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At the bottom, she wrote:

Search room for hidden cameras, tripwires, sensors, and any other devices that could be used to ruin a good night’s sleep.

And just to get it out of her system, she wrote a capital E, then scribbled that out too, because she really didn’t want any hidden cameras to spot what she had written, just in case.

Then, glancing at her watch and realising it was dinner time, she headed downstairs to the dining room.

Passing the main bar, she noted that neither Ambrose nor Lars was present. Sitting in a corner, however, were a rather well-to-do couple, possibly the new guests. It would make an interesting interview, she thought, to get some more perspectives on Briar Speckles and its attraction for foreign visitors. They had just begun to eat, though, so now wasn’t really an appropriate time.

Instead, to cheer herself up, she ordered a large Dracula steak with ghoul-shaped chips.

When it arrived, delivered by an equally ghoulish-looking Miranda, who announced the arrival of Kelly’s dinner in a loud, comical whisper, it looked rather like a children’s meal. The circular ghoul-face chips were a kind of potato croquette that most mothers of young children probably busted out on Halloween.

It tasted great, however.

The steak was good, and the side order of bread was freshly made and delicious.

She headed up to bed feeling full, as well as a little tipsy after a couple of glasses of what Martin had insisted on calling blood-red wine.

She had noticed that while Martin had been in attendance over the course of the evening, he had seemed distracted, as though he had something on his mind. Kelly couldn’t think what it could be. She did wonder if it had anything to do with all the strange goings-on.

Perhaps he had been one of the men up on the hill. After all, she hadn’t seen him when she had arrived at the inn with Edward. Nor did she know his real voice well because he always put on a Dracula accent, even if it occasionally slipped.

Also, neither Lars nor Ambrose had been in that evening. And while that wasn’t perhaps so unusual for a midweek night, they had come across as being pretty regular. For both to be absent at the same time that she had heard unusual voices on the hilltop did seem rather strange.

But then why would they have been arguing up there?

Why there of all places?

There had to be a reason why the men had been on the hilltop.

Then she got out her notepad and scribbled down:

Find out why they were talking on the hilltop.

And then, completely exhausted, she fell into bed.

The next morning, Kelly woke bright and early. It was a fine autumn day with barely a cloud in the sky. She opened her window to let in a cool breeze, only to squeal in fright at the appearance of a large toad sitting on the windowsill. With no idea how it had got there, nor how it might get down, she decided to leave it to its business and closed the window again.

She had to admit that it crossed her mind to give it a little kiss on the off chance that it might turn into a prince.

However, while that thought alone wasn’t quite repulsive enough to rule it out, she had read somewhere that the skin of toads could secrete poison, and the last thing she felt like doing was ending up with swollen or discoloured lips. But, just to offer the toad a little encouragement for his efforts in making it so far off the ground, she touched her fingers to her mouth and then pressed them against the glass beside his grey-green head.

Then she went downstairs for a quick breakfast, before heading out to the village museum.

Briar Speckles’s diminutive Museum of Local History was situated in a quaint thatched cottage set among delightfully landscaped, if slightly overgrown, gardens, and was reached via a winding cobblestone path between a pond filled with large, colourful carp and an area of thick, shady hydrangeas.

The museum was free to enter but had a donations box by the reception counter, into which Kelly dropped a pound.

As she entered the first room, built around photographs and various historical objects displayed on trestle tables, she wondered what exactly she ought to be looking for. Most of the objects dated back to ancient history: a series of Roman coins, some Stone Age pottery, and a couple of Bronze Age spear tips, crushed and corroded into barely recognisable lumps, all of which had apparently been found in the surrounding area.

The star attraction, however, in a case all of its own, was a golden brooch which appeared to be decorated with a grinning pumpkin.

The display claimed it was from the twelfth century, but it looked far newer, with Kelly doubtful that it was more than fifty years old based on the level of corrosion compared to the other historical artifacts. She wondered if this was another of the village’s tiny Easter eggs, set up to confuse and mildly troll unsuspecting tourists at every possible turn.

The next room in the museum contained various historical household appliances, and the third downstairs room, which looked to have once been two rooms combined into one, was filled with old farming equipment and black-and-white photographs of local people at work in the fields.

Following an arrow that pointed upstairs, Kelly found herself in a display room dedicated to the Halloween parade. There on the walls were various drawings, photographs, and newspaper clippings depicting the hundred-year history of the village’s famous celebration.