Chapter 40 - "Inside Looking Out"
by Luciaphil
Much Madness is divinest Sense— To a discerning Eye— Much Sense—the starkest
Madness— 'Tis the Majority In this, as All, prevail— Assent—and you are sane—
Demur—you're straightaway dangerous— And handled with a Chain—
#435 Emily Dickinson
Note: Asterisks connote italics
* * *
Voice Over (Joan Bennett): On this crisp winter's afternoon, the lines between
past and present are blurring. For those in the great house on the hill, time
in all its facets, has become paramount. As three people desperately seek
understanding of what went before, they must struggle with new perceptions as
well as new dangers. What was, what is, and what will be.
* * *
**July 1, 1944
Very pleased with my green linen dress. I didn't have to use a single ration
coupon either. Thank heavens, we thought to look in the attics. I had no idea
how much Mother had saved. Must see about having slacks tailored for Louise,
there is a lovely gabardine that might just do . . .
I don't think Paul will like the dress much, but then Paul hasn't liked much of
anything I wear lately. He's keeping a new tramp on the side; I got another
set of bills in the mail today. That was deliberate, I'm sure. And if I don't
bring it up when he comes home, he'll find another way to throw it in my face.
Then we'll quarrel and . . . I should divorce him, I know I should.
If only the sex wasn't so thrilling. The other night when he . . . **
Barnabas blushed to the roots of his hair. This was most definitely not the
Cousin Elizabeth he knew.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know anyone was—"
Barnabas practically leapt to his feet. "Vicki!" In more modulated tones, he
continued, "You're not interrupting anything. Please, do come in."
**Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.**
Victoria Winters considered him. "Why?" She was hesitant, uneasy, making her
way by instinct now with a soupçon of intellect, instead of the other way
around.
"So that we might talk. I haven't seen very much of you lately."
She analyzed his smile. So charming. They were all so charming, but that
didn't preclude cruelty.
**You're progressing, my dear.**
"What would we talk about?"
Barnabas missed the wariness in her voice; she looked so lovely, so innocent as
she stood in the doorway. "We could go to the Old House." He could worry about
Louise Collins later. The journals would still be here tomorrow. "There are
some books about the past that I thought you might like to read."
**Bor-ring! Where did you dig up the corpse? Tee hee. He *is* a corpse.**
Vicki blinked. Behind Barnabas, sitting atop the grand piano was a teenaged
girl: Louise. She was snapping gum. Vicki tried to focus in on this and the
image faded. "Past?"
Perhaps it was a mistake to try and solve all these mysteries. They might be
all better off if they didn't try and turn over every rock in the Collins
family background. "There's a book of engravings that you will find most
fascinating."
**Wouldn't you much rather find me, Victoria? Let me out. And then we can
finally become properly acquainted.**
Louise was back again. She shook her head violently. Vicki wasn't sure what
she was trying to tell her.
"I've read all the histories about the Pas—"
**The late eighteenth century, my dear girl, the past encompasses a much larger
period than twenty odd years. The world I can show you is much larger than the
one he can.**
"I've read all the histories about the late eighteenth century that I'm going
to. The only past I'm interested in is my own."
**That's telling him, toots.**
"Of course, how thoughtless of me. I didn't mean—"
Vicki stood straighter. "But that wouldn't interest you."
"On the contrary, it would be—"
**I would be delighted to hear about it. Now be a good girl. Come to me and
we'll have a long, long talk about your life.**
The kewpie doll of a girl swung her legs. Back and forth, they went, like a
metronome.
"I need to get out of here." Vicki flew out of the room and out of the house.
* * *
The thing that was Carolyn slipped down the corridor to the professor's room.
She decided she liked this place. Although the hospital was a small one,
shabby in many respects, the scent that permeated its slightly dingy hallways
was pleasing to her: bleach, disinfectants, decaying flowers and death. Not
largely the kind of death that appealed to her, but despair was there.
The old man would be here somewhere. It should have been the mother. The
thing that inhabited the daughter's body was torn between a passion for chaos
and a newer, clinical need for order. She had been foiled several times now and
she did not like it. The psychic should have been hers. The girl with the
bizarre maquillage should have been hers. Not that she had planned on either
one, but it was not fair that these unlooked for treats should have gone to the
others. Carolyn especially regretted the loss of the uncle. She had harbored
some very particular plans for him and Roger had spoiled it for her.
With Gallic practicality, Danielle—or Carolyn, they were one and the same now,
really—planned to take her pleasures where and when she could find them. His
paralytic state appealed to her; there were a number of succulent things she
could do to a man incapable of screaming. Killing was all well and good, but it
took terror to make the experience sublime.
* * *
Vicki walked as quickly as she could from Collinwood without running. She was
still trying to process all the knowledge, lies, hunches, emotions and scarce
remembered dreams that were pushing at her relentlessly. She had an urge to
sneak back into the house. There was something that she had to do. What was
it? She had to go to the West Wing. Yes, that was it.
But Barnabas was still in the house and right now Victoria Winters wanted
nothing to do with him. The words of Ben Stokes had etched themselves into her
memory. The obvious and utter decency of the writer had contrasted with the
nightmare with which he had been forced to contend.
Barnabas, so courtly, so pleasant, so enamored of a distant era. She had been
unnerved at times by him, but disarmed. He had spoken so eloquently of the
glories of the night. But he was out and about during the daytime now . . .
She was so sick and tired of not understanding what was happening. She turned
and faced Collinwood.
**I can help you understand, Victoria. All you have to do is come and let me
out.**
Roger and Julia's bodies stretched out on the floor.
**She opened the door.**
Elizabeth Collins Stoddard laughed at her and sipped on a glass of blood.
I, Ben Stokes, with a heavy heart do hereby begin this diary on the tenth of
January in the year 1796 . . .
All my pretty chicks and their dam?
Her name is Victoria. I cannot take care of her.
**My dear girl, don't be stupid. Come and find me.**
He had thick, coke-bottle glasses, with cloudy lenses and a smile, disgusting
and horrible and enticing. He beckoned to her.
**I can explain everything to you. It's only fitting that you should be the
one to release me.**
The doors to Collinwood opened and oceans of blood poured out of them.
**She's trying to keep you from your rightful place, my dear child. Just
ignore her histrionics. She's jealous of you.**
Vicki took a step toward Collinwood.
**When der fuehrer says we is de master race We heil, heil right in der
fueher's face Not to love der fuehrer is a great disgrace So we heil, heil
right in der fuehrer's face.**
Vicki blinked furiously. The feeling that she had to go and meet someone
dissipated.
**When der fuehrer says we is de master race We heil, heil right in der
fueher's face Not to love der fuehrer is a great disgrace So we heil, heil
right in der fuehrer's face.**
It was surreal. It was bizarre. But it was absolutely impossible to ignore.
Vicki turned away and followed the sound of the Bronx Cheers deeper into the
woods.
* * *
Without ceremony, Julia marched into the drawing room at Collinwood, stripping
off her gloves, finger by finger. She found Barnabas standing by the windows.
"Vicki? Thank heavens, you're back. I was very worried about you—Oh, it's
you."
"How nice to see you too."
He flushed slightly. He liked to think that his manners were impeccable. "How
is Professor Stokes?"
Julia twisted the corners of her mouth downward. "There's been no change. I
don't know if he'll ever recover." She mechanically began to straighten out the
fabric of the gloves and only to crumple it up again. "Have you made any
progress with the diary?"
He shook his head. "Not much. If only there was another way to find out more
about Louise Collins."
"I don't know any other way to do that. Elizabeth won't tell us if we ask. I
can't find Roger. Even if we could . . . " Julia broke off as she thought
of the state she'd last seen Roger in and about the footprints they'd seen.
Maybe he wasn't dead. Habeas Corpus. It was infantile to think it, but a part
of her clung to the idea. They hadn't found his body and until they did, he
wasn't really dead. "Didn't she write anything about her sister?"
Barnabas frowned. "She does, but these don't seem to be diaries in the
strictest sense of the word. Most of the entries consist of appointments,
shopping lists, things to do . . . " He said in a wondering tone, "There are
pages and pages about hemlines and darts and sleeve lengths."
Julia couldn't help it; she smiled.
"Julia, I'm serious. At a time when the world was experiencing what you
describe as devastation of the worst kind, all Cousin Elizabeth seemed to have
been thinking of was the specifics of her wardrobe."
"I'm sure she thought about the war, Barnabas. She probably didn't intend this
to be a complete record of her mental state while the world was falling apart."
Barnabas was only partly convinced. In the past few hours, Barnabas had
learned more about twentieth-century fashion than he had ever cared to know.
"She does mention Louise on occasion." He thumbed through the slim volume and
read aloud, "‘See about the fitting for Louise's party dress—rose taffeta???'
That is one of the more detailed entries."
"Well, keep at it. Perhaps if you skim ahead you'll find something. What?
You have found something."
He hesitated. "I'm not sure how pertinent it is. Actually, Julia, I'm
wondering if we should break off this line of investigation."
Julia stared at him. She repeated her argument, "We don't have any other
options. Keep on reading. There has to be something and even a vague clue
would be better than nothing."
"I am learning rather more about Elizabeth than is comfortable," he said
delicately. That wasn't going to be enough for Julia though. He elaborated
reluctantly. It was during Paul Stoddard's . . . "courtship" that Elizabeth
started writing about events and feelings, most specifically about their
physical relationship. Barnabas had been rather taken aback by these. His
impression of the stately matron, an image he had accepted completely, was
warping into something else. He found it upsetting.
To his surprise, he got little sympathy after expressing this. Sighing, he
read aloud one of the less disturbing passages.
**July 6, 1944
Must remember to call Mr. Pruitt about the Grandfather clock. Oh, and I
really have to have Hanscombe do something about the drapes in the drawing
room. It's supposed to be unseasonably warm today. Bother. I'll have to wear
something with long sleeves; I wish I didn't bruise so easily; Louise *will*
keep asking questions.
Paul left for Boston today. He threatened to stay away for good this time. I
don't think I'll be that fortunate.**
"You don't seem surprised," he said after finishing.
Julia gave a sigh of her own. "It's not that uncommon. It should be, but it's
not. At least, Elizabeth got through it alive."
"But why would she put up with this monster in the first place? Julia,"
Barnabas set the morocco-bound journal down, "Julia, there is more. At times,
she almost seems to like the violence." He was appalled. "Then there are
accounts of some rather—" he broke off and picking up the book again, found,
marked and handed Julia an entry for her to look at.
After Julia read it, she gave the book back without comment. While the passage
was more erotic than she would have expected, it wasn't as uncommon as Barnabas
probably thought.
"Well?"
"Elizabeth is a complicated person, Barnabas."
"I know that, but—"
Julia frowned. "I don't think you do. You have a tendency to think that we
started existing when you were released from your coffin. We had lives before
you came back. Hopes and foibles and dreams and fantasies and failures and
plans. We all have pasts. Elizabeth included." Unbidden, an image of Tom came
back to her.
He flinched at her tone. "But this man she married—"
Julia waited.
"I can't picture her putting up with the things that," he turned red yet again,
"the things . . . the things she describes him doing to her."
She was silent for a bit. She could have explained it to him, part of it in
any case—Julia suspected that the forces that had driven Elizabeth and Paul
together had roots more complicated than those of a battered wife and her
abuser—but she was far too emotionally drained to have to break it down into
the concepts and vocabulary necessary to make him understand. "What's
important right now," Julia said through gritted teeth, "is learning about
Louise Collins. Not about what makes Elizabeth tick.
"It's as if she never intended to keep a diary," he persisted.
"She probably didn't," Julia agreed. "If Elizabeth was living a fairly
ordinary life before she met Paul Stoddard, she may not have felt the need to
keep one. When he came along, that changed. Most people need an outlet for
their emotions and thoughts. She used what had been her appointment books.
It's not that strange."
"Surely she could have talked to someone?" he suggested. "Her sister, or
Roger. She mentions an aunt at times."
Julia rubbed her temples. She wanted a stiff drink, a cigarette and for the
events of the past year to have not happened, and not necessarily in that order
either. The sky was falling down around them and Barnabas was concerned with
his cousin's emotional state at a time, which tragic and chaotic though it
might have been, really had nothing to do with their present difficulties.
"Would you have talked to your teenaged sister or your brother about your
sexual relationships? Or your aunt?"
An image of dour Abigail Collins floated before Barnabas Collins. He
shuddered.
"It's not something most people feel comfortable discussing, even with close
friends. Women who've been beaten usually feel ashamed of what's happened,
Barnabas." And women who like it know better than to talk about it, she
finished to herself.
"Then why not keep a proper diary?"
Julia got up. "I don't know and what's more, I don't care. I'm sure there are
a dozen explanations; they don't seem important right now. We don't have a lot
of time to worry about this. She's only going to be gone for a few more hours.
Forget about her marriage and see if you can find out anything about Louise.
I'm afraid I can't sit and hold your hand while you struggle with the fact that
you're not always right and that not everyone matches up with your
cookie-cutter expectations."
* * *
Carolyn waited impatiently for the nurse to finish with the professor. She
would not be able to linger over him. It became very clear to her very quickly
that there were too many people bustling in and out of rooms. It had taken her
longer than expected to ferret out her prey. Not only were there more patients
than she had expected, but there were distractions here. She had come across
an array of delicious-looking surgical instruments with intriguing
possibilities. Her examination of these had taken a surprising amount of time.
She had been quite astonished when she'd seen how late it had gotten, but she
had liberated a number of these little toys for later perusal and
experimentation.
She would have liked to slaughter the nurse as well, but reluctantly concluded
that it was too risky. Finally the woman left.
Carolyn slipped into the room and closed the door carefully. "Hello, Professor
Stokes," she said very softly.
Her victim stared at her.
The thing that was Carolyn smiled at him brilliantly. The old man may not have
been capable of movement, but she knew terror when she saw it. "I brought you
a little something," she told him as she removed the stiletto from her handbag.
* * *
* * *
**July 31, 1944
Call Dr. Forsythe about Father's prescription Hanscombe—Silver in disgraceful
state Roger's room—air out? Cigarettes Cigars**
Barnabas noted that she'd crossed out the last item on the list. He read on.
**I refuse to cater to that disgusting man's whims. Paul still won't tell me
where he found him or why he brought him to Collinwood. I fail to see why we
should have to put him up and I am certainly not going to use precious ration
coupons to cater to Victor Fenn-Gibbon's whims.
Letter to Norma Pettibone???
Not certain if this is a suitable thing to do. What after all, does one say to
someone whose husband's grave has been desecrated? Is there anything one can
say? I blame this dreadful war. The decent men have all gone away.
Look at Mr. Fenn-Gibbon. Actually, I'd rather not. I shall have to be firm
with Paul. Father won't come out of his room and Louise has been abominably
rude, not that I don't appreciate her feelings, but still, one must observe the
proprieties.
Norma . . . Shall tell the Constable that this sort of thing simply cannot
go on and that whatever vandals are responsible must be caught. Will have a
quiet word with Norma to that effect when I see her next.**
Barnabas tapped the cover of the book thoughtfully and skimmed through the
several more pages.
**August 8, 1944
He's not dead, thank God. When Hanscombe told me that the Mitchelson boy was
in the foyer with a telegraph, I thought the worst. We are fortunate that
Roger's injuries were not more severe than they were.
Louise's reaction was very odd. I dreaded telling her; she's always been
Roger's especial pet, but it was as if I was informing her about a stranger.
Mr. Fenn-Gibbon was in the library with her when I told her. He refused to
leave the room and if I didn't know any better, I would have sworn that—no,
it's impossible.**
**August 15, 1944
Louise is furious with me. She wouldn't listen to me though. I thought Father
could make her see that her behavior of late has been completely unacceptable.
Every time I turn around she is with HIM. I cannot understand why. He's
possibly one of the most hideous-looking men I have ever seen. He's disgusting
and vile and everything that a fifteen-year-old girl should abhor. He seems to
hold a fascination for her. Why?
Roger should be released from the hospital soon. Perhaps he can make her see
reason.
Paul won't get rid of HIM. When I told Paul that I would do it myself, he was
enraged. I've never seen Paul like this. The bruises are worse than I've
ever.**
Elizabeth had crossed out the last sentence. Barnabas had only been able to
read it, but holding the page up to the light.
**I think Father tried to make HIM leave, but when they came out of the study,
Father looked defeated and HE looked like the cat who swallowed the canary.
Everything seems to be falling apart. There's no sign that the war will end.
Father's drinking is worse than usual. He's going to kill himself, if he keeps
up with it. They still haven't caught the vandals. Someone actually stole a
body from the cemetery. I never thought the world could be like this.
I'm twenty-seven; I feel older than Methesulah.**
* * *
Louise tired of Spike Jones and switched to Jimmy Durante. Not sure of what
was happening, Vicki pursued the phantom music further into the woods. At
times she thought she saw Louise beckoning to her, but the shape was too
indistinct for Vicki to be sure.
When Vicki stopped to catch her breath, she recognized the area. "The tree
house," she half-whispered to herself.
**Up here, toots.**
Victoria climbed up the rope ladder. When she was inside, she looked around.
No one was there. "What is it you want me to do? Is there something here I'm
supposed to find?"
**Not exactly. You're here to listen.**
"Roger?" Vicki squinted. She could see him now. He was seated on a wooden
crate. Somehow he managed to look dignified. "Roger? What are you doing here?
No one's been able to find you."
**We don't have much time. HE's growing stronger.**
"I don't understand," she said dumbly. It was getting to be her mantra.
Louise came into view like the Cheshire Cat and gave her a crooked smile.
**Someone has to go back.**
* * *
Nicholas Blair appeared to be quite composed as he strolled down the village's
main drag. Inside he was anything but. Events were not going according to his
plans. He appreciated destruction and chaos, but he preferred to be the one
orchestrating it. His first efforts at restoring Maggie had been less than
successful. He had tried a number of different rituals and still nothing.
With each failure, he grew a tinge more desperate.
Information was what was needed. The entity in the West Wing had given him
hints, but the more Nicholas learned, the more he realized he needed to know in
order to bring Maggie back.
Shouts and then the sounds of running interrupted his planning. He turned down
an alley that led to the waterfront. It might be nothing, but then again . .
.
"Oh, Christ. He's been in the water a while. Better get Patterson's boys."
Nicholas came up to the end of the alley and an incredible stench assaulted his
nostrils.
"Why the hell can't they just shoot themselves? Jesus Christ, this is bad!"
The reek kept a growing crowd of villagers at a distance. When the deputies
arrived, they had all they could do not to vomit.
The floor manager from the cannery, a man who had fished more than his share of
drowning victims from the sea, fought his own nausea and came closer to the
body. "Oh my God. It's Roger Collins."
"Jesus H. Christ, how the hell can you tell?"
"That's his watch. I'd recognize that anywhere." The manager looked at the
battered and bloated corpse and then at the sheriff. "Poor Mrs. Stoddard.
This is going to kill her."
Nicholas had not given much thought as to why Maggie had been at Collinwood,
let alone in a shut-up wing of the mansion. As the villagers began to buzz
about the mistress of Collinwood, he cursed himself for sloppy thinking.
Elizabeth's sarcastic comments . . . Maggie's temper. Was it possible . .
.? He turned on and walked away with purpose.
* * *
Barnabas read page after page of Elizabeth's journal from 1944 in growing
dread. It now was a proper diary and with every word, he longed for the
descriptions of hairstyles and fabrics. Roger came home to something that must
have seemed worse than the war he had left. Louise was inseparable from Victor
Fenn-Gibbon. Barnabas noticed that Elizabeth never referred to him as that
unless she could help it.
"If you name the horror, then it . . . " he, himself, left the superstition
unsaid and turned back to the pages.
**October 31, 1944
What have I become?
She's not even fifteen and she's pregnant. I had her in the car and on the way
to the doctor in Bangor when she realized where I was taking her. I don't know
how or even what happened, but then we were back at Collinwood.
"I won't kill my baby," she kept shouting at me. She screamed HIS name aloud
and then . . . oh dear God, that thing that rose up from the road and I
can't even describe it . . .
HE was in the drawing room when we came back. Louise smirked at me and then
disappeared upstairs.
"There is nothing you can do, my dear. She is mine. Collinwood is mine."
Those beady little eyes buried in layers of flesh behind his filthy glasses .
. . how could she stand to have him touch her? HE wouldn't stop, but kept
going on about how he owned us.
I had to do it. There was no one else. Father's dying. Roger's a weakling.
I took the . . . it seems like a dream now. I took the poker and I . . .
I killed him.
And then he came back.**
* * *
Vicki tried to fathom what Louise kept repeating to her. "What does that mean?
‘Someone must go back'? I don't . . . back where? None of this makes any
sense."
**Mother, mother, I am sick, Send for the doctor, quick, quick, quick. Mother,
mother, shall I die? Yes, child, yes, child, bye and bye.**
Roger stared at his sister and then smiled ruefully at Vicki. **She wasn't
always like this. She was full of life and irrepressible joy and then—**
**Shhh.** Louise held up a finger to her lips. **That's not allowed.**
**Vicki, you have the knowledge, at least all the facts that we can give you
without breaking the rules. Collinwood isn't safe anymore, that much you must
know.**
"Mrs. Stoddard could—"
**Liz is lost. Or will be very soon. My son . . . he's lost too. We're
all lost unless you—**
**Someone must go back.**
Vicki tore at her hair. "WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? WHY WON'T YOU TELL ME?"
Louise vanished into the ether.
**I wish I could help you more, but I'm afraid I must leave now as well.**
Victoria Winters watched in horror as she realized that Roger was as
insubstantial as Louise.
**You're a bright girl; you'll piece it together.** He stood up and gave her a
nod. **The young can be so judgmental. We all do things we cannot help
sometimes. Remember that when you're most in need. A good man's opinion is
worth listening to.**
"ROGER!!!"
And then she was alone.
* * *
Carolyn caressed the stiletto. "I will miss our little chats," she commented
as she made an almost gentle incision across his chest. "But everyone keeps
taking my kills away from me. It's not fair." Her indignation was real.
Eliot was still conscious and staring at her like a man who had seen Hell
personified.
"You can understand that, can't you? After all, a girl's gotta have fun."
Blood filled the cuts on the professor's chest.
"Pretty," Carolyn said with a demented smile.
He was going to die. They were all going to die and there was nothing he could
do about it.
Carolyn whipped her head around. "What was that? Did you hear that?"
It did not show on his paralyzed features, but Eliot concentrated. He could
hear someone splashing in the bathroom adjoining this torture chamber.
"Do we have another visitor?" Carolyn held up an index finger. "You wait right
here. I'll be right back. I think someone else wants to play." She had more
time than she had hoped. Two for the price of one, Carolyn thought, grinning
with anticipation as she opened the door to the bathroom. A handsome orderly
perhaps or maybe a . . .
Or maybe a naked bloated corpse of a woman with dripping blonde hair.
**"What are you doing to Daddy?"**
* * *
Barnabas sat in Elizabeth's bedroom. He held a journal in one hand and a pen
in the other. On a piece of paper, he scratched another hatch mark.
His stately, ladylike, very respectable cousin had killed twenty-two people and
he was only up to1956.
Incredibly, Mr. Fenn-Gibbon had not stayed dead after his hostess had
dispatched him with a poker. At first Barnabas had assumed that the man had
only been stunned, but Elizabeth made it very clear that he had been dead.
The prose was not shallow anymore. It hadn't been for some time. In the
autumn of 1944, Elizabeth Collins Stoddard had entered a private hell that made him, a
man who had some understanding of such things, sick with horror.
He marveled at times at her strength. That a diminutive woman could manage to
drag an overweight corpse into the woods and then set him afire spoke to her
will. Barnabas went back to the entry that was what they had been searching
for.
**May 1, 1945
Louise is dead. The doctor said there was nothing he could have done. She
lasted long enough to deliver the baby and make me promise to look after her.
She named her "Victoria".
The baby looks nothing like HIM. She's the image of Louise at that age. I
held the baby in my arms.
It's for the best. The Hammond Foundling Home is reputed to be excellent. The
money will make it easier on her. Perhaps she'll be adopted.
Paul delivered her there today . . . why do I feel so awful about this?
She'll be safe in New York.
I have till June. That's what HE told me. I've tried resisting HIM. I've
used every ounce of will I have. There's nothing left.**
Barnabas felt filthy. With clockwork regularity, Elizabeth had supplied
Fenn-Gibbon with bodies twice a year. In the meantime, life returned to a
semblance of normality at Collinwood. Her father died. Roger returned to the
studies that the war had interrupted, unaware that his surviving sister was a
murderess. Elizabeth gave birth to Carolyn. Barnabas couldn't find a volume
for 1948, but it didn't seem to matter. Paul Stoddard evidently abandoned his wife
and child.
Louise was not mentioned again either by name or inference.
The diary-like entries grew sparser. Instead of worrying about what she was
going to wear, Elizabeth concentrated on Carolyn. Carolyn became the focus of
Elizabeth Stoddard's life.
Twice a year, Elizabeth recorded how, when, and where she found her victims.
She could be quite distant in her recounting, he noted. Some of the people did
cause her remorse. Of others, particularly the men she had lured to the west
wing with promises of dalliances, she had no such moral compunctions.
Barnabas came across an entry that disturbed him more than the others.
**December 21, 1965
I don't think I shall ever feel clean again. She was a pretty girl. She was
hitchhiking. I saw her near the Old House.
She came back.
She came back and she tried to . . . I don't know how to describe it. It
was like HE was there in her trying to get in me.
I killed her again. Can you kill what is already dead?
She had red hair and . . . it took me awhile to notice it from the mangled
flesh, but the girl had a tattoo on her. It was very odd looking. It seemed
to be a double-headed snake.
I cannot go through that again.**
There was one other victim who had risen and Elizabeth had duly noted that this
one too had borne the mark of a twin-headed serpent.
* * *
Julia still couldn't find Roger. She had exhausted all the obvious and not so
obvious places in the house. Could he be in the woods? Julia remembered how
he'd looked the last time she'd seen him. She didn't like to think of him
wandering around in his present condition.
She stopped. Roger's dead, she thought. They knew he was dead. They'd seen
the footprints. She had spent hours searching for a dead man.
Barnabas wasn't in the drawing room anymore. He was probably at the Old House.
Julia didn't hold out much hope for Elizabeth's journal, no, that wasn't the
case. She had a feeling that Barnabas hadn't really done the research as
thoroughly as he should have. Vicki had probably come back and he had probably
thrown it over as a lost cause.
She sighed and decided to see if he was at the Old House.
Halfway down the drive, she saw Roger approaching her.
Incredible relief was quickly replaced by anger. "Where have you been?" she
demanded. "I've been trying to find you everywhere. We thought . . . we
thought . . . "
**You need to find David now. It's too late, I think, but perhaps you can help
him in some way. He has no one.**
Julia stood very still.
**It's not all lost. Not if she figures it out. Julia, if she doesn't succeed
. . . I'm sorry. For what it's worth, I wish it could have been
different.**
* * *
Barnabas was about to read the final volume, the book that held the events for
this year when the bedroom door opened. He jumped, startled and his eyes
locked with those of Elizabeth.
The woman with his mother's face seemed just as nonplussed as he was.
"Barnabas?" She was incredulous. "What are you doing here?" Then her gaze fell
on the journals scattered over the desk.
For Barnabas the atmosphere grew thick as they both realized what had happened
and what possible consequences could result. "Elizabeth," he said by way of
greeting.
His cousin stepped into the room and very carefully closed the door behind her.
Barnabas was nearly a foot taller and at least twice her size, but still, he
took a step backward. It was, perhaps, an ill-judged move. Elizabeth regarded
him coolly. He had once found her resemblance to his mother soothing; it
chilled him to the bone now.
"I should never have written it all down," she said in a distant voice.
"You needed a release." What would Julia call it? An emotional outlet? "It's
understandable."
Elizabeth smiled at him sourly. "It's also foolhardy and weak." She came over
to the desk and began to stack the journals neatly in a pile.
"Elizabeth, we can help you to—"
"‘We'?"
He explained. "Julia. We can help you—"
"Julia's read these?"
Without thinking, he clarified, "Only a passage or two. I haven't told her
about what happened when Mr. Fenn-Gibbon came to Collinwood."
"Does she know where you are?"
It didn't occur to him to say anything other than the truth.
Elizabeth walked over to the blazing fire and dropped the diaries into the
fire.
"ELIZABETH!"
She looked at him puzzled. "Well, I can't let anyone else read these. They
could use it against me as evidence."
Was she completely sane? "Elizabeth, you've killed nearly forty-four people.
This has to stop. We have to find a way to defeat this Thing."
She laughed at him. "Cousin Barnabas, there is no way to defeat HIM. If there
were, do you suppose I would have fed him all these years?" She took the poker
and began stirring up the fire further. The flames licked at the books and
devoured each volume, pages at a time. "Actually, the total is nearer
forty-five. Or will be. I'm very sorry about this."
He saw the poker coming down toward his head and moved out of the way just in
time. It would have been ludicrous—a diminutive society matron trying to
murder a man twice her size—had Elizabeth not been so practiced at killing. He
didn't have time to think. She was relentless; his instincts took over.
* * *
Nicholas walked through the upper corridors of the west wing. His time at the
scrying mirror had been well spent. He knew what Barnabas knew and that was
enough to give him a fair idea of what had killed Maggie. When he was done
disposing of this interloper, he then intended to teach Elizabeth Stoddard just
what it was to cross him. Barnabas may not have read far enough to know about
Maggie, but Nicholas could draw his own conclusions.
**Ah, dear boy, how nice of you to drop by.**
* * *
Victoria Winters took the backstairs. She needed to see Mrs. Stoddard again.
Sober, preferably. Collinwood might not be safe, but Vicki had nowhere else to
go and it was Collinwood that held all the answers.
* * *
Julia met the squad car on the driveway. The sheriff had never liked Roger
Collins, but the man had been a human being and you never got used to telling
people their kin was dead.
"You found Roger." It was a statement not a question.
"How did you know?"
Julia looked a little past the sheriff. "Call it a sick feeling. Come inside.
I don't think Mrs. Stoddard is home yet, but she should be back soon." David,
she would need to find him. Maybe it wasn't too late as Roger had predicted,
but then again, maybe it was.
They went inside.
"She's probably upstairs if she is home," Julia told the sheriff numbly.
* * *
Barnabas Collins cradled the dead body of Elizabeth in his arms. It had all
happened so quickly. He hadn't meant to kill her. The eyes were still staring
at him—his mother's beautiful green eyes. He closed them shut.
Victoria Winters pushed open Elizabeth's bedroom door and then she screamed.
TO BE CONTINUED ...
