Farewell, 2011!

Here are a few of my favorite DS images, as a way to say so long to 2011!

Episode 553: Vicki's Nightmare

EPISODE 556
AIR DATE:  8/12/68
WRITER:  Ron Sproat
DIRECTOR:  Sean Dhu Sullivan 

Nicholas Blair holds Victoria Winters captive at the House by the Sea.  In order to force Barnabas and Julia to create a mate for the man-made creature Adam, the warlock commands Angelique -- now a vampire under his control -- to visit Vicki dressed as she did in 1795 to terrify Vicki into submission.

 VICKI:  Angelique!

ANGELIQUE:  So we meet again.

VICKI:  You're not real.

ANGELIQUE:  I'm not?

VICKI:  You can't be!

ANGELIQUE:  I assure you, I'm quite real.

VICKI:  It's not possible!  You're dead!  You must be a ghost!

ANGELIQUE (laughing):  Is that really what you think I am?

VICKI:  Why are you laughing?

ANGELIQUE advances, holding out her arm.

ANGELIQUE:  Touch me.  Don't be afraid.  You'll see that I"m made of flesh and blood.

VICKI:  I don't want to come near you!

ANGELIQUE:  Then I'll come to you.  (She touches Vicki, who shudders.)  You see?  Are ghosts made of flesh and blood?

VICKI:  You're real!

ANGELIQUE:  Of course.

VICKI:  But you died in 1795 ...

ANGELIQUE:  I know.

VICKI:  Is it possible?

ANGELIQUE:  What?

VICKI:  I've gone back in time again?  That I'm living in 1795?

ANGELIQUE:  It's possible.

VICKI:  But is it true?

ANGELIQUE:  Perhaps.

VICKI:  Why am I here?  You must tell me.

ANGELIQUE:  I'm not allowed to tell you that.

VICKI:  But who's keeping me here?  At least you can tell me that!

ANGELIQUE:  I'm not allowed to tell you that either.

VICKI:  This must be a dream.  But why can't I wake up?

ANGELIQUE:  Because it isn't a dream.  You really exist in this place.

VICKI:  But you -- this room -- it's all so unreal!

ANGELIQUE:  Perhaps there's a reason for that.

VICKI:  What do you mean?

ANGELIQUE:  Perhaps you're lost in a void.

VICKI:  A - a void?

ANGELIQUE:  A pocket in time, caught somewhere between the past and the present but belonging to neither.

VICKI:  I don't believe you.

ANGELIQUE:  Believe what you want to believe.

VICKI:  Why are you here?

ANGELIQUE:  I've come to help you escape.

VICKI:  But why would you want to help me?  You've never been anything but vicious and cruel to me.

ANGELIQUE:  If you don't want my help, there's nothing I can do.

VICKI:  I'll take anyone's help as long as it allows me to escape from here.

ANGELIQUE:  You're willing to cooperate?

VICKI:  How?

ANGELIQUE:  You must give me something in order for me to help you.

VICKI (wary):  What?

ANGELIQUE:  Your engagement ring.

VICKI:  My engagement ring?

ANGELIQUE:  You must give it to me or I can't help you.

VICKI:  Why do you want it?

ANGELIQUE:  I'll take it to the man you love, and through it, he will find you.

VICKI:  I won't give it to you.

ANGELIQUE:  then I won't be able to help you.  I'm the only one who can.

ANGELIQUE turns to leave.

VICKI:  Where are you going?

ANGELIQUE:  Would I want to take your ring if I weren't trying to help you?  I don't exist in time.  Worldly possessions mean nothing to me.

VICKI:  You want it because it's my last link to reality.  But I won't give it to you!

ANGELIQUE:  So be it.

VICKI:  Where are you going?

ANGELIQUE:  I'm leaving, and I shall never return.  Neither will anyone else.  You face eternity in this room because you won't accept my help.  Goodbye, Victoria Winters.  I pity you.

VICKI:  No!  Wait!

ANGELIQUE:  Yes?

VICKI:  I still don't trust you, but if there's one chance in a million that you're telling the truth --

ANGELIQUE:  Give me the ring.

VICKI slips off the ring and hands it to her.

VICKI:  Here.

ANGELIQUE:  I'll take it to the man you love and he will find you.

VICKI:  Please be telling the truth.  Please find Jeff and give it to him.  At least he'll know I'm alive.

ANGELIQUE:  Jeff?  Who's Jeff?

VICKI:  Jeff Clark, my fiancee.

ANGELIQUE:  There's no Jeff Clark.  Jeff Clark does not exist.  There is only Peter Bradford.

Angelique vanishes out the door, leaving Vicki to call after.  Her only answer is Angelique's evil cackle.

Shadows on the Wall Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter 34: Persistence of Memory

by Luciaphil

Cold are the hands of time that creep along relentlessly destroying slowly but

without pity that which yesterday was young. Alone our memories resist this

disintegration and grow more lovely with the passing years . . .

--The Wienie King, "The Palm Beach Story"

* * *

Voice Over (Thayer David): Indian summer has come and gone for the small

village of Collinsport. Unaware of what lies ahead, the players in this drama

soldier on. The last vestiges of autumnal splendor shrivel away and perhaps in

anticipation of what is after all, a season of death, shades of the past assert

themselves . . .

* * *

 

Victoria Winters glanced over at her pupils. Heads bent over books, David and

Amy were, for once, not fighting. She turned back to the row of telephone

directories on the library shelves. "Find a medium," the figure in her dream

had told her. "Find a middle ground." Vicki decided to interpret the first

instruction literally. That was after all what a spiritual medium was supposed

to be: a connection between the worlds of the living and the dead.

While there might be--no, make that--were certainly people in Collinsport

equipped with "the Sight", Vicki had the sense to want to find someone without

bias to the family, the estate or for that matter, for or against her. That

eliminated the nearby villages, who probably also boasted psychics, but who

didn't bother to advertise their gifts. Vicki supposed she could make

inquiries, but that would take time and somehow she knew time was something she

didn't have.

So that meant Bangor. And Bangor did boast a number of individuals who

evidently made some sort of living communicating with the Great Beyond. She

cast her gaze over the choices. She rejected the two who had the prominent ads,

her eyes honing in on a simple entry instead: Mme. Janet Findley. There was a

phone booth across the street . . .

Telling the children she needed to run an errand, Victoria hurried over to make

a call.

* * *

 Infants, Eliot Stokes thought, as he stood at his office window watching the

students scurrying across the quad. The cliché ran true. They did look younger

every year. Freshmen may have lost some of their fresh-scrubbed naïveté due to

a changing world, but they were still absurdly childlike. Their new, earnest

seriousness, made them no more seasoned.

The professor sighed. He had papers to grade and the day was slipping by so

quickly. He didn't bother to look at his pocket watch; he had no need to. It

was fascinating really, how one in Academia could tell the time merely by

watching the students. They were less thickly clustered now. It was nearing the

start of the hour. He could see the wind swirling the faded, dead leaves about

in circles. It wouldn't be long now before the snow started to fall . . .

"'It is the blight man was born for,'" he murmured aloud. Did they even teach

Gerard Manley Hopkins in English classes anymore? he wondered. Would these

infants understand it if they read it? Eliot supposed he shouldn't complain. He

was fortunate in that he worked primarily with graduate students.

The quadrangle was emptying out quickly now. Soon the university clock would

chime and he would go back to his neglected work. The students that were left

walked--or ran--with purpose, unaware of his gaze.

"'Ah! as the heart grows older

It will come to such sights colder

By and by, nor spare a sigh

Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie.

And yet you will weep and know why,'" Eliot recited, oblivious to any

passersby. When one had tenure, there were a few luxuries; oddities became

eccentricities.

One of the few remaining figures looked up as if aware she was being observed.

He could see her bright blue eyes visible at even this distance--curious and

unalarmed . . .

Eliot took an involuntarily step backward and stumbled. When he regained his

footing, he moved toward the window and threw up the sash.

Icy cold air rushed in. His eyes scanned the empty pavement below. All was

silent, save for the rustling leaves and the faint clattering of heels echoing

as their wearer moved out of view.

He didn't think. He shouted her name just as the clock began to strike, its

clapper drowning out his cry of "Alexis!"

 

* * *

The inferior grandfather clock struck the hour and Nicholas Blair winced. Soon,

he told himself, soon. He looked at his reflection in the mirror and picked an

infinitesimal speck of fluff off his gray suit.

"Will you be gone long?"

Nicholas turned around. Maggie stood on the stairwell above him. He didn't make

her an answer. It was about time Maggie learned that he was accountable to no

one. She was coming along very nicely, but he thought there was room for

improvement.

"You're going to see *her*, aren't you?"

"Yes." No apology, no explanation. Merely a quirk of an eyebrow, a suggestion

that further inquiry on her part would be ill advised.

Maggie came down the stairs. She ran her lacquered hands across his chest.

"Just so you know what will be waiting for you when you're done with that old

hag."

 

He grabbed her hands and pushed them away. "All in good time, my dear. How were

you planning on occupying yourself this afternoon?"

"I was going into Bangor to do some shopping."

Nicholas looked at closed parlor door thoughtfully. "There is something I want

you to do instead."

* * *

Julia rapped on Roger's bedroom door. Try as she might to ignore what was bound

to become one more thing for handle, her conscience would not let her. No one

else seemed to be noticing the fact that Roger Collins was teetering on the

edge of a precipice. For a place bulging at the seams with people who purported

to care about each other, there was more communication in a big-city anonymous

apartment building than there was at Collinwood. Roger had helped her and she

wanted to help him if she could.

She waited. Perhaps he wasn't there, but she'd searched in every other place

she could think of. Julia knocked again. The force of her knuckles pushed the

door open.

"Roger?" She shut the door behind her.

 The air was stale. Hadn't anyone been in here to clean? Roger was lying on his

bed. He had not even bothered to change his clothes, she realized. She stepped

over the clutter of letters and snaps on the floor and tried to shake him

awake. "Roger?"

He groaned a little and rolled over, his suit coat falling open.

What Julia wanted to do was to decide that he was blind drunk and sleeping it

off. The reek of sour brandy and the empty bottle lying on the floor supported

that theory. The shirt crusted with dried blood did not.

* * *

Maggie sat stiffly on the sofa in the parlor, staring at the fashion magazine

in her hands, not seeing the words. She would not look at the portrait above

the mantel and she refused to try the door. Nicholas had merely told her that

she needed to overcome her fears. She had not heard the key turning in the door

and perhaps she could leave, but this was clearly a test.

Something in Nicholas' tone had told her that it was one she was not to fail.

It's just a painting, she told herself, just a picture of a brute of a man and

his wife with the dead eyes and their crazy brats. Read this stupid article

about how to keep a man happy and don't think about it.

But the advice was idiotic and none of it worked. Maggie knew that well enough.

She'd lost Quentin to Miss Butter-wouldn't-melt-in-her-mouth Winters following

rules similar to what the author in the article was suggesting. She flipped

through the pages. There were books on the shelves in here. She could read one

of those.

Maggie got up and being careful not to cross the mantelpiece perused the

volumes. Too many of them were in languages she couldn't read. Yet. Nicholas

had said they would have to remedy that. As she pulled out _Vanity Fair_, the

hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

Footsteps.

Clattering down the stairs.

Giggles.

Running now.

The stories of Gregory Collins' children came back to her.

Faint screams.

All those bodies.

"I think it's time you confronted your fears, Maggie."

 

Nicholas had been annoyed with her jealousy.

A punishment?

Or was this not his doing? There had been talk in the village about ghosts at

Seaview long before Nicholas Blair had ever come to Collinsport.

Either way, Maggie didn't like it. She didn't like Nicholas with anyone else,

even if he was plotting to use and discard that so-called gracious lady. Maggie

wasn't a child. And she wasn't going to cower in a corner or run. She was tired

of being pushed around. The new and improved Maggie Evans wasn't going to put

up with this.

Deliberately, Maggie took the book and stood in front of the fireplace. Her

lips curled as she looked at each of Gregory Collins' children's likenesses.

"That's enough of that," she said firmly, coldly, with finality. As she spoke

the words, Maggie thought she saw respect now in Gregory Collins' expression.

The leer was still there, but not the disdain.

The sounds faded away.

"That's better." Maggie sat down and opened up the novel.

* * *

Julia stared at the festering knife wound, before collecting herself and

beginning to treat it. "How long have you been like this? Why didn't you tell

me? Why didn't you get treatment?"

Roger didn't say anything.

That she could read his deceptively bland face like a book gave her pause.

Without meaning to, she'd come much closer to understanding him than she had

ever expected to. "Roger, I need to know how long you've had this injury. You

have to tell me that much."

He muttered something that sounded like "days."

As she worked on him, the enormity of what all of them had suffered began to

hit her anew. "In the name of God, what have we done to deserve this?"

 Now Roger laughed. At least, Julia thought that the terrible, racking spasms

were supposed to resemble laughter.

"God is dead, Julia," he rasped. "Or gone away. God hasn't given a fig for us

not since HE took her away."

"Took who away?" She glanced at the floor and Louise's eyes winked back at her.

"Roger, we're friends. If I can help you, please let me."

"We've been damned for decades." He winced as she probed at his flesh. "Get

away from here, Julia. Go away and don't come back. It's the only thing you can

do."

Julia opened up her medical bag. "No, Roger. That's the only thing I cannot

do."

* * *

It was with dismay that Elizabeth looked at the calendar on her desk. She

counted the number of days left for the third time. How could time pass so

quickly? She'd have to find someone soon.

From the foyer, she heard Nicholas' pleasant voice as he spoke with the

housekeeper.

Perhaps it wouldn't be so hard to find someone this time . . .

Of course, HE might choke on all that makeup, but so much the better. Elizabeth

smiled a little as an image of the hard-faced slut screaming her blue lips off

. . .

 Did Nicholas think she was blind and deaf? Did he think she was a

fool--believing that idiocy that Maggie was his "assistant"? The whole town was

talking. Talking about what a fool Elizabeth Collins Stoddard was.

It would be easy enough. Maggie clearly despised her. All she would have to do

is invite her to meet to straighten out this little domestic mess. Somewhere

where they wouldn't be disturbed. Maggie would be arrogant and stupid enough to

agree. Elizabeth had seen the pure hatred in the girl's expression when they'd

locked eyes across an aisle in Brewsters. Maggie wouldn't pass up a chance to

throw her youth and beauty in Elizabeth's face. "Come to Collinwood," she would

say. "There's an entrance to the West Wing . . . we can speak there and no one

will be the wiser." Satisfy HIM and rid herself of a rival at the same time.

"Elizabeth, my dear, how do you manage to look more lovely every time we meet?"

The calendar dropped to the floor. "It probably has to do with my money," she

told him acidly. "I imagine that lends considerable appeal."

"Now Elizabeth, what nonsense is this?" Nicholas stooped and picked up the

calendar. He frowned a little. Not so much at her mood, he could work his way

around that deftly enough, but at what he was looking at. Odd that Elizabeth

Stoddard, conventionality defined, should have December 21 encircled so

definitively in deep red ink.

She practically tore it out of his hands and thrust it into a drawer.

Was this something worth pursuing? Or was it merely jealousy? Nicholas debated.

There might be a very simple explanation for the date, a birthday, perhaps. It

was doubtful that Elizabeth was a practicing pagan. He turned his attention to

smoothing over ruffled feathers.

* * *

Quentin peered down the corridor. He thought Vicki was still in town, but he

wanted to be sure. Until he knew exactly *how* she was related to him, if she

was related to him, he was in a holding pattern. Please God, he thought, don't

let her be Jamison's granddaughter. Please, no. What to tell her; what not to

tell her.

Damn it, why couldn't anything ever be simple?

Not hearing anything but the walls creaking, Quentin decided to go and get

something to eat and maybe a little, no make that a lot of something to wash it

down with. He took the backstairs. They were dark and narrow, but save for

David, they were almost never used by anyone, which made perfect sense.

Backstairs were for servants, from the days when servants were supposed to be

invisible. On this stairs, they could get to whatever floor they needed without

reminding the family that they existed. But even here, they were supposed to

turn their faces to the wall, trying to melt into the woodwork, if and when any

of the family passed by.

He paused at tiny landing. Someone else evidently had the same idea. He could

hear them on the stairs below, a woman's crinolines rustling against fabric.

Quentin clenched the banister as if his hand glued itself there. Crinolines?

Icy, cold air rushed up at him.

Swallowing, he forced himself free and rounded the corner just in time to see

the faint outline of a blonde-haired woman in a dark blue dress disappearing

down the next flight of stairs.

 

"Beth?" He began bounding down after her. "Beth?"

She looked up at him, her eyes great with hurt and pain.

"Beth, please--"

Her face became stoic; she turned to face the wall and melted away into

nothingness.

"BETH!"

 

* * *

The truce between David and Amy ended as soon as they had cleared the village

limits. Vicki's head was throbbing by the time they reached Collinwood. She got

them into their separate rooms, situated with work she knew they weren't going

to do.

 

She had an hour. Madame Findley had agreed to make the drive out and to meet

her at Widows' Hill. There had been some debate about the outdoor location. The

medium rightly predicted that coastal Maine in mid-November was not going to be

pleasant. Victoria had been insistent about not meeting the woman at

Collinwood. She wasn't sure why, but she thought the figure in her dreams would

prefer this.

Cold or not, Vicki needed not to be in Collinwood. She put her coat and gloves

back on, ignored the voices behind the closed doors of the drawing room and

decided to go for a brisk walk.

* * *

Roger buttoned on a clean shirt.

Julia shut her medical bag. "All right, you win. No more questions. The next

time you get stabbed, don't wait. Come to me *first*. You're damned lucky you

don't have an infection."

**Release him . . . release him . . . Her. Use her. Bring her to HIM . . . **

No, he wouldn't do that. Not her. Not Julia.

"Roger? Roger, are you all right?"

He gritted his teeth and nodded, white with the effort of not giving in.

Sighing, she left him. "Get some rest."

**Release him . . . release him . . .**

Razor sharp icicles leaving tiny cuts slicing away the remains of his soul. Not

her, he thought. I'll find someone else.

**You belong to us . . . you cannot fight us . . . release him . . .**

Someone better, he thought. I'll find someone better.

* * *

Elizabeth stood; her face as of stone; one hand clasped over the other--the way

a lady was supposed to stand.

Nicholas tried again. "You are really making too much of this. Miss Evans is

not my sort of--"

He really thought her three kinds of a fool, Elizabeth reflected bitterly. Did

he think she'd never seen him mentally appraising the contents of Collinwood?

The way every man she'd ever brought home had done?

**He would do, my dear.**

Elizabeth started.

"What's the matter?"

**Forget about his mistress. What better revenge than to bring him to his

death?**

It's not time yet, she thought. It's not time.

 

**Yes, dear girl, I know that. But it will be soon. Best to be prepared. And

you always were prepared . . . doesn't the justice of it all appeal to you?**

"Elizabeth?"

**The tart is just as much his dupe as you. He is the real transgressor. He

would do, my dear. He would do.**

She could feel him retreating from her mind. The revulsion from any kind of

contact with him was still there; like a snail, HE left a trail of slime over

anything HE touched. HE wanted Nicholas. There had been scarcely concealed

eagerness there. And sense. Eliminate one whore and another would take her

place.

Nicholas reached out to her, enfolding her in his arms. "It's you that I have

come to care for, Elizabeth. You are the one that matters." His expression was

smug, but he might have been disturbed if he could have seen Elizabeth's.

Perhaps HE was right. Yes, perhaps Nicholas would do after all.

* * *

Now that the deed was done, Victoria was second-guessing herself. Would a

medium really be able to help her? Even if a medium was what was needed to

solve these mysteries, how did she know that Madame Findley was qualified? She

should have gone to Professor Stokes and asked if he knew anyone.

Well, it was too late now. The woman was probably halfway to Collinsport

already.

Victoria continued to walk.

From a distance, Quentin caught sight of Vicki. He was still shaken from what

he'd seen on the stairs and he wasn't sure he wanted to see anyone, let alone

someone who could be his great great-niece, a someone with whom he was

seriously involved. He wondered if he could escape her notice, but then

something in Vicki's manner intrigued him.

Vicki had been clearly wandering. Suddenly she straightened her carriage and

began to walk with purpose. She stopped at a tree and looked up.

"Vicki?"

She didn't turn around and he found that disturbing. As he came closer, he

could see what she was doing more clearly. Standing on her tiptoes, she pulled

down a rope ladder. A tree house?

"Vicki!"

 Oblivious to him, Victoria began to climb up the ladder.

"Vicki, I don't think that's safe. It could be rotted. Vicki!"

Shit. He was going to have to go up after her.

* * *

As directed, Janet Findley parked her car to the side of the road. She chain

lit a cigarette and looked at the directions she'd scrawled down. This trip had

better be worth all this trouble.

She'd busted all speed records getting to Collinsport; ordinarily if someone

had called up, requested an appointment as soon as possible, to be held

outside, on a cliff no less, in a dinky fishing village an hour and a half

away, she would have firmly told the person to fuck off--not in those exact

words, of course, but she wasn't in this business to go stand outdoors and

freeze her ass off.

But when the girl had said "Collinwood," well, that was another story. The one

noteworthy thing about Collinsport, Maine, was the legendary wealth of the

Collins family. Kooks and eccentrics, they might be, but they were filthy, rich

kooks and eccentrics and in Madame Findley's business, kooks and eccentrics

were very desirable.

 She pulled out a flask from the glove compartment and took a swig of vodka.

Something to take the chill off, she told herself. She checked her bag. There

wouldn't be much call for Tarot cards and crystals in the woods, but hopefully

she could persuade her client that they needed to move the gig indoors. The

medium took a last look at her makeup and then she sprayed her hair in place

with some more Aqua Net.

She got out of the car and smoothed out her clothes. The black cape was

suitably dramatic and had the added advantage of being 100% wool--not

admittedly why Madame Findley had purchased it, but an added bonus when you

were going to meet clientele out in the woods.

Miss Winters had given her very clear directions. Janet would give her that.

Sure enough, there was the path up ahead. She tucked the piece of paper in her

pocket and went to meet with her client.

* * *

Thankfully, the rope ladder was strong and bore his weight. Quentin pulled

himself up into the tree house. "Vicki?" He saw her huddled on the floor.

Whoever had built the tree house had done a thorough job of it. It was large

and sturdy. The wood appeared to be solid. It was really an ideal sort of place

for kids. He probably would have loved a place like this when he was little.

"Vicki!"

She raised her head, the fog starting to clear from her eyes. "How did I get

here?"

"You don't remember?"

 

She shook her head. "I was walking and then I was here. What is this place?"

He couldn't stand up and not being all that anxious to find out the hard way if

the wood was rotted, he settled for looking around. He reached out and picked

up an old board. "Fort Collins," he read aloud. "I'm going to guess this was

where previous generations of Collins' children played. It's a tree house. I

saw you walking. I called to you and it was like you didn't hear me. You

marched straight up to this tree and pulled down the rope ladder like you knew

exactly where it was."

Vicki shivered. "How old do you think this place is?"

"I don't know. It wasn't here when I--" he stopped. "I don't know." Hoping to

distract her from noticing his near faux pas, he opened up an old cigar box

lying on the floor, cigarette cards, bearing faded likenesses spilled out: Nita

Naldi, Clara Bow, Colleen Moore, Evelyn Brent, Nancy Carroll. On the inside

lid, he saw neatly and boldly lettered: Property of Elizabeth Collins. "The

late twenties, maybe a little older." He put them back in the box and closed

it. "I don't know if this floor is structurally sound, Vicki. I think we should

climb back down."

"You go ahead if you want to," she told him absently, doing her own poking

around.

"Vicki--"

She scooted over to one corner. "This must have been where Roger and Mrs.

Stoddard used to play when they were children."

Quentin agreed uneasily. "Look, you're not exactly dressed for this. Why don't

we come back on a warmer day and we can explore all we want to?" After he'd

come back and sifted through what was here first.

Vicki didn't pay attention. "I see. This was Roger's area. These Rover Boys

books have to be his." She picked up a small telescope. "Fort Collins," she

repeated aloud. She found a set of toy soldiers on the bottom of the makeshift

orange crate bookshelves. They were old and worn and the bayonets and swords

were chipped off, but they had the look of much-loved toys.

She surveyed the rest of the tree house. "That must have been where Mrs.

Stoddard kept her toys," Vicki said, pointing to the conspicuously neat corner

Quentin sat in. There wasn't much there, a few odds and ends: the playthings of

a girl on the brink of adolescence. "Lizzie didn't come here often," she said

in an odd voice.

Quentin stared and could feel himself backing away. "VICKI!"

She started. "What? Honestly, Quentin, if you want to leave, go ahead, I'll be

fine."

"I think we should both leave. Now," he added firmly.

Instead Victoria was burrowing through the last and messiest part of the tree

house. Roger and Elizabeth had been tidy children. Everything had a place and

everything in its place. What they had, they used. All anyone had to do to

realize that was to look at how they had kept their belongings.

Victoria sat back on her heels, puzzled. "This is odd. I thought maybe this was

a joint play area, but none of these things look like they would belong to

either Mrs. Stoddard or Roger. And it's so untidy here."

"Every kid needs space to make a mess," Quentin offered weakly.

"I grew up in an orphanage, Quentin. If there is one thing I understand, it's

children. These belong to someone else."

"A friend maybe."

Vicki ignored him. She began to sort through the objects. She revised her

assessment of "mess". There was simply too much bounty here for the space

allowed. And yet, it was all contained to one specific area. She would have

thought that when Elizabeth Collins had abandoned the tree house, this other

child would have taken over that territory. She found an old fashioned

Valentine, and opened it. The verse on the card was too faded to make out, but

the salutation and signature were not. "To Louise," Victoria read aloud, "Your

loving sister, Elizabeth."

Quentin sat there, his world crashing around him.

* * *

Roger strode rapidly toward Widows Hill. His mind was as empty as he could make

it. There was one solution.

The creatures that were latched onto his psyche like leeches did not seem to

realize something was amiss until he was nearly at the precipice.

**You cannot! You cannot! You must release HIM,** they screamed at him.

Roger now knew there were worse things than death and he was *not* going to

endure them any longer than he had to.

**YOU MUST RELEASE HIM!**

Just keep going, Roger told himself clinically. Keep going and don't stop.

"Finally." Janet Findley had been waiting far too long in the cold. A large

woman, she stood in the way of Roger's juggernaut-like determination. She

crossed her arms and planted her feet firmly down.

Unwilling to take an unexpected passenger with him, Roger forced himself to

come to a halt. The instant he stopped, he knew he'd made a mistake. Deeper and

deeper, they burrowed into him.

Janet Findley frowned. The man looked like someone who'd been on a bender. Or

two. The medium took in the unshaven face, the rumpled clothes, the haggard

eyes. There was something else though . . .

The voices were quiet, their terrible whispers silenced for a moment. **Use her

. . . use her . . . release HIM . . . **

She backed away, knowing that something was not quite right.

**We'll let you rest, if you bring this woman to HIM,** the voices promised.

Roger smiled at the woman reassuringly. "I'm sorry, I must have frightened you

terribly. I apologize. I didn't mean to do that. I'm Roger Collins," he told

her smoothly.

Madame Findley's greed got the better of her. A Collins, even a hung-over

Collins was better than no one else at all. "I'm charmed to make your

acquaintance." She peered at him. "Scorpio? Yes, I'm sure you're a Scorpio.

I've always gotten on well with Scorpios."

Roger tried not to wince. "Have you lost your way?"

"Not really," the medium explained. "I was supposed to meet a Miss Winters at a

place called Widows' Hill. I've been here over an hour and now I'm wondering if

I could have gotten the message wrong."

"Why would Vicki want to meet you and at Widows' Hill of all places?" Roger

wondered.

Reassured by his use of her client's first name, Madame Findley relaxed a

little. "Then you know Miss Winters?"

"She's my son's governess." Roger collected himself. "Well, you can't stay

here. You'll catch your death."

Madame Findley thought that was an odd statement coming from a man who wasn't

wearing an overcoat, but she was chilled to the bone and was not about to

argue.

"I'll take you back to Collinwood. You can wait for Vicki in warmth." He added

casually, "And of course, if you need to let anyone know where you are, you'll

want to telephone them."

"This was a spur of the moment appointment," she said. What she needed to do

was to get in with whoever held the purse strings.

"Ah. Is your car around here?" When informed that it was on the side of the

road, Roger told her the house wasn't very far and that he could drive her back

after she was done.

When Collinwood came into view, it was all Janet could do not to drool. She had

heard the place was large, but she had had no conception as to what "large"

meant. To her disappointment, the way Mr. Collins brought her to the house

wasn't the main one. The garden was overgrown here and she got the impression

that almost no one ever used this entrance.

"We're closer to this part of the house and it's so dreadfully cold."

She stumbled a little over a loose step and Roger reached out to steady her.

"Careful," he said as he guided her into the house.

As his hands touched her arm, Madame Findley pulled away as if struck. She

concentrated and then found herself backing away as far as she could. "Those

things . . . what are those things?"

Roger blocked the door. "I'm really very sorry about this. I had no choice."

She began to run.

* * *

Maggie turned the page of her book. Amelia Sedley was a dead loss, but she was

enjoying Becky Sharp's antics. Nice girls always finished last. It had taken

her long enough to realize it and if Amelia was smart, she'd clue into that

real soon.

She could hear someone knocking on the front door. Maggie craned her neck and

peered out the net curtains. She swore.

"Maggie! Maggie, it's me."

Damn straight it was him. Good old Pop. Probably blitzed out of his mind.

Sam Evans pounded on the door. "Maggie, please. I know you're in there. I just

want to talk."

Maggie turned the page.

"Maggie, I miss you. I worry about you. Everyone's talking about you."

Yeah, well, it wouldn't be the first time, she thought. Poor Maggie with her

drunken bum of a father--that was what they used to say. At least now, she

wasn't cleaning up vomit off the bathroom floor and putting the old man to bed.

"Maggie, I need to talk to you. Don't you remember what day this is?"

That was a new one. Maggie stopped and thought.

"I thought we could go out to the cemetery together. I bought some roses. She

always liked roses. Maggie, please, I can't do this alone."

The book slid off her lap and onto the sofa.

"Maggie?"

Maggie didn't move. She sat as still as the figurine on the table. Finally she

heard the station wagon rumbling away. One fat tear trickled down her cheek,

leaving a rivulet of mascara following in its wake.

She reached up and mopped the mess away as best she could.

In the corner, one of Gregory Collins' children began to materialize.

Without missing a beat, Maggie picked up her book. "I told you to go away."

 The child vanished.

* * *

Even at her prime, Janet Findley had never been very athletic. Well past that

now, she was overage and overweight, trying to make her way through an

unfamiliar house, in a wing that was cluttered with odds and ends, furniture

not quite good enough to be worth storing, bric-à-brac all over the floor.

Roger and whatever entities he had driving him had several advantages. Roger,

despite his injury, was in substantially better shape and possessed of a much

better conception of where they were in the house. It really was not all that

hard for him to track a wheezing, aging psychic who left behind a stench of

stale cigarette smoke wherever she passed.

She flung open doors madly, hoping against hope to find a way out. When she

found the staircase, Janet thought she stood a chance. The door had a lock and

a bolt on the other side. She slammed it shut, turned the key and the bolt and

as fast as she could, sprinted up it.

The upstairs corridor was silent. Janet made a guess as to which way led to the

main part of the house. There had to be people there--people who would help

her.

She nearly at the door, when Roger came up calmly from another staircase.

"SOMEBODY HELP ME!"

"What seems to be the problem?"

Janet spun around. A young woman with long blonde hair was closing a door

behind her. She was pretty, attractive and well kempt.

"Uncle Roger?"

"Oh, thank God! He's crazy! He's trying to kill me!" To Janet's surprise, Roger

didn't advance any further. Instead he stood against the wall. She looked at

the young woman again. There was mania in those eyes. "No, no, this can't be

happening."

"Does anyone know she's here?"

Roger Collins shook his head. "She was supposed to meet Vicki. Her car in the

woods somewhere, off the road to the Old House, I think."

Janet gauged the distance between the young woman and the door. If nothing

else, she could always push the girl out of the way. She couldn't weigh more

than 100 pounds.

Then the girl pulled out a stiletto.

Desperately Janet Findley went for what she saw as the only other way out. She

opened the only other door she could reach and slammed it behind her. It was

only when she heard the key turning in the lock that she saw what was in the

room with her.

As the screams began, Roger Collins slumped to the floor.

TO BE CONTINUED ...