Echo of the Past

Echo of the Past

by Nicky

ALL-HALLOWS EVE AT COLLINWOOD:  1968 Parallel Time

(prologue by Midnite)

Chris Collins leaned back against the banister of the grand staircase. From this vantage point, he was able to survey the costumed guests that paraded past, all lit by the glow of flickering jack -o-lanterns. A mixture of gaiety and anticipation hung thickly in the air like smoke.  Everyone was paired off, he noticed, which served to underscore the loneliness he felt. A giggle cut through the din, and he looked across the foyer to see Hannah Stokes engaged flirtatiously with a masked gentleman whose face seemed angled down toward her ample cleavage. Even she stood a chance to get lucky tonight, Chris considered miserably.

"Are you all right?" a tiny voice asked from behind.

"Oh, hi Amy," he said after turning quickly. "Hi Daniel. You two look great.”

“So do you. But how come you're all by yourself?"

"Just feel like being by myself. Now go have fun. I'm fine."

"C'mon, Amy," Daniel called back as he darted up the staircase, causing the butler of the mansion to move quickly to avoid him. "Blasted kids," the stiff man mumbled as he headed toward Buffie Harrington to deliver a whispered message to her. She, in turn, headed quickly into the drawing room as if on cue and closed the doors behind her.

The intimate group gathered before the fire was oblivious to her intrusion. She found the hostess and promptly repeated the message told to her. "Mrs. Collins, you should know that your father is now resting in an upstairs bedroom.”

"Thank you, Buffie. And please thank Trask for me, won't you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

 "Your stepfather is passed out again, isn't he?" her husband, resplendent in his military costume, boomed.

"This IS a party, after all,” she replied while straightening her voluminous skirt.

"And the excuse for his doing this same thing every night at the Eagle?"

"Don't start with me, Quentin," she muttered, all the while smiling.

Oblivious to this exchange, Roger rose quickly and raised his glass, the pumpkin-orange flames from the fireplace reflecting off the crystal. "I'd like to propose a toast to our hostess," he announced.

"Here, here!" Bruno Hess added. The room fell silent, an annoyed Carolyn flashed a glance toward her husband Will, and the beautiful Angelique Stokes Collins beamed.

Dr. Longworth rushed to Angelique's side, leaving his date behind on the sofa. "I have an idea for something you might enjoy, my dear," he offered excitedly. Sabrina Stuart eyed them both dourly.

"I can't wait to hear it, Cyrus."

“lt's Halloween, after all!" he told her. "The Samhain ... you know, the day the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead is the thinnest. It's a perfect night for a séance.”

No one spoke at first, then a magnificently gowned relative said, "I don't like that idea at all."

"Then it's time you open the doors to your prejudices, Elizabeth," Longworth sniped.

"Well, I think it's a wonderful idea," Angelique said "Cyrus. won't you do the honors?"

"It would be my pleasure." The sound of Quentin's boots padding away from the group caused everyone to watch him head toward the liquor cabinet.

"Very well," Longworth added softly, "Those of us that are interested can seat ourselves at the table." He placed a single white candle in the center, and continued; "Touch hands with the person on each side of you, and whatever happens, do not break contact with them. We must allow our spiritual energies to flow between us.” 

Longworth closed his eyes, and intoned, “Spirits of the nether world; hear my call. Send us a messenger."

At that moment, the bay window swung open with a swoosh, the draft causing the raging fire to sway and extinguishing the candles in the room.

"I told you this was a bad idea!" Elizabeth called out in the darkness. With impeccable timing; Hoffman entered the room and switched on the lights.

Once again able to see, they were faced with a horrifying sight …

 

1

Shifting, blurred water seemed to surround him, almost as though he were a boy again and trying to hold his breath longer than Tom as they both splashed in the surf at Widow's Hill with Carolyn and Maggie; submerged in the water and deliberately forcing himself to stay crouched just above the sandy bottom before rising inevitably and bursting through the crystalline ceiling in an explosion of tiny droplets like diamonds. This was just like the moment before breaking the surface ... rising, always rising.

Chris Collins blinked his bleary brown eyes and shook his head.  Something wasn't quite right.  He wasn't at the table with the others, going through the motions of a seance like children. It was only his feelings for Cyrus that even kept him at the party, knowing that, despite all his efforts, he could never capture his friend's attention in the way that Sabrina had, or, in a more fundamentally hormonal way, Angelique.

But speaking of Angelique:  here she was before him.  Had something happened?  Had he passed out? She had obviously changed into another costume, but was she playing some kind of mad game? Why was she dressed like a servant?

"Monsieur Collins?" she purred, her eyes like flecks of ice focused on his, her mouth wreathed in a sinister, mocking smile. Wait a minute ... monsieur?  Had she just called him “monsieur”? "You don't look at all well, Monsieur. Perhaps we should continue our discussion at another time.”

"Angelique," he mumbled, drawing a trembling hand over his face, feeling the tiny beads of sweat, as cold as ice, clinging like insects to his palm. "What's going on? Where's the party?"

She laughed, a tinkling sound like the breaking of thin March ice over a pond.  "Whatever are you talking about, Monsieur?" she asked "You don't make any sense."

"Why are you dressed like that?" he asked, then glanced around. This wasn't Collinwood. It was the drawing room of the Loomis House, but it was completely different. Gone was the black and white television set Carolyn was constantly threatening to throw into the trash; gone was the hideous afghan Hoffman had given Carolyn and Will as a wedding gift; gone was the filthy couch that Will had been forced to buy at a garage sale after pawning the antique davenport brought over by the Collinses of 1868. Chris shuddered helplessly. What had happened to him?

Angelique glanced down at the olive-green dress she wore, complete with ruffled apron. "I don't know what you mean," she said, mystified "I think you should lie down -"

"No," he said strongly, then it struck him. The séance – of course!  Hadn't Cyrus said that All Hallow's Eve was the night when the curtain that stood between the land of the dead and the land of the living was thinnest? Well, what if that included the curtain that separated the past from the future? He knew that, ever since boyhood, Cyrus had been fascinated with the dual relationship between good and evil; but Chris' interests - aside from convincing Cyrus to sleepover in his room as often as possible on hot summer nights and play truth or dare until midnight - were invested in time travel. He had always suspected it was possible ... but had it truly happened, or was he hallucinating?

He decided he'd better find out.

"Angelique," Chris said, relieved to discovered that this was the maid's name. Hadn't Angelique mentioned at one point that she had an ancestor who lived at Collinwood who bore her name? Of course she had never mentioned that this grand relative was a servant, but it was entirely possible. "I'm sorry ... I wasn't listening. Could you ... er ... refresh me about what we were discussing?"

"It isn't entirely pleasant," Angelique sniffed, "and although 1 hate to bring it up, you yourself have forced me to." Her blue eyes flashed as she proclaimed, "I don't think it wise that you came to me with what you know."

"Know?" he asked.  He didn’t have to feign confusion, which was almost a relief.

"Don't mock me," she said dangerously.  "You know that I am a witch." Chris' eyes widened. The parallels between past and present were disturbing indeed, for wasn't it rumored that Angelique Stokes Collins dabbled in the black arts?

Angelique crossed her arms and, hips swaying, strode around the room with her lower lip trembling. "You yourself told me that you have nothing to gain by destroying me, but I do not like when people know my secrets, or threaten me." She whirled to face him, and he could see that, despite the cold anger she emanated, there was also a look of stark, naked fear etched indelibly into her features. "In fact, I consider them to be my very deadly enemies."

"I can assure that I'm not -" Chris tried to say, but Angelique cut him off.

"I don't want to hear your excuses," she snapped. "You caught me in a moment of weakness ... a moment of anger. It was your bad timing that brought you into my room just as I conjured the Powers of Darkness to send Josette into the arms of Barnabas Collins." Angelique's face was white with anger. "I love Jeremiah too much to lose him to Josette. The love spell I have woven around her and Barnabas will link them together for as long as they live ... and Jeremiah will be mine." She cackled fiendishly, the shrieking of a flock of rooks, and Chris felt himself shiver helplessly.

"What makes you think I won't tell Barnabas or Jeremiah what I know?" Chris said, and thought, It couldn’t hurt to play along.  I hope.

Any traces of amusement vanished from the witch's face. "Don't play games with me, Nicholas Collins. You see, I know what you are as well." The mocking smile on Angelique's face raised goosebumps on his flesh, even though he had no idea what she was talking about.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Chris said bravely, even as, with a flash of excitement, he realized what his role was in this time. Nicholas Collins ... of course! An ancestor who had left Collinwood in the winter of 1795, just after the marriage of Barnabas Collins to Josette DuPres. As a boy, Chris had always admired the portrait of his ancestor that hung in a deserted room in the West Wing; the resemblance between them had always drawn him, fascinated. And perhaps there was more of a similarity to them than just their looks ...

"I, too, am capable of seeing the forbidden," Angelique said proudly. "Through my craft I am able to see what others cannot ... through my Eyes in the Night." She smiled wickedly. "I have seen you with that handsome Forbes. I know the ... games ... you two play." She deliberately accented the word "games" as she raised her eyebrow. Airily, she said, "What would your family do if they knew that one of their brethren was so disturbed ... so depraved ... so evil as to go against everything his religion has taught him was wrong and to revel in the sins of the flesh ... and the flesh of his own kind?" She laughed again. "Why, they would think it akin to cannibalism ... but somehow worse, I'm afraid."

"You're lying!" Chris boomed. "You have no power to know any such thing."

"Shall I conjure a vision for you?" Angelique asked. "Shall I show you what I know to be true?"

Without waiting for an answer, the sorceress turned to the wall where a tapestry hung, and waved her arms before it three times. After a moment the fabric of the tapestry faded and shifted until it slowly revealed two humans - two men - together in a vast bed, locked in a heated, passionate embrace. Lips on lips, legs intertwined, groin to groin ...

One bore the face of Joe Haskell, Chris' cousin who had moved to Boston only a few months before.

The other was Chris himself.

Or, Chris reminded himself, wide-eyed and dry-mouthed, his ancestor, Nicholas Collins.

Very interesting indeed.

Trembling, Chris snarled, "What do you intend to do with this information?"

All wide-eyed innocence, Angelique exclaimed, "Nothing!" But a moment later her voice grated like crushed glass ground underfoot. "Unless you try to betray me. Then I won't hesitate to destroy you."

It seemed suddenly as if an electric shock had passed through him, and he whirled to face the table that lay behind them. It was as though instinct had overtaken him completely as he reached for the box that lay before him, flipped open the lid, seized one of the pistols that lay within, and whirled around. He caught only a glimpse of Angelique's astonished face before he pulled the trigger, nearly deafening himself by the blast of the gun.

What in the name of hell-? Chris thought, then realized that, in order to make history continue along toward predestined end, the instincts of Nicholas Collins had resumed their proper place, if only for that moment, in order to guide his descendent towards the fate assigned to him.

Even as these thoughts ran through his head in a tenth of a second, Angelique had dropped to the floor with a startled shriek, clutching her chest just above her heart. He took a few tentative steps forward until he was looming over, staring down into her burning, hate-filled eyes.

"You fool," she spat. "Does your paltry life really mean this much to you?" Her lips curled in a sneer as rivers of crimson ran between her fingers and stained the green fabric of her dress. "I will show you what becomes of those who trifle with Devil's minions." Forking her middle and index fingers, Angelique hissed, "I set a curse on you, Nicholas Collins...”

2

"Good God!" Elizabeth shrieked, clutching her cheeks with hooked fingers and dragging red stripes down the flesh. "What's become of Angelique?"

No one in the room had noticed the strange disappearance of Chris Collins. Instead, they were focused on the woman who had taken Angelique's place at the table.

Staring at them with round blue eyes, a shock of bobbed black hair, and a pale, porcelain face that seemed very Angelique in structure, a wraith of a woman clad in a scarlet trapeze dress with four gold buttons adorning the front faced them from the chair that Angelique had occupied until only a moment ago.

"Obviously this woman has taken her place," Cyrus said in his typically breathless manner. "But look at the resemblance! Surely you can see it!"

"Balderdash," Roger spat. "Angelique is a thousand times more glorious than this creature. Her sense of style is impeccable. She would never be seen in so ... so tawdry a garment!"

Roger! the woman who called herself Cassandra Collins thought with a kind of awe. And Elizabeth ... and Carolyn ... and Willie ... and Julia Hoffman ... at a seance of some kind. And they somehow know of Angelique. Her eyes narrowed. That is, they know of AN Angelique.

"Can you speak?" Cyrus asked. Cassandra resisted the urge to bite him. Great, she thought gloomily. The first time I actually wish I were a vampire and the curse has already been lifted.

"Yes," she said carefully. "I can speak." I must be wary, she thought, and 1 must figure out how I came to this place. The last thing I remember was sending Elizabeth Stoddard into a trance and changing my clothes before going to take care of Professor Stokes. How on earth did I end up in this place? And where is it exactly?

"Tell us your name," Will urged her, his words slurred, sloshing the amber contents of his tumbler onto the Oriental carpet. "Can you tell us your name? And where you're from and how you came to be here."

 "My name is Cassandra Collins," she said, eyes narrowed as a thought struck her. Could she have crossed over into another band of time? During her tenure in the 18th century as a member of Nicholas Blair's coven - part of her Master's punishment for allowing herself to be killed in 1796 - there had been whispers of such a phenomenon. Exact doubles of our world living lives remarkably parallel to our own ... yet skewed somehow. She had scoffed at it then, but she wasn't scoffing now.  It seemed that, somehow, in some bizarre reversal of magics, she had been drawn into this time. The foolish little seance they held, Cassandra thought wisely. And judging from their attire it is All Hallow's Eve - Samhain - the night when the spirits of the dead walk the earth freely. Of course!

"You are a Collins?" Carolyn asked suspiciously. "We've never heard of you."

"My name is Cassandra Collins," she repeated stubbornly, as though she hadn't heard a word Carolyn had said "I live at Collinwood in the year 1969. I am married to Roger Collins."

"But - but I am Roger Collins!" Roger squealed, clutching his ascot with trembling, twig fingers. "This - this is absurd!"

"You must admit," Quentin said quietly, eyeing this strange creature who bore so great a resemblance to his hated wife, "that there is more than a resemblance. Why, the eyes are exactly the same as Angelique's. So are the cheekbones. Give her a blonde wig and she could BE Angelique."

I am Angelique, you idiot, she wanted to snap, but held her tongue. And this too was a curious phenomenon. The only possible double this man could have in her own time was the ghost who was even now haunting the West Wing of Collinwood, summoned by that insufferable brat David Collins and his new girlfriend. Still, Cassandra thought with a trace of melancholy, he IS handsome. But his eyes lacked the spiritual depth held in those of Barnabas.

And speaking of which, where was he? If a ghost in her time could have a flesh and blood counterpart in this time, then why not a vampire?

But then it occurred to her. If this truly was a parallel time, and events had occurred similarly enough to warrant there being doubles of the people she knew, then there still were enough differences to explain the changes she sensed more than saw. The protective way Willie stood next to Carolyn … could they be married? And the tacky costume Elizabeth wore. Her counterpart would never be seen in something so motheaten. And Roger's apparent devotion to Angelique ... so if all those changes were valid, then perhaps she had never interfered in the life of Barnabas Collins in 1795. Could it be that he had married his Josette after all?

The thought made her ill.

"If this woman has taken Angelique's place," Carolyn said with more than a hint of a smile in her voice, "then where is Angelique exactly?"

"There's no way of telling," Cyrus said with a tremor in his voice. "It could be that she has exchanged places with this woman ... or that she has ceased to exist completely.”

"Even that would be too much to hope for," Quentin muttered into his drink. Elizabeth shot him a look.

But they still speak of an Angelique, Cassandra pondered, as though she were one of them. A human?  A descendant of my counterpart's? Perhaps there will be time for me to find out.

"You know," Cyrus began tentatively, "1 have heard of a theory known as 'parallel time'. It pontificates that -"

"English, please," Quentin growled

Cyrus scowled. "It SUGGESTS that there are alternate realities very similar to our own. Each reality contains exact doubles mirroring us, but living separate lives because they've made separate decisions."

"Poppycock," Roger spat, slurping his drink noisily.

"Not necessarily," Will said. "Look at this exquisite creature. She looks to be our very own Angelique in every way. Except for the dark hair, of course.  But just look at that expression on her face.  She's deep in thought. I've seen Angelique wear that expression more than once."

             

             "And how often is more than once?" Carolyn whispered, elbowing her husband sharply in the ribs.

"But her name is Cassandra," Quentin said.

"A sister of the parallel time Angelique,” Cyrus suggested.  "Doesn't our own Angelique have a twin sister?"

"Who lives as far away from here as the boat would take her," Carolyn said.

A twin sister! Cassandra thought. So the Angelique of this time was mortal. Very interesting indeed.  But not well liked, obviously, at least not by the women in the family. Perhaps it would be better to gather information away from the prying eyes of these strangers with such familiar faces.

"Do you have a sister?" Cyrus asked Cassandra.

"I don't feel like answering anymore of your questions," she said airily, and in the blink of an eye, she faded swiftly away.

Elizabeth and Carolyn shrieked in unison, while Bruno fainted dead away.

Cyrus and Quentin gawked.

Will sipped his drink and drawled, "Well, honestly. What do you expect on Halloween?"

Meanwhile, in the hallway on the second floor, Cassandra rematerialized, then glanced around before stealthily making her way up the hall. She had asked the spirits that ruled this time to send her to a room where she might divine more information, and her instincts were now leading her here. After a moment she found herself facing a set of double doors, and after a second of hesitation, flung them open.

Cassandra gasped.

Facing her was an enormous portrait, painted in a vivid sprawl of colors, of a gorgeous woman sitting before a blue blackdrop in a diaphanous cerulean gown with a glimmering necklace around her neck. One perfect golden curl hung over her right shoulder.

It was, of course, the portrait of the mysterious Angelique Collins.

This must be her room, Cassandra thought wisely. The perfect place to conjure her ancestor. Raising her arms, Cassandra intoned, "I summon the spirit of Angelique Bouchard to appear before me. Hear me, spirit, and recognizing the link that lies between us, answer my call. But know that if you disobey me I will sentence you to walk this earth in an agony of loneliness until the end of time." When the last word left her lips, Cassandra observed that the air before her seemed to shimmer, and that what appeared to be a cloud of a thousand dust motes drew together to form the opaque apparition of a woman in an olive green servant's dress with a white mop-cap perched upon her mountain of curls. Her icy blue eyes glared forth with a spectral light.

"I am Angelique Bouchard," the spirit whispered, and her voice seemed to echo throughout the room. "Why have you summoned me?"

"I am a stranger in this time," Cassandra answered, marveling at her counterpart, "summoned by a seance. I seek to know more about the woman I've replaced. Her name is Angelique as well. What can you tell me about her?"

The spirit's eyes seemed to gleam with a sinister glint of pure evil. "Yes," she hissed. "I am very proud of her. Her name is Angelique Stokes, but she has married Quentin Collins to infiltrate this house and gain the power and prestige that she deserves, and that I was never able to take from the Collins family in my time. Quentin and Angelique hold a mutual hatred and distrust for each other, although Angelique has tried time and again to convince herself that it is love.  But she truly loves no one but herself, as any good witch should.”

Cassandra made a disgusted face. "She is a witch, you say?"

The specter shrugged "A novice, true," it admitted, "but never before have I seen such power. She could wield it most mightily if she chooses to." The ghost of Angelique suddenly looked sad. "But she may never have a chance. This will not be the last seance in this house."

Cassandra raised an interested eyebrow.  "No?" she said.

"No," the ghost agreed. "Soon Angelique will be felled by a needle to the brain wielded by one who loves her too much to let anyone else have her. She will be entombed at Eagle Hill Cemetery, and will lie there in state, perfectly preserved, for six months, until one will arrive who will free her."

"You make no sense," Cassandra said. "How will she be freed?"

The spirit sighed. "I cannot understand the nature of her preservation, but preserved she will be. And she will rise and walk again, but not as a human being. Never again as a human being. Humans are warm. Angelique will be the very essence of winter."

"I suppose it doesn't matter," Cassandra said "I have no plans to return to this time. I don't wish to meddle in these people's affairs any more than I have to. They are not the Collinses I know."

"You fascinate me," the ghost of Angelique said. "If I could only again attain a human body, I -"

Cassandra cut her off with a wave of her hand .  "Don't even think of it," she said coldly. "Because we will never see each other again."

In the second after she delivered that sentence, she could hearing the tolling of a clock as it chimed twelve solemn notes. Midnight. The witching hour.

The ground beneath her gave a violent shake, and as it did so, the startled ghost of Angelique Bouchard faded utterly away. Though she managed to regain her balance, Cassandra closed her eyes for a moment ... and when she opened them, found herself standing in an abandoned room completely devoid of furnishings. Dark and deserted, it smelled musty and unused. But suddenly she recognized it. Of course, she thought. Roger brought me up here the week I married him. It's a room in the East Wing, closed off and never used. But why should my presence in this room send me back to my own time? It would have made more sense for me to return here from the seance table. Unless ...

She smiled wickedly. Unless this room was some sort of gateway to the world she had just departed. How often did it change? Would she ever see any of those people again? Solve the mysteries and riddles that confounded her even now?

Cassandra shrugged. It didn't matter. There were other matters to attend to, and top of her list was Barnabas Collins.

Smiling, she threw open the double doors and left the Parallel Time room behind her.

3

"You will never rest," Angelique Bouchard spat, "and you will never be able to –”

At that moment, it seemed as though the ground beneath Chris' feet buckled, throwing him high into the air, then slamming him onto the ground ... through the ground, into a place of intense heat and darkness ... then rising, ever rising, until -

The last chime of the midnight hour grated on his ears, and he cautiously opened his eyes the moment it ceased.

He found himself at the back of a crowd of people gathered around a table in the drawing room. They were all chattering excitedly, and with a sigh of relief, he realized that he had returned to his own time.

"She's back!" he heard an excited, breathless Bruno exclaim. "Angelique has returned to us!"

"Shut up, Bruno," Quentin growled.

"My dear!" Cyrus exclaimed. "What's happened to you? Where have you been?"

"I - I don't know," came the dazed reply.

Chris leaned over Quentin's shoulder and observed the disheveled Angelique as she blinked her large blue eyes several times in consternation, then shook her head as though to clear it. "1 don't remember much of anything. Just ... just darkness. And cold. And a crying noise very near to me." She gasped dramatically and clutched at her breast as she cried, "I was terrified!"

"And rightfully so," Cyrus said tenderly, helping her rise unsteadily to her feet. "Come along, my dear. Let's get you to bed.  I-"

"I think," Sabrina Stuart said coldly, "that the pleasure should be reserved for Quentin. Her husband.  Don't you think?" She batted her eyelashes demurely at a scowling Angelique.

“Of course," Cyrus stammered. "How thoughtless of me."

"Don't worry about it!" Quentin boomed good- naturedly, "Nothing like a little time travel to get the blood flowing." He scooped a squealing Angelique up into his arms and kicked open the drawing room doors before swiftly departing for the upstairs.

For a moment, silence reigned.

"What an extraordinary evening," Elizabeth whispered to Chris. "Don't you think?"

"I couldn't agree with you more, Mrs. Stoddard," Chris said quietly. "I couldn't agree with you more."

4

Over a year and an eternity later, a shaken Chris Collins entered the cemetery at Eagle Hill after a swift glance over his shoulder. It was just past twilight, and he was certain that it was considered trespassing of some sort to be on cemetery grounds after dark. But he didn't care.

In the ensuing months and the melee that followed the Samhain seance, Chris had become more and more detached from reality. His experience in the past had led him to a library of parapsychology in London headed by an eminent graybearded professor in early 1970, forcing him to take a sabbatical from his practice and leaving his family to fend for themselves. A mistake, he now realized, as, for the thousandth time, he tallied the dead:  Sabrina. Elizabeth. Carolyn. Will. Bruno. Roger. Angelique (again). And Cyrus. Oh, how that last name pained him. I'll never find out, Chris thought mournfully, what it means to breath in the scent of his hair, or to kiss him goodbye in the early morning or to kiss him goodnight as the moon sails through the midnight sky. I'll never see him grow old and count every wrinkle and match it with my own. I'll never walk beside him along the beach, hand in hand.

It had occurred to him that, even had Cyrus survived his nightmarish coupling with John Yaeger, he might never had experienced any of his fantasies, but that didn't matter. The fact was, death was the end, no matter what Tim Stokes thought or what Angelique's return from the grave had proven. She was dead again, wasn't she? Because that was how she survived. To maintain her own life, she had required that others die.  He would never wish that on anyone, no matter how much he loved them.

He knelt before Cyrus' grave and placed a single rose next to the granite stone that gleamed in the light of the rising moon. Tears stung his eyes, but he wiped them away hastily before rising and turning in the direction of the old Collins mausoleum, and the real reason for his visit to Eagle Hill.

He had been whisked away from 1795 before he could discover what exactly Angelique's curse on Nicholas Collins would have been, and exactly what form her curse had taken had become an obsession with him. He had found nothing in any of the journals or diaries at Collinwood, and after two months in London he thought that his voyage there had been a failure as well ... until he discovered the journal of Jeremiah Collins, donated to the museum by Barnabas Collins after a visit to London in 1810. Most of what it contained could be easily discarded ... except for an entry from December of 1795, detailing the recovery of Angelique Bouchard and Jeremiah's own marriage to her. It seemed she had recovered after the gunshot wound, although she would never explain how she had accrued it, or why exactly Nicholas Collins had vanished that night. Everyone assumed that he had left Collinwood for good.

But Jeremiah knew. Although he never mentioned exactly what had become of his cousin, he did detail that a body was found in secret, and that it had been buried in a secret room in one the Collins mausoleums.

A room that Chris had now discovered, thanks to more detective work.  Once you knew where to look, he reasoned, the rest was fairly elementary.

He stepped into the musty chamber, his flashlight sending the shadows scurrying, and gagged.

The foul, stale air, enclosed in this space for two centuries, was more than noxious; it even made his eyeballs ache, and his tongue seemed to swell in his mouth as his nostrils closed and his skin crawled as though besieged by an army of fire ants.

There it was, sitting in the center of the room like a poisonous, bloated spider, wrapped in ancient chains like silky threads. It glittered for a moment in the beam of his light.

The coffin that housed the remains of Nicholas Collins.

At last, after nearly a year, Chris would know what Angelique Collins had done to his ancestor, for the journal of Jeremiah Collins hinted that all would be revealed should the chains ever be broken.

With the crowbar he’d brought with him, Chris hacked at the chains until they split easily and clattered to the floor of the tomb, sending up a cloud of ancient dust that choked his lungs, already befouled.  It did nothing to hinder him; he lunged forward and threw open the lid of the coffin.

His eyes widened with fear as his mouth opened to scream and scream and scream as a pale hand, white as death, flew from the coffin and attached itself to his throat with long fingers that squeezed like vices.  A moment later and he was dragged into the coffin and the lid slammed shut.

In the fetid, suffocating darkness, alone with an eldritch horror from beyond the shadowed borderline of death, Chris Collins at last became privy to the secret of Angelique’s curse.

And then he was one with the darkness.

THE END