Approach Fonthill on a gloomy afternoon in late March and you can easily imagine Jane Austen or one of her heroines opening the large, heavy front door, dressed in a gray cloak and headed out to consummate another doomed love affair.
Approach the foreboding Gothic structure in the dark shadows of twilight and your imagination is more likely to picture Barnabas Collins or Vincent Price answering the bell, and all of a sudden your imaginary novel takes on a bit more, um, bite.
But while there is a room in Fonthill called …