I’m the author. That’s a posh word for writer, in case you don’t know. I’m not posh, but I do like posh words. As well as being the author, I am the hostess. Which means it’s my house where we have the Hallowe’en sleepover every year. A gang of us all get together, girls in the big four-poster bed, boys in sleeping bags on the floor, and we scare each other to BITS. No costumes, no torches, no special effects. Just really scary stories. I have this great scary story. Being an author and all, I’m good at stories. For years now, I’ve been trying to tell it. It’s about these witches with purple skin and webbed feet and melty eyes. They fly all over the world on Hallowe’en looking for small children to kidnap and roast slowly over a fire. But every year they all say that I’m the host, so I have to let the others tell their stories first. (Who made up that rule? I bet it was an adult.) But at least I get to write them all down. Because I’m the best at that part. I am the Absolute Pinnacle, the Bee’s Knees, the Dog’s Waistcoat, the Cat’s Whatever … OK, right, the story.
