YIELD TO THE NIGHT. (1956) REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

diana yield glamour

YIELD TO THE NIGHT. (1956) BASED ON THE BOOK OF THE SAME NAME BY JOAN HENRY. DIRECTED BY J. LEE THOMPSON. STARRING DIANA DORS. MICHAEL CRAIG, HAMMER ACTOR MICHAEL RIPPER AND YVONNE MITCHELL.

REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

This is a superb film, if you can bear the unrelenting bleakness. I love bleakness in movies, so I happily got stuck in and wallowed in it, lol. And I adore La Dors, the woman they dubbed ‘the English Marilyn Monroe,’ but whom I personally love much more than I ever loved Marilyn. There’s just something so real, so human, about Diana Dors, something that makes her feel like so much more than just a fabulous pin-up girl.

In this film, she gives a career-best performance as Mary Hilton, a shop-girl under sentence of death for murdering her lover’s lover. The story is similar to the real-life Ruth Ellis’s, although it’s not meant to be based on it. In the sweltering heat of July 1955, the year before YIELD TO THE NIGHT premiered, Ruth Ellis became the last ever woman in England to be hanged.

Opinion was divided on whether or not Ruth should have been put to death. There was no doubt that she murdered her lover, David Blakely, as she walked right up to him outside an English pub on Easter Sunday evening and shot him, pretty much point-blank, several times.

There were mitigating circumstances, however, that were not really taken into account when sentence of death was passed: David’s infidelity and extreme physical violence towards Ruth, the miscarriages and abortions she’d had while she was with him, including one miscarriage she’d had a few days before the shooting.

The balance of Ruth’s mind was shot to hell at the time of the murder, yet the judge decided to hang her anyway, as the concept of ‘diminished responsibility’ had not yet become part of British law. It was a sickening end to a tragic story, and a disgusting blot on the copybook of so-called ‘British justice.’

It also looks highly likely that another man in Ruth’s life had given her the newly-oiled and fully loaded gun and urged her, in her altered state of mind, to kill David, but this aspect of the case was not thoroughly enough investigated in time for the verdict.

The whole trial, therefore- and its outcome- was something of a farce. Ruth was raced to the gallows in Holloway Women’s Prison with unseemly haste, and there hanged by Albert Pierrepoint, a ghoulish figure indeed in British criminal history. (He has the necks of murderers John Christie and Neville Heath to his credit in addition to Ruth’s.) What kind of man volunteers to hang people, women as well as men? I don’t care if his father was the hangman before him and it ran in his family.

In YIELD TO THE NIGHT, blonde bombshell Diana Dors is sublime as Mary Hilton, a stunningly beautiful shop-girl who falls in love with an impoverished musician called Jim, who is not at all worthy of the lovely Mary and her overwhelming love. In time, however, Mary grows to realise that Jim has lost interest in her and is seeing an older, presumably wealthy woman called Lucy Carpenter.

The film centres around Mary’s detention in prison in the days and weeks before her execution. Just like in Ruth Ellis’s case, the condemned cell has a locked door in it, a door without a handle, that leads to the execution chamber beyond. Even if Mary were ever inclined to forget about her forthcoming death for a blissful moment or two, how can she with this door literally at the foot of her bed? It’s like a kind of emotional torture, isn’t it, surely?

Mary is treated as well as can be expected in the condemned cell, just like Ruth Ellis was in hers. Both their final days were a rigidly controlled and timetabled round of meals, exercise in the prison yard (separate from the other prisoners), baths, cocoa at bedtime and regular visits from the governor, the prison chaplain and doctor, their lawyer when requested, and any friends and family whom they might wish to come.

Mary is upset by the visits of her younger brother Alan and her mother. It kills her to see Alan, no more than a boy, trying unsuccessfully to cope with the enormity of the situation. Her useless ex-husband Fred, a true nonentity of a figure, only annoys her with his visits and meaningless babble about love. Where was he when Mary was crippled with love for the dysfunctional Jim, and going through the torture that led her to kill Lucy in so-called ‘cold blood?’

The light remains on in the condemned cell around the clock, and there are two female prison officers in the room with Mary at all times. Prisoners under sentence of death must be closely watched in case they feel like committing suicide and cheating the hangman.

The prison guards are all lovely to Mary though, knowing to what she’s been condemned. They invite her to join in their games of chess and cards and they chat and have a nice smoke together, even though the wardens are forbidden from smoking by the prison rules. It becomes a nice little friendly conspiracy between Mary and her wardens, something to smile about.

Mary, like Ruth Ellis, says she’s not sorry for what she’s done. Ruth Ellis was adamant that she wanted to die (‘an eye for an eye, a life for a life’) and go to ‘join David.’ I don’t think Mary wants to die, however, as she nearly jumps out of her skin every time she hears the kindly female governor tap-tapping down the corridor, possibly carrying a reprieve from the Home Office, and possibly not.

A sympathetic prison visitor and activist for prison reform called Miss Bligh meets with a sullen, obviously depressed Mary and tells her that, if she accepts what’s coming, if she in effect ‘yields to the night,’ the sentence of death will become easier to bear.

But Mary is dead-eyed and hopeless; can she take Miss Bligh’s very good advice on board, or will she shuffle resentfully and disbelievingly to the room of execution in her shapeless prison dress and slippers, a plaster on her poor blistered foot caused by wearing ill-fitting shoes?

The film does an excellent job of portraying the boring, tedious soul-destroying days and weeks leading up to an execution. It’s a big strain on the officers too, some of whom really like Mary and might have their own views on capital punishment that don’t happen to coincide with the law’s more stringent ones.

If Mary stays calm, the governor tells her, it will make things easier all round, for Mary herself as well as the prison staff who, after all, are ‘only doing their job.’ Routine is key, too, to keeping things on an even keel. There’s an awful lot to be said for it, and I mean that sincerely.

If things were perpetually in chaos and everyone was rushing around weeping and wailing and tearing their hair out, it wouldn’t be much use to anyone. Keep calm and carry on, as the famous slogan on my tea mug goes.

Poor tortured Mary, plagued by bad dreams, marks off the days on her calendar with a feeling of dread. Maybe she believes that they won’t hang a young woman who has only committed what some folks would refer to now as a ‘crime of passion,’ then not yet recognised by the British justice system, which by the way was made up in those days mostly of rich, highly educated white upper class males. Don’t be so sure, dear Mary. After all, they hung Ruth Ellis, didn’t they…?

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY OF SANDRA HARRIS.

Sandra Harris is a Dublin-based novelist, poet, short story writer and film and book blogger. She has studied Creative Writing and Film-Making. She has published a number of e-books on the following topics: horror film reviews, multi-genre film reviews, women’s fiction, erotic fiction, erotic horror fiction and erotic poetry. Several new books are currently in the pipeline. You can browse or buy any of Sandra’s books by following the link below straight to her Amazon Author Page:

http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B015GDE5RO

You can contact Sandra at:

sandrasandraharris@gmail.com

https://www.facebook.com/SandraHarrisPureFilthPoetry

https://sandrafirstruleoffilmclubharris.wordpress.com

http://sexysandieblog.wordpress.com

http://serenaharker.wordpress.com

https://twitter.com/SandraAuthor

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FANGS AND FOREPLAY: THE EROTIC ADVENTURES OF DRACULA: THE TRANSYLVANIA YEARS. BOOK 4- PART 41. AN EROTIC HORROR SERIAL BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

drac_1513745c

INTRODUCTION.

It is the year 1890 and Dracula and his sex-crazed entourage, having made the English village of Birney too hot to hold them, have decamped for safety to Dracula’s ancestral castle in Transylvania, home to the Draculas since time immemorial.

Accompanying him are his beautiful pregnant wife Anna, their baby daughter Lucrezia and Anna’s faithful maidservant Valeria, all the nude handmaidens and chief amongst their number, the gorgeous Glamara. Igor, the Count’s loyal Gate-keeper, and Dracula’s wickedly bewitching Cousin Carmilla, who is now the Count’s captive, are also present.

Given that the crumbling castle in darkest Transylvania is already occupied by the Count’s mother, his siblings and all of their servants, as you can imagine it looks certain to be quite the crush. Buckle your seatbelts, dear readers and fellow vampire enthusiasts. It’s gonna be a bumpy ride…

This book, as all the ‘ANNA’ books are, is dedicated to the late Sir Christopher Lee, whose performances in the HAMMER ‘Dracula’ films inspired every word of it. May he rest in peace… until he rises once more from the crypt in which he lieth…

FANGS AND FOREPLAY: THE EROTIC ADVENTURES OF DRACULA: THE TRANSYLVANIA YEARS. BOOK 4- PART 41.

AN EROTIC HORROR NOVEL BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

‘I’m afraid you have me at somewhat of a disadvantage, my dear lady,’ Dracula said suavely, raising his hands to run them backwards through his dark hair and smooth it down. He was aware that, at this precise moment in time, he looked quite the rake, with his white shirt-front unbuttoned to expose the dark hairs on his chest and his trousers undone and unbelted. It was not like him to be caught in flagrante delicto, as it were. Not often, anyway.

Danielle’s blood dripped from the corners of his mouth and had stained his shirt-front and his hands. Danielle herself lay on her bed, perfectly still and white-faced, her eyes wide open but unseeing. The sheets beneath her head and upper body were soaked with the blood that had flowed from the wound on her neck, the wound caused by the bite of Dracula.

The woman pointing the gun at him, a petite blonde with her hair in a long bedtime ponytail down her back, shuddered at the sight of all the blood. Dracula assessed her shrewdly as he buttoned and belted his trousers, leaving his shirt-front open. Women usually appreciated the sight of a nice manly chest, and he doubted that this one would be any different.

She stood facing him resolutely, just inside the door to Danielle’s- and formerly Marianne’s- bedroom in Miss Peabody’s Exclusive Academy For The Education And Refinement Of The Daughters Of Gentlefolks.

She held the gun with hands that Dracula noted shook a little, implying to him that she was a little nervous and not a natural with a firearm. The revolver looked ancient; probably a family heirloom or something, and if it hadn’t been oiled or used in years, well, then, it wouldn’t do him much harm.

And had she even thought to load the damned thing before she came haring along willy-nilly to Danielle’s bedchamber, with the devil alone knows what aim in mind? Well, he thought, they’d soon find out, wouldn’t they?

‘I am Miss Atalanta Pomeroy, the art mistress here at Miss Peabody’s,’ she said, her voice trembling, although she was clearly trying very hard to control her nerves. ‘Who the devil are you?’

‘Count Dracula, at your service,’ he replied, sweeping her a deep, theatrical bow. ‘I am indeed honoured to make the acquaintance of such a lovely lady, albeit in such… ah, ahem… strained circumstances.’

His flattery, for the moment at least, was lost on her. ‘What have you done to Danielle?’ Her eyes were wide with horror and mistrust.

‘Oh, nothing at all that Old Father Time wouldn’t have achieved over time anyway, only my way is much less dreary and soul-destroying. We all end up as worm-food in the end. Most of us, anyway. By the way, my dear, you don’t mind if I smoke, do you?’

He smiled charmingly, and she hesitated for only a moment before assenting, training the revolver on him as he rummaged about in the inside pocket of his discarded jacket for his cigarette case. He lit a cigarette casually, after offering Miss Pomeroy one and being refused, and said, observing her closely through smoke-narrowed eyes: ‘How long have you been a markswoman, Miss Pomeroy?’

‘I… I haven’t, I mean, I’m not,’ she said, blushing furiously. ‘This… this belonged to my grandfather. I’ve… I’ve never really used it before.

Dracula smiled smugly. He literally couldn’t remember the last time he’d been wrong about anything. ‘Ah, family heirloom, eh? I have quite an interest in firearms myself, you know. Mind if I cast my eye over it? As an interested party, I mean?’

He held out his hand for the gun and she was on the verge of handing it over when she recollected herself with a shiver.

‘You devil!’ she said. ‘Stop trying to control me! You killed Danielle and you drank her blood, and you must have killed Marianne too. Where have you hidden her body? And… and what are you? What kind of fiend murders young women and drinks their blood?’

‘A thirsty one?’ suggested Dracula politely, crushing his cigarette end beneath the heel of his boot. He was acutely conscious of the time. It would soon be morning and, unless he was tucked up in his coffin in the dank, desolate basements of Castle Dracula by the time that happened, he risked running the chance of being fried to a crisp by the sun like his idiot cousin Bertram from Yugoslavia.

At any other time, he would have found a million uses for a Miss Atalanta Pomeroy, the art mistress from Miss Peabody’s, but now time really was pressing. He needed to get out of here, and for that, he needed not to have Miss Pomeroy waving a gun in his face.

‘My God, look there, it’s Marianne!’ he shouted suddenly, pointing towards the bedroom door.

Miss Pomeroy whirled round to look where he’d pointed. He took two or three long strides towards her and whipped the gun from her hand as easily as taking the proverbial candy from a baby. She howled in dismay and threw herself at him, her small fists pounding uselessly against his shirt-front.

He held her off one-handed, and when he’d emptied the revolver of its six bullets- so it had been loaded after all, damn her eyes, they could have grazed his skin!- he dropped the bullets into his trouser pocket and handed her back her grandfather’s ancient firearm.

‘You bastard!’ she sobbed. ‘I hate you. Next time I’ll kill you.’

‘I very much doubt that, Miss Pomeroy,’ replied the Count, hurriedly pulling on his dark jacket and cape. ‘But we’ll see. In the meantime, I’m afraid my presence is required urgently elsewhere and I shall have to leave you. The end of our story is not destined to be written till another day. Oh, by the way, Miss Pomeroy,’ he added, seemingly as an afterthought, just as he was turning to go, ‘have you ever been… fucked, I mean, really, truly fucked…?’

‘Certainly not!’ replied Miss Pomeroy, suffused with blushes at the thought of Trevor Albrighton the cabbie clumsily taking her virginity in the back of his hansom cab. ‘How dare you!’

Dracula laughed, as if he could read her shameful thoughts. ‘When we meet again, Miss Pomeroy, I intend to fuck you until you no longer know your own name. Then I will drink your blood and you will drink mine, and eternal life in the shadows with me will be yours for the taking.’

She stared at him, aghast. ‘That will never happen!’ she cried.

‘We’ll see,’ said Dracula again. ‘Meanwhile, I’m afraid I cannot allow you to rouse the household and raise the alarm before I’ve had a chance to get away. Just hand me that revolver, will you?’

Puzzled, she did as she was bid. He took the revolver from her hand and tapped her smartly on the temple with it. She swooned into unconsciousness immediately, and he picked her up and laid her carefully on Marianne’s vacated bed. He bent over her briefly and kissed her, long and hard, on her parted red lips, while mentally filing her away for now under ‘unfinished business.’

‘Forgive me, my sweet little art mistress,’ he murmured, and then he was off, Danielle’s bloodless corpse slung over his shoulder as he scaled the walls of the school. He deposited the body in the old disused well into which he’d already dumped Marianne, then, in the form of a huge grey wolf, he loped across the school grounds as if the hounds of hell were after him.

When he located his carriage waiting for him on the road near the school, he leaped through the passenger window in one magnificent bound. Igor the coachman, aware that his master was cutting it fine, instantly set off at a blistering pace for the castle.

Dracula, back in human form once more, tidied himself as best he could in the back of the carriage. The sun, his old enemy, was waking up slowly now but he’d beat it back to the castle, by Christ! He wondered briefly what he was coming home to.

He’d spent several days away from home, enjoying the facilities of his gentlemen’s club, then a night or two in the vicinity of Miss Peabody’s. He had left Anna, Baby Lucrezia, Valeria, Glamara, Carmilla, Darius, his mother, four sisters, two brothers and all the nude handmaidens and other servants, all to their own devices while he’d been away.

He’d allocated spying duties to various nude handmaidens, although his chief spy, the one on which he depended the most, Igor the hunchback, had accompanied him on his trip. He’d ordered Igor to set his own whore, Desdemona, to spying in Igor’s absence, and she’d damned well better be able to report back fully on the activities of his family and harem, or he’d thrash her till she screamed for mercy and then throw her remains to the dogs.

As the castle hoved into sight, with the first light of dawn illuminating it palely from behind, Dracula stroked his stubble-darkened chin thoughtfully. What had they been up to in his brief absence, he wondered, that she-devil of a mistress of his, Carmilla, and her rakish son Darius, what seeds of mischief had they been planting while he was away? He couldn’t wait to find out.

Dear readers, this will be the last episode of FANGS AND FOREPLAY: THE EROTIC ADVENTURES OF DRACULA- BOOK 4 that I blog here for the moment, as for the next few days I’ll be busy writing the end of the book with a view to publishing it with KDP/Amazon before the end of August 2019. Thank you so much for reading and please don’t fret, Dracula will return…! Best wishes, Sandra Harris, A Very Disturbed Writer Indeed.

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY OF SANDRA HARRIS.

Sandra Harris is a Dublin-based novelist, poet, short story writer and film and book blogger. She has studied Creative Writing and Film-Making. She has published a number of e-books on the following topics: horror film reviews, multi-genre film reviews, women’s fiction, erotic fiction, erotic horror fiction and erotic poetry. Several new books are currently in the pipeline. You can browse or buy any of Sandra’s books by following the link below straight to her Amazon Author Page:

http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B015GDE5RO

You can contact Sandra at:

sandrasandraharris@gmail.com

https://www.facebook.com/SandraHarrisPureFilthPoetry

https://sandrafirstruleoffilmclubharris.wordpress.com

http://sexysandieblog.wordpress.com

http://serenaharker.wordpress.com

https://twitter.com/SandraAuthor

 

FANGS AND FOREPLAY: THE EROTIC ADVENTURES OF DRACULA: THE TRANSYLVANIA YEARS. BOOK 4- PART 40. AN EROTIC HORROR SERIAL BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

drac melissa

INTRODUCTION.

It is the year 1890 and Dracula and his sex-crazed entourage, having made the English village of Birney too hot to hold them, have decamped for safety to Dracula’s ancestral castle in Transylvania, home to the Draculas since time immemorial.

Accompanying him are his beautiful pregnant wife Anna, their baby daughter Lucrezia and Anna’s faithful maidservant Valeria, all the nude handmaidens and chief amongst their number, the gorgeous Glamara. Igor, the Count’s loyal Gate-keeper, and Dracula’s wickedly bewitching Cousin Carmilla, who is now the Count’s captive, are also present.

Given that the crumbling castle in darkest Transylvania is already occupied by the Count’s mother, his siblings and all of their servants, as you can imagine it looks certain to be quite the crush. Buckle your seatbelts, dear readers and fellow vampire enthusiasts. It’s gonna be a bumpy ride…

This book, as all the ‘ANNA’ books are, is dedicated to the late Sir Christopher Lee, whose performances in the HAMMER ‘Dracula’ films inspired every word of it. May he rest in peace… until he rises once more from the crypt in which he lieth…

FANGS AND FOREPLAY: THE EROTIC ADVENTURES OF DRACULA: THE TRANSYLVANIA YEARS. BOOK 4- PART 40.

AN EROTIC HORROR NOVEL BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

‘I am here…’

The mist cleared and Dracula stood there, tall and black-clad and menacing, his dark eyes on Danielle, who sat bolt-upright in bed, terrified but fascinated at the same time. Her long hair tumbled down over the front of her pretty blue nightgown and her bosoms in its low-cut frontage swelled and heaved. A smile tugged at the corners of Dracula’s mouth. What a beauty she was!

Marianne, while she lived, had been equally pleasing to look upon. Now, of course, her broken body lay at the bottom of an old disused well in a part of school property where no-one ever went. No doubt her beauty had of necessity undergone a disagreeable transformation since her interment there, and the same fate would, of course, ultimately be Danielle’s. But for now, Danielle was a delicious confection to be unwrapped, savoured… and swallowed whole.

‘Are you real?’ Danielle whispered, her blue eyes huge with wonder and fear.

‘Do I not feel real?’ the Count replied, coming to sit beside her on her bed to take her hand in his. He put her hand on his face. ‘Does my flesh not feel like yours?’

‘Y-yes,’ she breathed, excited at his proximity, ‘but… but after you left me last time, I kept thinking I’d imagined you. I was sure that such a thing as had happened between us could not be real. And I thought about you so much that Miss Plum spanked me twice for daydreaming in needlework class. It was so embarrassing, but I was just so longing for you to come again.’

‘And here I am,’ he said, taking hold of the shoulders of her nightgown and sliding them down her body to reveal two luscious breasts with big stiff nipples. He pushed her back down against the pillows and took his time sucking on each of these nipples, while Danielle moaned and writhed in pleasure and threw her slim white arms above her head in utter abandon.

‘Will you take me with you when you leave here tonight?’ she asked him when he had lifted his head from her breasts and was undoing his trousers, preparatory to taking her virginity.

‘That depends,’ he said sternly. ‘Are you a virgin, Danielle?’

She nodded her head vigorously, then suddenly her hand flew to her mouth in dismay.

‘Does… does Marianne count?’ she asked him nervously.

The Count laughed. ‘No, my dear, Marianne doesn’t count. The aesthetic of two comely young women embracing each other carnally has always pleased me. But what matters is that you say you’ve had no cocks up here?’ Here he grabbed her soft little pussy and gave it a cruel squeeze so that she winced in pain.

She shook her head. ‘Never, sir. I swear it. I… I was saving myself for my wedding night.’

‘Congratulations. Here it is.’

Dracula penetrated her then, after first raising the blue nightgown above her hips and ordering her to spread her legs wide. She cried out with the sharp sudden pain of his entry, then pain turned gradually to pleasure as he thrust himself in and out, lazily and unhurriedly at first, then more urgently as his climax began to build.

‘Am I really to be your wife?’ she begged, wrapping her pale white legs tightly around his hips, as if she wanted to hold him to her body for ever.

‘Yes, if you like,’ he replied, squeezing her bare breasts hard and continuing to thrust rhythmically in and out of her.

He thought briefly of his wife Anna and their unborn child, of their existing baby daughter Lucrezia, of Carmilla, Darius, Glamara, all the nude handmaidens, his mother Ursula, his four sisters Samara, Schira, Salome and Sabine, his brothers Vladimir and Nikolai, Igor the hunchback and the rest of the servants. That was quite an entourage. The Count did not feel that he needed to add to it for the moment. He had enough voraciously hungry mouths to feed at home without adding another one to the list. The girls of Miss Peabody’s were strictly for pleasure.

‘Will I live with you in a castle, and wear fine dresses?’ Her eyes were like saucers now.

‘Oh, the finest,’ he said, his lethal fangs appearing on either side of his mouth.

Danielle opened her mouth to scream when she saw them but Dracula’s hand clamped down over it in time. He kept his hand there while he bit into the side of her neck. She passed out with the pain and lay there, half-naked and wholly inviting. His trousers still undone, the Count quickly divested himself of his cape and jacket and knelt down beside her, the better to drink deeply of her blood for as long as he liked.

He took his time about it (the staff and pupils were all sleeping; the school was as quiet as the grave), savouring the taste of her young, fresh blood, but he kept an eye on the time nonetheless. A vampire had an obligation to always be aware of the encroaching dawn.

A cousin of his had been caught out that way once, still drinking a young woman’s blood when the cock crowed and the yellow morning sun was fingering the drapes of the room where he’d sat up all night, thinking himself invincible. They’d found him on the floor, a seven-hundred-year-old skeleton with the flesh literally burned off him from the sun. It had been a truly horrible way to go.

Dracula had no intention of ever letting such a catastrophe befall himself. He’d drain this pretty young corpse- well, she was nearly dead- of her blood and travel the short journey (it was short as the bat flies) back to the castle in no time. He’d be in his nice, cosy coffin dreaming pleasant dreams before the dastardly sun, his sworn enemy, had climbed, yawning and scratching itself, out of its filthy fleapit of a bed.

His hand on Danielle’s exposed breast, he continued to drink her blood. Danielle’s heart tiredly made a few more token lub-dub sounds, then ceased to beat for ever. Dracula noticed, and grinned. Another job well done. The only sound in the room now was the gentle sucking noise his mouth made on her neck. He started to feel pleasantly full and even quite sleepy. This was the danger time for vampires.

They could fall asleep so easily at this time, replete from their feasting, as full and drowsy as any English businessman after his Christmas dinner, and be found by the victim’s bedside next morning, destroyed by the rays of the sun. That was what had happened to his stupid cousin Bertram from Yugoslavia. Dracula was no novice, however, to be caught out so easily. He roused himself with a shudder, and began slowly to find and don his clothing.

There was a sound by the bedroom door. His ears caught it even before the female voice cried out: ‘Stay where you are! Move so much as a muscle and I’ll blast you to Kingdom Come!’

To Dracula’s great astonishment, he was being covered- and challenged- by a woman. A woman with a revolver pointed straight at his heart…

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY OF SANDRA HARRIS.

Sandra Harris is a Dublin-based novelist, poet, short story writer and film and book blogger. She has studied Creative Writing and Film-Making. She has published a number of e-books on the following topics: horror film reviews, multi-genre film reviews, women’s fiction, erotic fiction, erotic horror fiction and erotic poetry. Several new books are currently in the pipeline. You can browse or buy any of Sandra’s books by following the link below straight to her Amazon Author Page:

http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B015GDE5RO

You can contact Sandra at:

sandrasandraharris@gmail.com

https://www.facebook.com/SandraHarrisPureFilthPoetry

https://sandrafirstruleoffilmclubharris.wordpress.com

http://sexysandieblog.wordpress.com

http://serenaharker.wordpress.com

https://twitter.com/SandraAuthor

FANGS AND FOREPLAY: THE EROTIC ADVENTURES OF DRACULA: THE TRANSYLVANIA YEARS. BOOK 4- PART 39. AN EROTIC HORROR SERIAL BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

count dracula

INTRODUCTION.

It is the year 1890 and Dracula and his sex-crazed entourage, having made the English village of Birney too hot to hold them, have decamped for safety to Dracula’s ancestral castle in Transylvania, home to the Draculas since time immemorial.

Accompanying him are his beautiful pregnant wife Anna, their baby daughter Lucrezia and Anna’s faithful maidservant Valeria, all the nude handmaidens and chief amongst their number, the gorgeous Glamara. Igor, the Count’s loyal Gate-keeper, and Dracula’s wickedly bewitching Cousin Carmilla, who is now the Count’s captive, are also present.

Given that the crumbling castle in darkest Transylvania is already occupied by the Count’s mother, his siblings and all of their servants, as you can imagine it looks certain to be quite the crush. Buckle your seatbelts, dear readers and fellow vampire enthusiasts. It’s gonna be a bumpy ride…

This book, as all the ‘ANNA’ books are, is dedicated to the late Sir Christopher Lee, whose performances in the HAMMER ‘Dracula’ films inspired every word of it. May he rest in peace… until he rises once more from the crypt in which he lieth…

FANGS AND FOREPLAY: THE EROTIC ADVENTURES OF DRACULA: THE TRANSYLVANIA YEARS. BOOK 4- PART 39.

AN EROTIC HORROR NOVEL BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

In Miss Peabody’s Exclusive Academy For The Education Of The Daughters Of Gentlefolks, a finishing school for young ladies in the Carpathian mountains, Danielle Delargy was preparing for bed. She had felt somewhat depressingly de-energised these last few days.

Matron put it down to the shock of Danielle’s room-mate, Marianne Sharpe, simply disappearing from their bedroom a week or two ago without leaving so much as a trace. While Marianne’s disappearance seemingly into thin air had undoubtedly been a shock, Danielle was not entirely convinced that it was the source of her own present lethargy.

Poor Marianne, though. They had prepared for bed together that last night as usual, using the hip bath one after the other before the fire in their bedchamber, then Marianne had patted the talcum powder into Danielle’s bare back and buttocks and given her the gentle hand-spanking without which Danielle found it difficult to get to sleep.

It might, of course, have been more accurate to say that it was really the spanking-induced orgasm without which Danielle could not sleep. Either way, she had slept strangely soundly that night, and the first she’d known of her pretty room-mate’s disappearance was the following morning, when Miss Plum (laughingly referred to by her students as ‘the Spanking Mistress,’ so fond was she of inflicting that particular activity on the students in her care) had shaken her roughly awake by the shoulders, all the while demanding: ‘Where’s Marianne? Danielle, have you seen Marianne? Where on earth can she have got to?’

A frantic Miss Peabody, Miss Plum, her second-in-command, Miss Pearson the gym mistress, Miss Pomeroy the art mistress and all the other mistresses had searched the school and the extensive grounds and found nothing. No-one had seen or heard anything of Marianne Sharpe since bedtime the previous night.

The only clue, if you could call it that, was the open terrace window to Marianne and Danielle’s third-floor bedroom. The reason no-one took it seriously as a clue was that you’d have had to be a bat, an actual bat, to climb down the sheer walls of the school, especially with a kidnapped young lady in tow. Miss Peabody, though terrified of incurring bad publicity for her beloved school, the realisation of her whole life’s ambition, had been obliged to call in the local police.

The rustic constable and his sidekick had quizzed everyone in the school, especially Marianne’s room-mate Danielle, but Danielle had been feeling fuzzy-headed ever since Marianne’s last night in the school. All she could remember was their shared bathing session and no more. Beyond that, all she remembered was being shaken rather rudely awake next morning by Miss Plum.

Marianne’s parents had had to be notified, of course, an unpleasantness that couldn’t be avoided. Danielle had seen them being admitted to Miss Peabody’s study, the tall, upright, heavily-moustachioed and frowning-faced gentleman Marianne’s father, and the small, plump sobbing little woman her heartbroken mother.

‘Could she have run away, run off with some local chap?’ they’d wanted to know, and Miss Peabody, remembering her former art mistress (the one before before the reliable and sensible Miss Pomeroy) and the man who delivered the fruits and vegetables to the school twice-weekly (that wasn’t all he’d been doing twice-weekly), couldn’t discount it.

She kept her private thoughts private, however, and assured Major and Mrs. Sharpe that Marianne was much too well-behaved a young lady to do something so utterly irresponsible, selfish and outlandish. The Sharpes could at least take comfort in that, although where it left them all in terms of the investigation, Miss Peabody was sure she didn’t know.

Things were only just beginning to settle back down at the school. They were down one pupil, of course, and that pupil’s hefty fees, but to Miss Peabody’s relief, none of the parents had seen fit to withdraw their daughters from the school because of Marianne’s disappearance and, with any luck, it would stay that way.

The school could not afford to lose any more of its young ladies, however, whether from a financial point of view or reputation-wise. Marianne’s going so shockingly missing like that, without satisfactory explanation or successful resolution, had thankfully not ruined them, but the loss of another young lady just might tip things over the edge.

Now, Danielle finished brushing her hair and climbed into bed, confident that her pale blue nightgown with the ribbons and bows was her most becoming. Then, with a little shriek, she jumped up and ran across the room to the window, flinging it open wide even though the night was cold and windy. It was most important that the window to the terrace be wide open, she remembered that much, though she could not recall who had told her so.

Shivering, she scurried back into bed, watching nervously while the floor-length heavy green velvet drapes billowed in the night breeze. There was room for a dozen boogey-men to secrete themselves adequately behind those horrible long curtains, and Danielle, although she was excited, was desperately frightened too.

‘Are you there?’ she whispered, not knowing to whom she addressed it.

Of course there was no answer. If only she didn’t feel so damned fuzzy-headed all the time now! She didn’t think she’d had a single clear thought since waking up so dreadfully tired on the morning after Marianne had gone missing. Her sleep that night had been so unusually heavy, and so filled with strange dreams.

A man, a tall man (or was he a man at all? Maybe it had been a wild animal she’d seen in her dreams?) dressed in black, leaning over something on a bed, a body, a corpse, doing things to it…? It made no sense to Danielle.

Had something happened to her that night too, something so awful she’d blotted it out except for wild snatches of dreams so outrageous that no-one would believe her if she tried to speak of them to anyone? If only she could think clearly! If only her memories of what had really happened that night would come back to her!

There was a noise at the open window, and then the unmistakable flapping of heavy wings. A thick mist began to roll in through the window and curl its way towards Danielle’s bed. Her eyes widened in fright and wonder and she felt her nipples stiffen in the cool air. She’d always had big prominent nipples. Marianne loved to play with them and suck on them. Had loved, Danielle checked herself with a sob. Would Marianne ever play with them or suck on them again?

‘Are you there?’ she whispered again, and this time there was an answer.

‘Yes, Danielle,’ said a man’s voice out of the mist, cold and deep and strong, a voice accustomed to commanding and being obeyed. ‘I am here…’

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY OF SANDRA HARRIS.

Sandra Harris is a Dublin-based novelist, poet, short story writer and film and book blogger. She has studied Creative Writing and Film-Making. She has published a number of e-books on the following topics: horror film reviews, multi-genre film reviews, women’s fiction, erotic fiction, erotic horror fiction and erotic poetry. Several new books are currently in the pipeline. You can browse or buy any of Sandra’s books by following the link below straight to her Amazon Author Page:

http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B015GDE5RO

You can contact Sandra at:

sandrasandraharris@gmail.com

https://www.facebook.com/SandraHarrisPureFilthPoetry

https://sandrafirstruleoffilmclubharris.wordpress.com

http://sexysandieblog.wordpress.com

http://serenaharker.wordpress.com

https://twitter.com/SandraAuthor

THE WOMAN IN BLACK: ANGEL OF DEATH. (2014) REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

The Woman in Black 2 Angel of Death

THE WOMAN IN BLACK: ANGEL OF DEATH. (2014) A HAMMER FILM PRODUCTION. DIRECTED BY TOM HARPER. STARRING PHOEBE FOX, HELEN MCRORY, OAKLEE PENDERGAST AND JEREMY IRVINE.

REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

‘Whenever she’s seen, and whoever by,

One thing’s sure; a child will die.’

Funny how the words The Woman In Black conjure up much more frightening images in people’s minds than, say, The Woman In The Sort Of Beigey-Fawn Cardigan or The Man In The Electric Blue Shell-Suit. I’ve no complaints with the title.

As to the rest, it pains me to speak ill of a Hammer film but this one isn’t great. It’s only about half as good as the original film starring Daniel Radcliffe which preceded it. It could have used some sharper scripting, that’s for sure, and maybe some livelier characters too. The characters here are very ‘meh.’ You wouldn’t go out of your way to save a single one of them from being hit by a runaway rickshaw, if you know what I mean.

Anyway, it’s 1941 and London is very busy indeed being bombarded daily- and nightly- by Uncle Adolf’s Blitz. Drippy young schoolteacher Eve Parkins and her snotty headmistress Jean Hogg are shepherding a group of frightened kiddies to the countryside to get them away from all the nasty bombs-es. (Gollum to Hitler: ‘You’re ruining it…! You’re ruining London!’)

Guess where they’re being evacuated to, by the way? This is a hoot. Eel Marsh House, in the isolated market town of Crythin Gifford, where Harry Potter was first terrorised by the spectre of the Woman In Black.

Jennet Humfrye lost her beloved only child, Nathaniel, in a drowning tragedy back in the Victorian times and, being of a vengeful nature, she’s making damn sure it’s everyone’s problem. (She particularly blames her respectable married sister Alice Drablow, who took Nathaniel from the unmarried Jennet and adopted him.) The presence of the children in the house on the damp, misty causeway is all it takes to wake her once more…

Eve is particularly sensitive to the presence of the spectral female because she has something in common with her, something heartbreaking, a desolate secret. She’s the first person to come to the rather chilling conclusion that there’s ‘someone else’ living in the house with them, a ‘tenant’ who hasn’t yet been properly identified.

The ghost has her eye on a particular chubby little fellow called Edward, because he’s just become orphaned and is traumatised and refusing to speak. Time after time, the ghost comes for little Edward and, time after time, is batted resolutely away by Eve. How long can Eve keep up this militant stance against what SKYMOVIES.COM refer to as ‘one of British cinema’s scariest creations…?’

The ghost isn’t terribly scary this time round, I’m sorry to say. Some of the bleak scenery is far spookier. I love the deserted village, although not the madman who resides there. What’s he living on, by the way, rats’ tails and flies? It doesn’t look like there’s much sustenance to be found in the scrubby little village gardens any more.

Come to that, what are the children, Eve and Jean eating up at Eel Marsh House? Not once have we seen a boy on a delivery bicycle wind his way up the causeway path before the sea washes over it and covers it again till low tide. There’s no telephone in Eel Marsh House either, so how do the two women get in touch with the undertaker when they need him, eh…?

I nearly forgot to mention Eve’s boyfriend, possibly because he’s so forgettable. He’s an RAF pilot based at an airfield nearby to Eel Marsh House, and we know for sure he’s a pilot because he always wears the furry collar of his leather jacket turned right up. It’s like he’s afraid to turn it down- even a little bit- in case it means he’s not a pilot any more. What a muppet. Thinks he’s Elvis, lol.

This pilot fella, Harry Burnstow, who has the blankest face, has his own back-story and tacked-on secret, for which he’s seeking redemption. Maybe he’ll find it looking after Eve and the little evacuees and protecting them from the Woman In Black. Or maybe the film-makers will forget to finish his storyline altogether. He’s such a mannequin I honestly wouldn’t blame them.

Having said that this sequel isn’t much to write home about, I would like to see at least two more films in this franchise which, after all, started out very well. One set in the ‘seventies, maybe, with a hippie commune (free love and natural childbirth and all that) coming to live at Eel Marsh House, and one set in modern times, in which a young married couple, together with their child, find out that they’re now the sole descendants of the original owners and decide to come and live in their house themselves rather than sell it. I’d watch the hell outta both of those, lol. Thankfully, there’s life in the old dog yet. (In the franchise, I mean, not in me! There’s loads of life left in me and the franchise yet, lol.)

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY OF SANDRA HARRIS.

Sandra Harris is a Dublin-based novelist, poet, short story writer and film and book blogger. She has studied Creative Writing and Film-Making. She has published a number of e-books on the following topics: horror film reviews, multi-genre film reviews, women’s fiction, erotic fiction, erotic horror fiction and erotic poetry. Several new books are currently in the pipeline. You can browse or buy any of Sandra’s books by following the link below straight to her Amazon Author Page:

http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B015GDE5RO

You can contact Sandra at:

sandrasandraharris@gmail.com

https://www.facebook.com/SandraHarrisPureFilthPoetry

https://sandrafirstruleoffilmclubharris.wordpress.com

http://sexysandieblog.wordpress.com

http://serenaharker.wordpress.com

https://twitter.com/SandraAuthor

OPEN ALL HOURS. (1976-1985) REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

open all hours

OPEN ALL HOURS: THE COMPLETE SERIES 1-4. (1976-1985) CREATED AND WRITTEN BY ROY CLARKE. STARRING RONNIE BARKER, DAVID JASON AND LYNDA BARON.

REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

‘G-G-G-Granville, f-fetch your cloth…!’

‘You can’t move around here for grocers in your bosom.’

This is the warmest, nicest and funniest television I’ve watched all year. It’s really and truly the best of British in the sitcom line. My only regret is that I didn’t discover it sooner. It’s the story of Arkwright’s Corner Shop and all who sail in her, namely Albert E. Arkwright the grocer, his n-n-n-nephew Granville and Arkwright’s state-registered lady love, one Nurse Gladys Emanuel, who lives over ‘t’ road.

Arkwright has three aims in life. One, fleecing his customers of every possible half-penny and sending them home with much more than they came in for. A slice or two of bacon? Well, why not buy a nice hand-mirror, antique clothes horse or out-of-date packet of Jamaica ginger cake to go with that, my love? The customers leave, bemused, time after time, gobsmacked at the way that the sneaky, unscrupulous Arkwright has managed to part ’em from their hard-earned cash.

Two, preventing his curly-headed, constantly daydreaming nephew, Granville, from discovering a life outside their cosy little Yorkshire shop. Granville yearns for a woman, for the bright lights and clamour of the local disco, for foreign travel and Chinese architecture and a yacht on the Riviera and the finer things in life, but how the heck is he supposed to achieve any of these exotic delights when the shop opens in ‘t’ middle of ‘t’ night, namely, at sun-up, and doesn’t shut till nine o’clock at night…?

Three, breaking through the fortress of ample bosom that is Nurse Gladys Emanuel to her softer inner core without getting one of her nifty left hooks, although getting stuck in the outer bosom would suit Arkwright (and Granville!) just fine, come to think of it. They could set up shop in her splendiferous frontage without any hesitation whatsoever, it’s so nice and warm and comforting there.

Nurse Gladys Emanuel, Arkwright’s betrothed, with her fabulous head of burnished red-brown hair, is one of those old-fashioned visiting nurses who’d drive round her little parish seeing to different patients. Changing a bandage on an old lady’s wound, checking on a newborn baby and its poorly mum, seeing that a bedridden old gent has managed to eat something after his operation, stuff like that. The travelling nurse is very much part of Britain’s distant past. I enjoyed hugely having that lovely nostalgic element included in the show.

Gladys Emanuel, played by the magnificent Lynda Baron, is a fine figure of a woman. No skinny little young one she. On the contrary, she’s broad in the beam with more front than Blackpool, and it’s no wonder the lovestruck Arkwright risks climbing a ladder at his age to catch a glimpse of her famous frontage leaning out of a window in her negligée. She won’t marry Arkwright until her never-seen mum no longer needs looking after, and Arkwright’s just going to have to knuckle down and wait.

Nurse Gladys is worth waiting for, though, as Arkwright well knows. She’s a woman any man would be proud to call his own, warm and good-humoured with a ready laugh. It’s brilliant, though, the way she slaps away his groping hands time after time and always has a cutting quip lined up that’s guaranteed to put him back in his box.

She’s determined to get him to spend a few quid as well, which for a man as stingy and parsimonious as old Arkwright is like pulling teeth without anaesthetic. Good luck getting Arkwright to prise open the old Oxo tin that holds his precious takings, Nurse Gladys Emanuel. If anyone can do it, you can!

There’s a running joke in the show about Granville, who’s of uncertain parentage, being part-Hungarian. Arkwright’s quite cheeky about his own sister, Granville’s long-deceased mum, having been of loose morals, flinging her knickers to the four winds whenever anyone asked her to.

Granville isn’t altogether averse to being part-Hungarian. It appeals to the part of him that yearns for excitement, glamour, mystery, bright lights; anything, in fact, that takes him away from the mundanity of pricing tins of carrots and pushing the old shop-bike loaded down with deliveries up yet another poxy hill in the rain…!

Arkwright’s Super-Stores is the housewives’ choice for sure. Kathy Staff (LAST OF THE SUMMER WINE) was bloody hilarious as the plain speaking Mrs. Blewitt in the earlier episodes. Stephanie Cole as the Black Widow, aka Mrs. Fer-fer-fer-fer-fer-Featherstone, did duty as the Resident Cranky Auld One in the later episodes.

Liz Dawn, Vera Duckworth in CORONATION STREET, had one line in a very early episode. Him off THE BILL (Eric Richard) played a cameo role once as a man trying to flog a washing machine to Arkright. Good luck with that one, mate. He’ll want cheaper than what you’re offering, you mark my words. Teddy Turner (CORRIE, EMMERDALE) also had a small role. Barbara Keogh (Lilly Mattock from EastEnders) was Mrs. Ellis.

Maggie Ollerenshaw played the ditzy, terminally indecisive Mavis, or did she? I can’t quite make up me mind! Paula Tilbrook (Betty Eagleton from Emmerdale) was Mrs. Tattersall. Barbara Flynn played the Milk-woman who every morning delivered two pints and a pot of unrequited love to the head-over-heels Granville. I personally thought she was a bit of a tease. I don’t believe she had the slightest intention of ever letting Granville have the top off ‘t’ milk, the snooty little hussy. She were only leading ‘im on, she were.

Poor Granville, desperate to be part of Britain’s new generation of swinging young people, but he never has time to get his pinny off. Doomed to be an errand boy for life, the poor lad. Come and nestle for a bit in Nurse Gladys Emanuel’s bosom. That’ll make you feel better, lad. Just make sure Arkwright’s not watching…!

Arkwright the grocer is rude to everyone, racist, sexist, disrespectful to women, verging on dishonest the way he flogs his old out-of-date white elephant stock to his customers (remember when he tried to sell some kind of lead blacking to male customers as a kind of marital aid?), and yet he’s the cuddliest, most loveable rogue you could ever hope to meet.

I also love the delightfully mournful theme tune, and the fact that the show didn’t modernise as the years went on, but rather kept the olde-worlde charm that makes it so magical. The time of the corner shop that sold everything from turnips to braces for your trousers to the kind of lead blacking people used to put on old stoves (marital aids, my foot!) has passed, sadly, to be replaced by the age of the supermarket and online shopping. Still, if we ever have a burning need for a small brown loaf and two teacakes, we’ll know where to go, won’t we? G-G-G-Granville, fetch your cloth…!

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY OF SANDRA HARRIS.

Sandra Harris is a Dublin-based novelist, poet, short story writer and film and book blogger. She has studied Creative Writing and Film-Making. She has published a number of e-books on the following topics: horror film reviews, multi-genre film reviews, women’s fiction, erotic fiction, erotic horror fiction and erotic poetry. Several new books are currently in the pipeline. You can browse or buy any of Sandra’s books by following the link below straight to her Amazon Author Page:

http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B015GDE5RO

You can contact Sandra at:

sandrasandraharris@gmail.com

https://www.facebook.com/SandraHarrisPureFilthPoetry

https://sandrafirstruleoffilmclubharris.wordpress.com

http://sexysandieblog.wordpress.com

http://serenaharker.wordpress.com

https://twitter.com/SandraAuthor

THE RETURN OF DRACULA. (1958) REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

return-of-dracula-1958-rachel-tim-norma-eberhardt-ray-stricklyn-review

THE RETURN OF DRACULA. (1958) DIRECTED BY PAUL LANDRES. STARRING FRANCIS LEDERER AND NORMA EBERHARDT.

REVIEW BY SANDRA HARRIS. ©

‘Jenny, I’ve come to wake you!’

‘The world shall spin and they all shall die, but not us.’

‘I’ve got to close the window! He’ll hear us, he’s outside!’

‘I had the strangest dream last night, only I can’t seem to remember it.’

‘You’re already balanced between two worlds. Eternity awaits you now.’

‘I can free your soul, Jenny. I can take you from the blackness into the light.’

Any film that starts with a group of men pursuing a vampire through a graveyard and right into his crypt with the intention of driving a stake through his heart is okay in my books. This is a little black-and-white curiosity I discovered on YouTube while searching for Dracula stuff. The Jack-Palance-as-Dracula film wouldn’t start for me so here we are, lol.

THE RETURN OF DRACULA is quite similar in storyline to Alfred Hitchcock’s 1943 movie, SHADOW OF A DOUBT, in which a mysterious uncle (Joseph Cotten) returns to the bosom of his small-town American-as-apple-pie family, only to spread a putrid fear, dread and uncertainty through its ranks.

The pretty young daughter of the family, played by Teresa Wright, is a romantic at heart who yearns for a better life than she thinks she’ll have in her small-town existence. She is hugely attracted to the mystery and glamour that emanates from the newcomer, but the best thing she can do, for herself and her family, is to stay as far away from him as she can. As is the way in films though, she doesn’t discover this fact until it’s nearly too late. Where would be the fun otherwise?

In THE RETURN OF DRACULA, a mysterious, middle-aged Eastern European man who claims to be a Mrs. Cora Mayberry’s long-lost cousin, Bellac Gordal, turns up in the American small town of Carleton. They’ve been expecting him and they’re very excited about the homecoming. Cora, her teenage daughter Rachel, her young son Mickey and Rachel’s boyfriend Tim (he drives a convertible!) all make the tall, dark speaks-with-an-accent stranger as welcome as they know how.

Is being a vampire compatible with family life? (Ah, come on, you already know he’s a vampire! How is that a spoiler?) Not really, no. Cousin Bellac keeps the most irregular hours, doesn’t sleep in the bed provided for him but in a mist-filled coffin in a nearby abandoned mine and can’t abide mirrors or crucifixes. He’s not too keen on the family moggy, Nugget, either, but then in another way, he’s a little too keen on him, if you take my meaning.

Cousin Bellac is supposed to be a talented artist, but he seems to have only painted one picture during his stay with the Mayberrys, and that one painting is deeply disturbing. No-one knows where he goes on his so-called ‘painting trips’ or what he does on them. He plays his cards tight to his chest and doesn’t encourage familiarity, except from Rachel, for whom he has great things in mind. I’m sure you can guess what things.

Rachel, the blonde All-American daughter, is an aspiring fashion designer and she is instantly attracted to the suave, sophisticated Eastern European artist, who makes her boyfriend Tim seem like a crude, inexperienced callow youth by comparison. She even goes off Tim for a bit, much to Tim’s mystification, while Cousin Bellac is around.

Rachel introduces Cousin Bellac to her friend Jenny. She more or less hands him Jenny on a plate. ‘Oh, Jenny’s blind and bedridden and helpless and you can do whatever you like to her, and she’s ever so sweet and she’s just DYING to meet you, I’ve told her all about you!’ Well, congratulations, Rachel, old girl. You’ve just given the vampire his first victim, all trussed up like a turkey, and you’ve even made the dressing and all the trimmings yourself as well.

There are some spooky scenes when the Immigration officer looking into Cousin Bellac’s papers and his legal right to be in America comes a cropper. A pitiful voice calls for help by the railway track, and a few gruelling seconds later, Mr. Immigration Officer is a blood-soaked corpse. And, of course, there’s no-one around. No-one saw or heard anything…

I love the bit where the white-shrouded woman skips lightly back to her coffin in the super-cool Receiving Vaults before the first light of day breaks over the horizon. She’s very obviously the Lucy character from the Bram Stoker Dracula novel, who gets some of the creepiest and most electrifying scenes in the whole book and also in any film or television dramatisation.

There’s one splash of bright-red blood, very reminiscent of Hammer Horror across the pond, in this black-and-white film, but I won’t tell you whose it is. 1958, of course, was the year when Hammer Film Studios released their own DRACULA (THE HORROR OF DRACULA in the United States), with horror legend Christopher Lee in the title role. Several more DRACULA films followed in the next decade and a half, and they make up a fine body of work in total.

Did it hurt the Dracula legend, bringing the Fanged One to small-town America, rather than keeping him amongst the crumbling abbeys of England or, even better, the castles of his native Transylvania? No, I think it worked well enough.

After all, SON OF DRACULA starring Lon Chaney Jr. brought Count Dracula to the swamps and plantations of the Deep South of America, and that was a terrific, if terribly gloomy, film. Not much in the way of comic relief there. ‘I see you living in a grave, married to a corpse.’ See what I mean…?

Why is this film called THE RETURN OF DRACULA? I honestly don’t know. Was there a previous film? Again, I don’t know. I’m guessing too that this film isn’t very well known. It’s still worth at least one watch, though, as it has a certain small-town charm and, as I said at the start, it’s a real little curiosity. At eighty minutes long as well, it won’t take up too much of your time. Go for it.

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY OF SANDRA HARRIS.

Sandra Harris is a Dublin-based novelist, poet, short story writer and film and book blogger. She has studied Creative Writing and Film-Making. She has published a number of e-books on the following topics: horror film reviews, multi-genre film reviews, women’s fiction, erotic fiction, erotic horror fiction and erotic poetry. Several new books are currently in the pipeline. You can browse or buy any of Sandra’s books by following the link below straight to her Amazon Author Page:

http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B015GDE5RO

You can contact Sandra at:

sandrasandraharris@gmail.com

https://www.facebook.com/SandraHarrisPureFilthPoetry

https://sandrafirstruleoffilmclubharris.wordpress.com

http://sexysandieblog.wordpress.com

http://serenaharker.wordpress.com

https://twitter.com/SandraAuthor