LIKE bats flitting from a darkened window in the abbey tower, news of the impending Bram Stoker film festival – that’s the second ever Bram Stoker film festival, in case you were unaware – is scattered on the good people of Whitby like droplets of crimson blood. We can only assume they are thankful. After all, it saves them climbing the benighted lane and knocking on that huge oaken door to find out news themselves. Because we all know what the outcome of that would be . . . Continue reading
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