I don’t know exactly where I am. Somewhere near Rugby, in a haunted hotel – a gothic, Victorian manor house with shadowy corners and vaulted corridors. And restless ghouls. It was pitch black and freezing when I got out for a run at about 7:30 this evening. Padding down the drive, I kept a watch out for the ghostly coach and six horses that may be seen racing across the lawn on dark nights, being urged forward by the apparition of “One-Armed Boughton” who lived in the early 1700s.… READ MORE.... …