I get to The Garlic Not, and the place is packed with regulars. I decide to sit at the bar, and an old man with the fewest teeth I’ve ever seen hands me a menu.
“For a virgin as pure as you—on the house,” he says and passes me a goblet of something neon green. I take a sip, and it’s not half bad. I order the lamb alfredo and decide not to correct him on the weird virgin thing.
I’ve only been in Coffins Crest, Transylvania, for three days, and the omnipresent fog, eerie wind chimes, and sinking feeling that something horrible is about to happen is starting to feel normal.
I take a sip of my goblet cocktail and wonder how I’ll tell Historic Castles Magazine that someone else is also here to cover the famous castle.



