Mysterious women fleeing through woods.

Arrogant tourists who refuse to heed the warnings from terrified superstitious villages.

Coachmen throwing bags to the ground and declaring, "I wont go further than this! You're on your own! You've been warned!" and galloping off so fast you'd think the coach will over turn.

Mysterious hosts, mysterious guests, deadly secrets, blood crossed lovers, breasts spilling over nightgowns and what does Alucard spell backwards?

I grew up on Hammer Horror movies. And Carry On films. This combination may explain a lot. But this is for Christopher Lee giving one of the scariest performances ever and all without uttering a word, even when what's clearly a plastic bat on a piece of string is coming at him. For Peter Cushing making me root for his Frankenstein so I can enjoy him in yet another movie. For Vincent Price for his voice alone but for scaring the crap out of me and giving me nightmares. But that may have been partly due to a fever. And would you look at that, a young Dennis Waterman, pre Sweeney and pre warbling like a trapped frog.

I don't know why I was drawn to these stories. Perhaps it's a natural progression from the weirdness and warpedness of fairy tales, and wanting to stay up late with the rest of the family and that's what was on the telly. They had me gripped.