - 'colleague', Mr Priestley, is publishing another of his Tales of Terror collections. It is called Tales of Terror from the Tunnel's Mouth and it tells the rather curious story of young Robert Harper who became briefly famous following the infamous Hillfield Tunnel incident.

Robert was the grandson of one of my pupils when Pity's End was a school and I was its headteacher. My 'life' here at Pity's End is a direct consequence of my shortcomings as a headteacher and a human being, but I see no need to rake over those coals again. My tale is there for all to read in Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror. Let that suffice.

Robert swore that whilst on the train he had been told the most extraordinary stories by a young woman sitting opposite him, whilst his fellow passengers slept soundly and refused to be roused. Robert's story and those told to him by the mysterious Woman in White are to be found in this new publication, available, I am told, from October.

Redwulf's curse

I mentioned the other day that I seldom leave Pity's End and whilst that is true, I travelled a great deal when I was younger. Even now, I will occasionally persuade Franz to accompany me to the Norfolk coast, an area whose melancholy wastes I particularly enjoy.

I would often stay at Ickneld Hall in the old days. It is a magnificent old house looking out over the marshes. I had been a friend of Lord Ickneld and his family for many years. He was a great storyteller and it was he who told me about Redwulf's Curse - the local legend that the burial mound nearby, which is believed to hold the remains of Redwulf, one of the old Anglo-Saxon kings of East Anglia, is protected by a supernatural sentinel.

This legend came to life in a rather striking fashion in the early part of the eighteenth century when all manner of mysterious goings on occurred in and around Low House just along the coast. I mentioned the events to Mr Priestley, and ever ready to 'adopt' a good idea, he produced a rather diverting novel based on them, entitled simply Redwulf's Curse.

Why do I not write these tales myself?

Some of you may be wondering why I do not simply write my own books, rather than let Mr Priestley take the credit for these so-called 'Tales of Terror'. You may have a point. I do have rather a lot of time on my hands these days.

I suppose the fact is that I was flattered by the interest in my stories and allowed myself to be persuaded that Mr Priestley ought to ghost write them. Really, Franz - every time? It is a most unpleasant laugh, by the way. And I am trying to concentrate.

Mr Priestley has on occasion visited me here at Pity's End. He is most enthusiastic about the venture. His taste for horror does has its limits, however, for I remember that the last time he was here, he left screaming like a parlour maid. He had seen something moving in the woods, he said. My young nephew Edgar has more backbone.

It was only one of the children after all. . .

Some musings on the vice of botany

Other people's obsessions are always a little mystifying are they not? I understand some people find gardening a relaxing diversion. I have never been tempted by its dubious pleasures. Some, like my young friend Mr Kirkham are even actually employed in this area. Extraordinary.

My old friend Algernon Bentley-Harrison was utterly obsessed by plants. His story is told in the latest of Mr Priestley's books, Tales of Terror from the Tunnel's Mouth, published by Bloomsbury this autumn and available from all reputable book mongers.

Algernon travelled the world in search of new plants - as if we did not have enough of the things already. He would disappear for months on end and then return weighed down with specimens. I show a photograph I took on a visit to his house. I was there only a month before the unfortunate incident some of you may recall from the rather sensational coverage in the newspapers.

A rich man, Algernon was happy to spend his entire fortune on this endeavour, constructing a huge glasshouse at his home in which to nurture his precious collection. But of course, this obsession - like so many obsessions - was his ultimate undoing. Take my advice and keep well clear of the vice of botany.

Plants can on occasion bite back.