The last corner of Europe that's sick to death of Halloween
Dracula is asleep in his coffin. I can see him, his eyes closed, as I approach the threshold. The chamber is darkened, all traces of daylight repelled by thick velvet curtains. A candle flickers. Sepulchral organ music leaks from a source invisible in the gloom. I enter. It is a trap. My foot presses a loose board. The floor creaks. He rises, arms outstretched, sending forth a laugh that seems laced with evil. We pause, man and monster, eyeing each other. Then he utters the chilling words: “Would you like a photo?” Why I ask myself, am I here? Idle curiosity, I suppose. That, and a killing of time as I wait for my lunch to arrive downstairs at the Casa Vlad Dracul – where I have resisted ordering the Dracula Stew (a tomato-heavy casserole) in favor of a fine meaty goulash. I ponder his question and decide it would be rude to refuse – so the young man in the cape and copious eyeliner repeats his undead pose. I take a snap on my phone, and pay the five lei (£1) fee with a 10-lei no...