As we wound our way up the hill I couldn’t believe it. There, etched in dark chiaroscuro against the sky was an emblem I recognised instantly: the old Hammer logo. I thought of Jonathan Harker riding up the hill in the stage coach and felt the thrill he must have felt at that moment. Okay, so Harker’s fictitious, and it was another castle, but it wasn’t a time to be picky. The photographers took some snaps and departed. They were staying in a rather smart Winnebago parked outside my window. When they had gone I peeped out and saw them sitting around a blazing fire, laughing and telling jokes about this stupid actress who thought she was going to see the ghost of Countess Bathory. I wished I was out there joining in the fun. One of the journalists had thoughtfully left me half a bottle of vodka so I guzzled that and climbed into bed. The sheets were damp and smelled awful. Underneath my butch exterior I long for silk sheets, a warm body and as much perfume as I can dowse myself in without getting too slippery. So I lay there and thought about dying. In the morning they would break down the door and find my fragile young body stiff beneath the damp sheets – a victim not of an ethereal Bathory but of hypothermia. That’d teach ’em. After about an hour I couldn’t stand it any longer so I got out of bed, opened the window and screamed that I had seen the Bloody Countess. That brought on some more happy snaps and then a drive down the hill and back to the hotel. The journalists were great. And totally uncritical. Next day it was all in the paper. Luckily I couldn’t read what had been said so just smiled and nodded a lot when I was questioned about it later. Ingrid Pitt writes every week at Den of Geek; read her last column here.
