(That’s French, not a spelling mistake.) Look, just so you know, this whole Nightmare Club thing was my idea. Because having a nightmare by yourself is kinda scary. But kids sharing their nightmares at a sleepover on Hallowe’en night, when the grown-ups are not around and that spooky knocking from the basement … just … WON’T … stop. That’s really DEAD scary. Which is why I call it the Nightmare Club. Everyone has to tell a story. That’s how the Nightmare Club works. And it better be a scary one, or you’re out. Home you go. One year we made Harold ring his uncle, Mr Crosse, to come and get him. That was because he told a stupid story. It was about a bat that couldn’t find its belfry or some rubbish like that. Everyone knows bats don’t really live in belfries. They live right in your own attic. And they swoop down in the night and scrabble about in your hair with their pinchy little claws … So anyway, we sent Harold packing. Because only the scariest stories are good enough for the Nightmare Club.
