It started raining hard that night in San Francisco, so I ducked into the old theater on Market Street that played film classics. Buying a ticket, I sat down to dry out in the middle of Tod Browning’s 1931 Dracula.
But the ending was different this time—Dracula didn’t die; he killed Van Helsing and escaped. I wondered what became of the vampire then, when suddenly the man sitting behind me, in tux and opera cape, and looking a lot like Bela Lugosi, leaned forward to whisper, “You would be surprised.”
Then bit me savagely in the neck.
But the ending was different this time—Dracula didn’t die; he killed Van Helsing and escaped. I wondered what became of the vampire then, when suddenly the man sitting behind me, in tux and opera cape, and looking a lot like Bela Lugosi, leaned forward to whisper, “You would be surprised.”
Then bit me savagely in the neck.
