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. . .

Here we are now

Entertain us.

The children are getting bored as children will at this time of year. We all know those tell-tale signs: the whining, the moaning, the scratching at the door, the whispering in beshadowed corridors, the wan faces at the study window.

It is all attention-seeking behaviour of course and I try my best to ignore it. But the children can be devilishly persistent. Even as I write this they will insist on running about the house snickering like ring-tailed lemurs. It is most distracting.

Oh very well, then. Who wants to tell their tale? The young fellow at the front perhaps? Yes, you holding the severed arm.

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.

A short apology and explanation for my recent inactivity

I have been rather remiss of late about writing my 'blog'. I try to keep it up - goodness knows it provides me with some welcome distraction - but I have found it difficult to concentrate.

The children will keep staring in at me through the study window. I know they mean no harm, but I think they resent this contact I have formed with the outside world. They seem to feel that I should be giving my all to them, and perhaps they are right.

Sometimes I close the curtains to shut them out, but I know that they are there. I know too that sooner or later they will shuffle through the house and stand outside my door, whispering and tapping, until I let them in.

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. . .