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. . .

A photograph of old Turkey

I came across this photograph the other day. I took it myself on a visit I made to the south-east of Turkey many, many, many, many, many years ago. It shows the distinctive beehive-shaped, or bosom-roofed if you will, dwellings in the small, sun-baked town of Harran.

Some of you may recognise the name from the story called Jinn in Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror. It is an extraordinary place in an extraordinary setting. It is truly ancient, mentioned in the Old Testament.

Of course for me - and for you, if you have read the story - it will always now be associated with that ragged girl and young Francis Weybridge. Any fascination with its history will now be laced with dread. Those shadows to the left of the photograph will seem dangerously dark.

Of course I knew Francis' father, the celebrated travel writer and artist, Arthur Weybridge. I own several pieces of his work in fact, including a drawing of Harran itself. I rather think he was happy to be rid of it following the tragedy that occurred there.

But there I go again. Mr Priestley is forever warning me against what he will insist on calling 'spoilers'.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I marvel at the efficiency of modern rail travel

I am making good time on my return journey from Halifax, a small town in the north country between Leeds and Glasgow. The speed of modern travel is breathtaking and I will almost certainly - weather allowing - be home by the day after tomorrow. I had decided to go to Halifax having learned that Mr Priestley had been nominated for the Calderdale Children's Book of the Year award.

Mr Priestley's book, Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror, has been nominated for several awards but so far, he has not managed to win one. Not one. This award proved to be no different. It is embarrassing to be connected to such a person and have my name associated with his rejected work, but there is nothing I can do it seems.

I stayed at the same hotel as Mr Priestley but of course he will not acknowledge me in public. He likes to maintain the fiction that he invented these tales and I am contractually obliged to play along. Franz and I ate in the hotel dining room and listened to Mr Priestley taking credit for the children's stories. Franz became very agitated.

Calm yourself, Franz, I said. The time will come. The time will most definitely come.

Wedding bells

I am very honoured to be asked to attend the wedding of Miss Helen Szirtes and Mr Rich Horne tomorrow in that fine city, Norwich. Franz will accompany me as always and I can only hope that he does not disgrace himself as he did at the Cholmondeley wedding last year. I never thought to receive another invitation.

Weddings can be tedious affairs of course, though I am sure this one will be the talk of Norfolk society for many weeks to come. I was rather more meaning they can be tedious for children. I have memories myself - distant ones now of course - of such events: insufferably drawn-out affairs involving distant relations. Tight clothes and false smiles.

Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror has story set among the poor victims of such a wedding set in a large house. It is in actual fact young Victoria Harcourt's story as she has just pointed out to me. I am well aware of that, Victoria. There is no need to scream.

In the book, the story is called A Ghost Story. How does Mr Priestley keep coming up with these titles?

Some notes on the impertinance of illustrators

This is a still photograph from the moving picture Nosferatu, a rather diverting piece of work, directed by the esteemed German director F W Murnau, a reimagining of Mr Stoker's Dracula.

The children have pointed out to me that there seems to be some similarity between Mr Roberts' depiction of 'Uncle Montague' in Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror and Max Schreck in the role of the vampire. But I fail to see what this has to do with me.

Time and time again I have pointed out that I have not even met Mr Roberts and that he has simply chosen to make that allusion himself. It is not a drawing of me, I protest. Yet still the children taunt me, pointing at the illustration and then at me, laughing most horridly.

It is very hurtful.

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.

A wanderer above a sea of clouds

When I was a young man I was much taken with hill walking and spent many a happy hour among the fells of Cumberland. I would fancy myself the Romantic wanderer, my head full of Wordsworth and Coleridge. If I ever was happy, then it was there and then. As the poet Shelley once said:

I love all waste
And solitary places; where we taste
The pleasure of believing what we see
Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be. . .

So it was that I already knew of, and could picture very clearly, the small hamlet at the foot of the Kirkstone Pass through which poor young Matthew Harter passed on the fateful day related in Mr Priestley's tale entitled The Path.

The story of The Path in Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror may seem fanciful to those who read it. I wish with all my heart that it were so. But I do not have recourse to such comfort. I know it to be true.

For I heard the story from Matthew's own ruined lips.

The demon bench end

Mentioning Cambridge as I did the other day, made me think of an old friend of mine - Dr Rupert Haynes. Rupert was a fellow of Pembroke College and something of an expert in English folklore. We became friends after the unfortunate business with his son Thomas.

Rupert was a rational man and could not make himself believe that Thomas' affliction was anything other than a mental breakdown. He firmly believed that Thomas was subject to some sort of crazed fixation with a curiously carved church bench end, believing in his madness that the thing spoke to him and forced him to perform the acts of violence that caused him to be imprisoned in Bedlam.

I knew the truth to be rather different of course. It was not madness that was to blame. The Demon Bench End in Mr Priestley's Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror tells the real story.

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. . .