by Nicky
Voiceover by Lara Parker: “On this night at the great house of Collinwood, forces that have
waited and watched for nearly two centuries are releasing a collective
sigh of evil anticipation. For a man has come to Collinwood, but a
man in appearance only. In reality he is a fearsome creature of
darkness. But there are other powers of dark night lurking around the
great estate, and they may manifest themselves in a variety of
remarkable — and terrifying — guises.”
1 — The Spirit
“I don’t have time for this, David,” Elizabeth said in a tone more
brusque than she was used to taking with her nephew, but though his
strange behavior as of late upset her more than she wanted to admit,
she really didn’t have the time to deal with him. Her cousin — for
surely one glance at the portrait in the foyer would dispel all doubts of
his lineage — was waiting for her in the drawing room, and she didn’t
want to keep him waiting any longer than usual.
“But I’ve been waiting to talk to you all evening,” David said, pouting,
and if Elizabeth hadn’t been in quite so much of a hurry she may have
noticed that he sounded more like himself than he had for the past few
days. “It’s really important, Aunt Elizabeth.”
“I’m sure it can wait, David,” and then she was gone down the
staircase, leaving him to stare after her with a mixture of petulant
anger and strained disappointment on his tiny, peaked features. He
was terribly, desperately unhappy, but there was absolutely no way
for him to communicate this to his relatives. None at all. Even if the
spell he was under weren’t choking him like a studded collar they
wouldn’t have heard him anyway. They never did. This had been his
final attempt to communicate his very real problem to his aunt, the one
adult at Collinwood he came closest to trusting, but she had brushed
him off just as Carolyn and Quentin and his own father had. And he
didn’t trust his new governess enough to make any attempt at
conversation with her.
“That was very foolish, David,” a voice said behind him, and he
stiffened as a cold trickle of what felt like icewater caressed his spine,
sending unpleasant shivers up and down in a glissade. He knew who’s
voice it was instantly, for he heard it only in his mind.
“Why are you doing this to me?” he said aloud, and turned to face
her, the shifting, translucent horror of his dreams — or, more
appropriately, his nightmares. Her blonde hair floated around her
head in a golden halo, but he knew she was no angel. She was a devil
from hell. She was a witch, and he was her helper, like it or not.
“Because you released me from my prison,” the ghost said, and her
face became wreathed in a bloodcurdling smile. He could imagine her
wearing that smile while she strangled babies in their cribs. “I had to
reward you in some manner, didn’t I?”
“I don’t want to help you anymore,” David said, suddenly very near
to the verge of tears.
“Don’t worry, ma petit,” the ghost crooned as she glided nearer and
nearer to him, giving off wave after wave of numbing, nauseating cold.
“You’re very near to completing the tasks I have assigned you.” Her
face twitched with a black greediness that was like a yawning maw in
the earth ringed with twisting maggots. “You found the portrait, did
you not?”
David nodded and snuffled at the same time, unable to hold the tears
back any longer.
“Excellent,” the ghost said. “Bring it to Eagle Hill along with the other
things I bade you collect.” She scowled at him as he stared at her
miserably. “Now, David!” she hissed. “The ceremony must be
completed before midnight ... and it will be completed.” She leered
horrifically. “And I will walk theearth again, a woman of flesh and blood ...
and Barnabas Collins willknow more hell on this earth than he has ever
experienced before.”
2 — The Guest
“Of course we noticed the resemblance immediately,” Elizabeth
beamed at that moment as she stood in the drawing room. Roger sat
cross-legged in an emerald green armchair rescued from the East
Wing by Mrs. Johnson after an excursion headed by Elizabeth and
Carolyn two years before, a characteristic sherry in his hand;
Professor Timothy Eliot Stokes, a friend of the family, leaned on the
mantle with his right elbow, studying the new arrival from behind his
monocle with avid, fascinated eyes; Carolyn perched on the edge of
the arm of the couch with a charming smile on her brightly rouged lips,
tracing tiny seductive circles on the sea-blue silk with her index finger;
and finally, Dr. Julia Hoffman stared unabashedly from the far end of
the couch where she had nestled as far into the corner as she could
go. His eyes, she found herself thinking, are like the first taste of
autumn, like cool kisses before the first winter storm. She blinked,
and smiled self-deprecatingly, and thought, Really, Julia. “It’s
extraordinary,” Elizabeth continued. “You look just like the portrait.
Doesn’t he, Carolyn?”
“Yes,” the blondest Collins bubbled. “It’s almost eerie.”
“The Collins blood has always had a rather persistent quality,” the
visitor said with a polite smile. “You should have seen my father. Had
he looked at the portrait on the wall just now, you all would swear he
was peering into a mirror.”
“You’re so eloquent, Cousin Barnabas,” Carolyn said, swinging her
legs idly. “Like a book of poetry.”
“Why, thank you, Carolyn,” Barnabas Collins said. He was dressed
in a tasteful charcoal suit that a pale and trembling Willie Loomis had
brought to him this evening just as the sun had set. His bangs were
brushed carelessly across his forehead in a series of spikes; his eyes
gleamed from hollow, shadowed sockets with an almost sly sparkle.
“We had no idea we still had relatives in England,” Roger said. He
was distracted this evening, and found his attention wandering. His
ex-wife continued to consume an enormous portion of his thoughts and
his energy. Laura claimed to have taken a room at the Collinsport
Inn, but the phone in her room rang and rang without cessation when
he tried it, and finally he had slammed the receiver down in a near
fury. He was always unable to contact her; in fact, he thought now,
startled, the three times he’d seen her since her most recent return had
always been by her initiation.
“I am the last, I’m afraid,” Barnabas said with a slight smile. “My
father died about two years ago, and left behind the research he’d
been conducting. It’s quite fascinating, actually. He’d been
constructing a family tree for the American branch of the family.”
“I should like to see it!” Elizabeth exclaimed, delighted. “Dr. Hoffman
and myself share an avid fascinating for the history of my family.
Julia’s even thinking of writing a book.” Julia smiled and nodded and
toyed with the hem of her skirt with one pale finger.
Barnabas shook his head with a wry smile. “I’m afraid you couldn’t
possibly see it,” he said. “It was lost in a fire that consumed my
family’s home shortly after my father’s death. We lost everything,
every scrap of history. Every note, every book, every paper.
Fortunately our fortune remained intact, but I feel as if everything had
been ripped away from me. My family ... my very history.” He sighed,
a heavy exclamation of melancholy made tangible, and Julia felt a pang of
sympathy for the man. He’s so tortured, she thought, chin in palm,
and found that she couldn’t take her eyes off him. “My mother and
sister died years ago. My father and I lived together in our house until
his death ... and the fire. I’ve been traveling extensively since then,
rather aimlessly I’m ashamed to admit.”
“Do you plan on settling in Collinsport?” Professor Stokes asked
from his place near the mantle.
“I have no definite plans, Professor Stokes,” Barnabas said. “I knew
only when planning this voyage that I wanted very much to meet my
American cousins.” He shrugged. “And now I have.”
“You’ve come at a dreadful time,” Carolyn said. “There’ve been
terrible things going on in the village. Butchered livestock and such.”
She paused dramatically. “And a girl was attacked tonight.”
“Attacked?” Roger scoffed. “That’s absurd. Who would attack
anyone in Collinsport?”
“I don’t know,” Carolyn said, and shivered. “They took her to the
hospital. Whoever it was tried to strangle her. She was in pretty heavy
shock. That’s what Tony told me.”
“Dr. Trask is Carolyn’s boyfriend,” Elizabeth told Barnabas, who
nodded, his eyes never leaving his pretty cousin.
“Oh mother, you’re so old fashioned,” Carolyn said with a dismissive
wave of her hand. “Tony and I aren’t really that serious. But he is
worried about me,” she said, softening for a moment. “He doesn’t
want me out by myself at night anymore.”
“I think that’s a wise idea,” Barnabas said. “I had no idea that such
things happened in tiny villages like Collinsport.”
“They normally don’t,” Roger said. “You mustn't let Carolyn frighten
you away, Barnabas. Collinsport is a nice place to live. I’m sure that,
whoever it was that attacked that girl, and I’m not conceding that I
believe such an incredible story mind you, but whoever it was is
undoubtedly long gone by now. I’m sure we’ve seen the last of these
attacks.”
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” Barnabas said, and smiled.
“Where are you staying, Mr. Collins?” Julia asked suddenly,
surprising herself. It was terribly forthright of her, and she knew it.
She was horrified to discover that she was blushing, but she prayed
that he didn’t notice. Why, he’s positively disconcerted, she thought,
studying his face. He seemed suddenly flustered, and his hands tugged
at the cuff of his suitcoat, and Julia’s fox-sharp eyes took in each
individual tug.
“I have ... independent quarters,” was his more than vague answer.
“That’s absurd,” Elizabeth declared. “You’ll be our guest at
Collinwood while you stay here. I won’t hear another word about it.”
“But that won’t be necessary,” Barnabas said, embarrassed. “Really,
I prefer —”
“Nonsense,” the matron of Collinwood said firmly, arms crossed. “I’ll
have Mrs. Johnson prepare you a room tonight.”
“Dear Elizabeth,” Barnabas said, “I beg you not to think me rude, or
an insensitive guest. But I have heard such wonderful stories since my
youth of the family’s first home in America. I have always dreamed of
living there someday.”
“The Old House?” Elizabeth asked incredulously.
“Yes,” Barnabas said, relieved. “Naomi Collins, the mother of the first
Barnabas Collins, gave him the Old House after his marriage. It was
his part of the estate. I have already visited the house —” Barnabas
was unaware that both Professor Stokes and Julia Hoffman’s brows
had sprung to life — “and have seen the deplorable condition it has
fallen into. I would give the world for the chance to make it livable
again.”
Elizabeth’s own brow remained furrowed. “Oh, I don’t know,
Barnabas,” she said, her voice tinged with doubt. “To take on such an
enormous responsibility ... why, the cost alone —”
“Money is no object,” Barnabas said, and seized Elizabeth’s hand.
His hazel eyes stared into hers, excited, thrilled at the chance to
refurbish a house he obviously treasured ... but there was something
else in his eyes as well, something almost hypnotic, and Elizabeth felt
herself caught and snared, and as her will drained away, she neither
fought nor cared. “Please, Cousin, I beg you for the opportunity to
restore such an important and valuable piece of Collins history to its
former state of grandeur. Reconsider, Elizabeth. Say you will.”
“All right, Barnabas,” Elizabeth said, startled as the words emerged
from her mouth, as though they belonged to someone else. “You may
live in the Old House.”
Barnabas brushed his icy lips against Elizabeth’s hand; she shivered,
almost unaware that she had done so. “Thank you cousin,” he said
fervently, and squeezed her hand tightly. “I promise that you will not
regret this.”
“It’ll be nice seeing that drafty old castle resplendent once again,”
Professor Stokes said cheerfully. “Perhaps I could be of some service
when it comes to the original layout of the place. It’s a hobby of mine
to dawdle in the Collinwood library on the occasional Sunday
afternoon, though why Elizabeth puts up with me I’ll never know. I’ve
become something of a scholar on the 18th century history of the
family. If you’ll allow me —”
“I would very much appreciate any service you may offer, Professor,”
Barnabas said. No one noticed how tightly he was clutching the silver
wolf’s head handle of his cane, or how his eyes blazed with a light that
wasn’t quite human.
3 — The Fire
The main room of the caretaker’s cottage was ice cold, but as she
swept imperiously into the room with the swell of her London Fog
coat sweeping out dramatically behind her like great wings, Laura
Collins knew that was about to change. Her ice-blue eyes took in the
room as she rubbed her sinuous marble hands together in anticipation.
It was just as she remembered it the last time she had seen it, on a
long ago evening in the year 1897. Her brow furrowed with irritation.
That had been a tumultuous night, full of treachery and deceit. She
had begged Quentin to accompany her into a new life — had been on
the verge of drawing him through the gateway in the flames whether
he wanted to go or not — when that ... that creature had swooped in
like a hawk to save him, thwarting her own efforts, saving Quentin
and her children, and condemning her to sixty years in a fiery inferno.
Alone. Denied the comfort and peace offered to the other minions of
the great god Ra because of that one failure.
But she had been given another chance. And she would not fail again.
Smirking, hips sidling as the tight fabric of her black vinyl mini
crackled seductively, Laura stared into the cold, charred ashes of the
fireplace. The stone was blackened from years and years of previous
fires, but it had been dead for a long, long time.
She held out both hands as her eyes widened, and chanted, “Great
god Ra, hear thy servant as she calls to you. Astua Ra, ia ia, ng’aya
Ra! Vanatu athwa Ra, ia shugguth! Hear me, and bring me the flame
that is my legacy!” As the words left her lips she closed her eyes and
smiled at the familiar tingle that began in her loins, a prickling heat that
soon spread to her fingertips, and as her eyes opened again, the
smothered ashes in the fireplace suddenly burst into a cavalcade of
flames that crackled and popped cheerfully.
Smiling, Laura sat on the hearth and stared into the twining, seductive
arms of red and orange and yellow. The flames danced in her eyes.
“You are a fool, Roger Collins,” she spat, though the placidity of her
features was never marred. “You think that you can keep my son
from me, but you will learn better, and you will learn tonight. For I
have a wealth of powers at my command, and you will know them
soon.”
She studied the fire fastidiously, then closed her eyes and
concentrated. She could see him now, and she opened her eyes and
stared into the flames, and there he was. At Collinwood, in the
drawing room. There were others there, but she couldn’t make them
out. Elizabeth, possibly, and Carolyn ... talking to a stranger, a man
with penetrating eyes, but who’s face was so hazy that she couldn’t
discern any other features. No matter. It was Roger whom she must
entrance, entrance and destroy, and she would not fail.
Her lips formed a series of archaic words unknown to most students
of languages long lost, and unnoticed by all at Collinwood, the logs in
the fireplace of the drawing room burst into flames.
“Hear my voice, Roger Collins,” Laura whispered, and she knew that
he had stiffened, craning his head from side to side to look for her.
“Make whatever excuses are necessary, but leave the drawing room
now. Now, Roger. Leave the room and follow my voice.” She knew
that he was mumbling something about a headache, and despite sister
Elizabeth’s protestations he had left the drawing room. “Leave
Collinwood, Roger. You cannot help yourself. Ra commands you ... I
command you ... you will leave Collinwood and go to the woods. To
the woods, Roger ... to the woods ...”
He was even now stumbling through a brambly thicket, that
thick-headed inept husband of hers, fully and completely in her
power. In only a moment she would call upon Ra to send a blinding
sheet of cleansing fire, and one more obstacle would be out of her
way ... forever.
4 — The Walk
“And you don’t trust her at all?” Vicki asked her handsome escort as
they strolled along the shadowed lane of the forest. Quentin had
asked that she join him as he took in his evening stroll, just after the
moon rose, and she found she couldn’t deny him, especially after the
day she’d spent with David. A bright boy, that she had ascertained,
but distant somehow, as though he were following some interior voice
and ignoring all others. It was eerie, and Vicki hoped that a walk with
this handsome Collins cousin would relieve some of the tension that
had been building within her all day.
“Nope,” Quentin said simply. His eyes were puffy and red, as though
he had been crying, but Vicki didn’t press. His hands, so large but
appropriate for a man his size, were jammed into the pockets of the
cerulean blazer he wore over a gray turtleneck. “I don’t understand
why she’s returned, but I don’t trust her one bit.”
“You know her from somewhere,” Vicki guessed. “You weren’t
around when they were married?”
“I know Laura Collins all right,” Quentin said grimly. “I just haven’t
told Roger yet. Once I learned who exactly this mysterious ex-wife of
his was, I found it hard to contain my shock. But there are some
things one doesn’t discuss at Collinwood, and that’s one of them.”
“There’s so much I have to learn,” Vicki sighed. It was a chilly night
for late June, and she was wearing a long wool coat and black boots
that rustled the brush as they made their way through it. It was a
beautiful night, though a trifle overcast after the previous night’s storm.
A hint of the waning moon showed through a tiny tear in the velvety
sheath of clouds that rode the skies above them.
“True,” Quentin said, and grinned.
“But I want to,” Vicki said eagerly. “Everyone’s been so kind to me.
Mrs. Stoddard, and Mr. Collins, and Carolyn —”
“But not David,” Quentin said.
“No,” Vicki said after a moment’s troubled pause. “Not David.” The
frustration she felt after her three days at Collinwood came rushing to
the surface. “I don’t understand, Quentin,” she said. “I’ve tried to talk
to him, to break him out of this shell he’s got himself wrapped up in,
but he’s almost unreachable. He simply won’t respond to me.”
“Give him time,” Quentin said. “Took him awhile to warm up to me
too, but Davy and I are the best of friends. You just have to wait.
And watch. Carefully,” he added. “David hasn’t been terribly gentle
with his governesses.”
“So I’ve heard,” Vicki said. “Roger told me some legend about the
cliffs at Widow’s Hill, and how some of the women who jumped to
their death’s were Collins’ governesses.”
Quentin’s face shadowed for a moment, then he shook his head.
“Nonsense,” he said strongly. “Roger’s spinning tales again. He’s just
trying to frighten you.”
“You’re probably right,” Vicki sighed. “What are they all doing
tonight?”
Quentin stared straight ahead. “I’m not sure,” he said haltingly.
“Meeting this newest mysterious cousin.” He grinned, but it faded
rapidly. “It’s funny,” he said slowly. “I feel as though I almost know
him. Barnabas Collins,” he said, as though tasting the name.
“Isn’t that the name of the man in the portrait in the foyer?”
Quentin nodded. “An ancestor, he says. Left for England in 1796
never to return. So the legend goes. Messy business, or so I’ve
heard. Something about witchcraft or black magic or something. He
left under a cloud, anyway.” Quentin chuckled. “Maggie fills me in on
all the family gossip I’m missing out on.”
“Some gossip,” Vicki laughed. “Ancient history, it sounds like.”
“Yes,” Quentin murmured. “Ancient.”
“Say,” Vicki said, drawing nearer to him, “where are we, anyway?”
Quentin squinted ahead in the darkness. “Near to Eagle Hill
Cemetery,” he said. “It’s not really used anymore. Why?”
“Because I thought I saw someone ahead of us,” Vicki said,
excitement coloring her voice. At that moment the moon shone silver
through the sheath of clouds and showed prominently ahead of them a
tiny white figure clutching a passel of objects. It turned its head from
side to side before ducking through the rusted gate of the old
cemetery and passed from their sight.
“What was it?” Quentin asked, clutching Vicki’s arm.
“It was David,” Vicki exclaimed, then looked up into Quentin’s
incredulous face. “I’m sure it was, Quentin. We have to hurry ... I
have a feeling he’s in terrible danger!”
5 — The Spell
David shivered uncontrollably, his arms wrapped around his tiny, thin
body. The witch had not allowed him to grab his coat before leaving
Collinwood, and the night air, particularly in this moldy old cemetery,
was chilling him to the bone. Splashes of moonlight showing through
infrequent gaps in the leaden clouds above them painted a
mind-numbing portrait in shades of black and grey. The witch herself,
shimmering and transparent, stood before him in all her ghostly
splendor, an evil smile playing on her fullblue lips as she took in the circle
of objects that David had dutifully collected.
“Excellent,” the witch said, pleased. “You have performed the proper
ceremonies at Collinwood, and the gateway has been opened. All that
remains to be performed is the final ceremony here ... at the grave of
Josette Collins.” The spirit’s face twisted into a black visage of
murderous hate. “Josette,” she whispered. “I have not forgotten you
... you with your innocent eyes that were always so startled when they
looked on evil.” Her voice rose into a trembling, hysterical pitch, yet it
reverberated with insane triumph. "Well here it is again! Look at me
again! I am Angelique ... and I hate you!”
“No!” David cried. “You can’t say horrible things to her ... not to
Josette!” He blanched as the ghost stared at him coldly, the malice
and disgust she felt for him dripping from her eyes in almost tangible
droplets of steaming venom.
“You know of Josette?” the spirit hissed.
Terrified, David could only nod.
“She will do you no good now,” the ghost said. “She can only watch
and guard. She has no power over me. Not anymore,” she added
scornfully. “Move quickly, David. Arrange what I bade you collect
into a circle around the portrait. The lady doctor’s silk scarf, her only
concession to vanity; your cousin’s mirror that has reflected her so
many times and will shortly reflect my will on her, your aunt’s silver
charm bracelet, passed down from her mother before her, and her
mother before, women I have known and hated.” Helpless, David
could only comply.
After the objects were arranged, he stood and stared at her bleakly.
“What about the other stuff?” he asked. “The nightshade and the dirt
and my father’s hair?”
“Did your bring the chalice?” the spirit asked, and smiled when David
nodded his assent. “Excellent. Place it before the portrait.”
“But it’s empty,” David said, complying nevertheless.
The spirit’s eyes flashed with irritation. “It won’t be for long,” was all
she said. “You must stand back as I perform the incantation, David.
You may be ... harmed if you stand too close to the portrait, and I will
have need of you desperately, even after the ceremony has been
completed. When I bid you, drop in the last three items, starting with
the earth from Josette’s grave and finishing with your father’s hair.”
“I don’t want to do this,” David whimpered, dangerously close to
tears again.
“Oh, poor David,” the spirit said, simpering horribly. Her voice
dripped with mock sympathy. “I can help you, David. I can help you
to forget all of this. I will allow you to return to your mortal life with no
memory of being my helper, and I will never summon you again.
Would you like that?” His face streaked with tears, David nodded.
There was nothing else to be done. But the spirit’s eyes had
hardened. “I will ... but only after you have fulfilled your obligation to
me.”
“I ... I will,” David said. He stepped back as the spirit glided forward,
towards the crumbling, weathered tombstone of Josette Collins, a
thing of melancholy beauty that had seen almost two hundred cycles
of seasons, and still it stood, proud and eternal. The ghost bowed her
head, then passed her spectral hands over the lip of the chalice.
Instantly the portrait began to emit an ethereal, silver glow, and David
realized with a shock that the subject of the portrait, smirking at him
with icy blue eyes, could only be the ghost herself. Trembling, he
steeled himself to listen. The incantation had begun.
“Prince of Fire,” the witch chanted. “Hear me as I call to you. I
summon all the dark creatures of nature to draw you here to me. I call
upon the viper, the raven, and the bat. I conjure thy strength into my
body in the name of the Old Ones who ruled this planet in a time
when man was not. Hear me! Show me that I was once your most
favored of servants, and that you will favor me again! In the name of
the spirits of pestilence and pain, in the name of Satanas who doth
rule in blackest Gahenna, I implore thee to work thy will!”
A burst of black non-light flared and then was gone, and David cried
out, shielding his eyes. The woman before him seemed not to hear.
Gradually David removed his hands, then gasped. Though she still
flickered briefly, and though he could still see the tombstones on the
next hill through her translucent body, she had reached forward and
lifted the chalice into her hands. My god, David thought, stricken,
she’s powerful enough to touch things! Soon she’ll be complete!
“You have heard me,” the witch continued. “Then take this, Black
Prince, an offering from your most humble of handmaidens. Drink of
me, Nameless One, and give me your power!” Quick as death, and
as though from nowhere, the sorceress suddenly held a twisted
dagger in her hand, inscribed with twisting runes that David couldn’t
decipher, and with that same serpent-speed she had drawn the blade
across her palm. Sickened, David watched as she spilled the blood
into the chalice. It bubbled and frothed with scarlet foam.
She turned to her unwilling servant, her face a harridan’s scrawl, and
hissed, “Quickly, David ... the graveyard earth ... hurry!” Her eyes
glowed frenetically as she held out the chalice towards him with one
almost-solid hand. David swallowed his fear and dropped a clod of
the raw earth into the cup of blood. It hissed appreciatively and
turned a dark brown. “Now the nightshade,” she urged him. Again he
added the dried herb and berries, and again the brew became tinted,
now a sinister, dragon-green. “And finally,” the spirit said gleefully,
“the one ingredient that will ensure me a place at Collinwood. Do it
David, and do it now, if you value your life!” With a sob of rage and
terror, David threw the thin blonde strands of his father’s hair into the
mixture, and as they struck the surface and were quickly consumed a
sound like thunder, like the grating of great sheets of rock against
earth, a massive sound, a terrible sound rent the earth, and David fell
to his knees with a shriek of fear.
“’Tis done!” the witch shrieked, her voice malefic and insane with her
triumph. Her trilling scales of laughter were joined by the distant
shrieks of the undead seneschals of the night, until the whole of Eagle
Hill rocked in time to a cacophony of the dead and the damned.
“David?” a voice cried, dangerously near. “David, is that you?”
David stirred, moaned, and tried to sit up. His head throbbed like a
rotted tooth, and he was so cold that he was shivering. Where was his
coat? For that matter, where was he?
“Come out, Davie!” A man this time. Who was looking for him?
Didn’t he have an assignment due ... some sort of duty to perform?
What was it?
“I see him!” The woman again. A pretty young thing with long dark
hair. He liked the thought of her, he realized drowsily; she was
comforting. She wouldn’t hurt him if he didn’t obey, wouldn’t make
him carry out an insane quest for the purpose of ... of ...
He blinked sleepily. He couldn’t remember. All he wanted to do was
go home. But suddenly there was a pair of strong arms encircling him,
and he was lifted into the air.
“Thank god he’s all right,” the woman said. It could only be Miss
Winters, his new governess. What was she doing here? And where,
specifically, was “here”?
“David,” Cousin Quentin said, shaking him a little, but gently. “Are
you all right? Can you hear us?”
“Hmmmm?” David mumbled muzzily. Why didn’t they just let him
sleep?
“He’s in shock or something,” Quentin said. “We’d better get him
back to Collinwood so Dr. Hoffman can look at him."
“Quentin,” Vicki said quietly, “look at these things. Do you recognize
them?”
“Yes,” David heard Quentin say, and his voice was as disturbed as
Vicki’s was. “That ... that looks likeElizabeth’s charm bracelet.”
“And Carolyn’s mirror,” Vicki said. “And one of Dr. Hoffman’s
scarves.” She was troubled now, David knew it, but he was so sleepy
that he didn’t care. Besides, it wasn’t like he brought any of those
things out here. “And this portrait too. Look at her eyes. They give
me the shivers. Have you ever seen it before?”
“No,” Quentin said, but something in his voice made David think
otherwise. She didn’t have time to take the things away, David
thought distinctly, then wondered who he was thinking about. Who
was “she”? “No, I’ve never seen her before in my life.”
“I’ll gather these things up,” Vicki said, “and you can start for
Collinwood. I’ll catch up.”
“You’re a brave girl,” Quentin said, amused, “willing to stay in a dark
cemetery by yourself at night.”
“I’ve been in scarier places than old cemeteries,” Vicki said
cryptically, but there was amusement in her voice too. “Hurry. I want
Dr. Hoffman to look at him as soon as possible.”
And with that Quentin was off, his long legs sawing through the shreds
of fog that clung to the path. By the time he reached Collinwood,
David was sleeping soundly, and when he awoke the next morning, he
would remember none of his strange experiences or of his association
with a woman long dead.
6 — The Burning
“So hot,” Roger moaned, writhing in agony on the grass of the
clearing in the woods where he had found himself only moments ago.
He had no idea how he had come to this place, for the memory of his
even leaving Collinwood proved quite elusive, but after a moment’s
pondering his will power was swept away again, and he found himself
quite caught in the throes of a particularly nasty spell. Now sweat
stood out on his brow in great wet droplets and ran in stinging rivers
into his eyes. He could do nothing about his predicament, for his mind
was quiet gone, vacationing in the ether. He was completely
subjugated by the will of another. Or “others”.
“So hot,” he said again, as if to prove a point.
“Just a few more moments of pain, my darling,” that infernally cool
voice spoke in his mind, “and this will all be over. All the pain, all the
suffering of this world. Gone. Forever.”
“I — I don’t want to die,” he gasped, and groaned as another bolt of
searing, fiery pain slammed into his head.
“It doesn’t matter what you want,” the clinical voice of his ex-wife
spoke in his mind. She sounded detached, almost amused, and he
hated her, all the more for knowing that there was nothing he could do
to stop her.
He began to peal forth scream after scream as a wall of flames
erupted around him, hemming him in, and he scrabbled backwards to
avoid them, but there were more flames behind him. A horrific
shimmering wall of heat blazed forth before him and behind him, and
he was completely unable to escape.
He closed his eyes and waited for the painful death that he knew
awaited him.
It never came.
Slowly, tentatively he opened one eye, then heaved a sigh of relief.
The flames were gone. He was spared.
And there was a woman standing before him in the moonlight. Her
eyes, as cold and as blue as the ice inthe vast wastes of Antarctica,
stared at him coldly, but with an almost refined amusement in them.
Her hair, jet black, was cut fashionably short into a sleek, coiffured bob
that seemed almost a helmet on her head. Her arms were bare and
emerged from the streamlined lime-green mini-skirt she wore like tapered
marble. Her hands were folded placidly before her, and her mouth
was curled into a lovely smile. It was a cruel mouth, he decided, one
that could become fierce and hating at a moment’s notice.
“Who are you?” he asked foolishly.
Hips swaying, the woman stepped into the glade before him, and held
out one hand. It glowed in the moonlight.
“Your destiny,” she said, and he was swept away.
7 — The Discussion
“He never came back,” Elizabeth said simply, though the way she
chewed her bottom lip betrayed her worry. Vicki watched her,
concerned.
“Maybe he went looking for David,” Vicki suggested.
“But that was last night!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “It’s almost three
o’clock in the afternoon; surely he’d be back by now.”
“You’re right, Mrs. Stoddard,” Vicki said. “It just doesn’t make any
sense.” At the pained expression on her employer’s face, she added
quickly, “But surely someone would have called. If something had
happened —”
“This isn’t like Roger at all,” Elizabeth fretted. She stood before the
great French windows in the drawing room and peered out them. The
sun still shone in the sky above Widow’s Hill, but soon it would be
evening. She grimaced, knowing what she had to do. What she must
do ... what she had no choice but to do ...
“Mrs. Stoddard?” Vicki queried. “Are you ...?”
“I’m fine,” she said curtly, then turned from the window. “I’m sorry,
Vicki,” she apologized. “I didn’t sleep at all last night. Cousin
Barnabas and I stayed up chatting until almost four. He’s a fascinating
man.”
“I can’t wait to meet him,” Vicki said.
“You may get your chance,” Elizabeth said. “I invited him to dinner
tonight.”
“He’s from England?” Vicki asked, and when Elizabeth nodded, she
said wistfully, “It must be wonderful to discover that you have family
in a place far away, people you never dreamed existed, people to
welcome you in with open arms.” She didn’t notice how Elizabeth had
winced, or that a thundercloud seemed to have passed over her face.
Vicki sighed. “But I suppose I should be grateful for what I have. You
all have been so nice to me —”
“You’ve never known your family,” Elizabeth said. It was not a
question.
“No,” Vicki admitted. “I wish I did. But they left me on the doorstep
of the foundling home with only a note attached. ‘Her name is
Victoria,’” Vicki quoted softly. “’I can no longer care for her.’”
“How upsetting for you,” Elizabeth said uncomfortably. “You have no
idea who your parents are?”
“Not a clue,” Vicki said, then added shyly, “But I had this crazy
theory before I arrived here that there might be a clue to my past
here, at Collinwood.” She shook her long fall of soft, auburn hair.
“But that’s probably as dead an end as the other leads I thought I
had.”
Elizabeth took her hand and squeezed it gently. “I’m certain that you’ll
find out all you want to know,” she said. “Soon. Very soon.”
“I hope you’re right,” Vicki said, startled by the sad, haunted look she
found in Elizabeth’s moist dark eyes. She knows something! Vicki
thought, excited ... she knows something! I was right after all!
“You should probably go check on David,” Elizabeth said abruptly,
turning away. “He’ll be asking about his father soon, but I’d like to
postpone that moment for as long as I can.”
“All right,” Vicki said, but paused in the doorway. “He’ll be home
soon, Mrs. Stoddard. Please don’t worry.”
“Thank you, Vicki,” Elizabeth said, and smiled as the governess
turned away. Her smile faded as the doors closed, and she turned
back to the windows. Victoria, she thought, bemused. Such a pretty
name. She closed her eyes and slammed one fist against the window.
If only Louise hadn’t insisted on naming the child after her father. That
man, Elizabeth thought bitterly, that Victor, appearing out of nowhere,
hideously unappealing to everyone but her, with his eyes magnified a
thousand times behind those spectacles, and his hair a wild curly mane.
Damn Paul Stoddard for bringing him here, even if he didn’t know what
he was. Or perhaps he did. Elizabeth had never dared bring it up in
answer to the infrequent letters she received from him. But Paul had
brought him here, the mysterious Victor, and then he’d died, only he
hadn’t really died at all ...
She shuddered. She hated to the think of the man who had existed at
Collinwood only briefly in the flesh, but had become a permanent
fixture, centered in the West Wing like a malignant spider, now that he
was ...
She bit down on her fist. She hated to even think the word. Hated to
think what he had become, at her hands ... and what she had to do to
pacify him, to prevent the carnage she knew would follow if she didn’t
give him what he wanted. He wanted it tonight. Her mind drifted back
to December, almost six months before, when the rest of the
household had discovered the body of the tramp she had known
would be at the Old House. She had placed it there herself, of course,
after it had ... after it had ...
She tried to prevent the thought, but it would not be denied.
After it had opened its eyes ... its dead, cold eyes ... and tried to
come after you.
That had happened only once before, and she didn’t understand it.
She had been offering him sacrifices for almost twenty years, and the
only other victim to rise from death had been a young girl, a
hitch-hiker Elizabeth had discovered near the Old House. She had
been a pretty young thing with dark red hair; that same hair had been
in tangles, matted with blood and gore when she’d entered Elizabeth’s
room and tried to ...
“No,” Elizabeth whispered. She wouldn’t think about it. Even though
it was the reason she rarely left the house to go into town, she would
still put it out of her mind. For Carolyn’s sake. And for Vicki’s. And
for David’s and Roger’s and Julia’s ... for everyone in the house. She
didn’t want to think what would happen to them if she failed in her
duty, performed twice a year, once in December and once in June.
The instructions had been quite clear, and the threats implicit. There
would be a bloodbath if Elizabeth didn’t offer him what he desired.
Her head dropped to her chest as she sank onto her bed. A sob
burned in her chest and exploded out her mouth, an inarticulate
strangling, and hot tears wet her cheeks. Who would it be? she
thought, anguished, who has to die tonight for that monster?
She paused for a moment, blinking through the curtain of tears. Why?
she thought. She had wondered that a thousand times, but it had
never occurred to her so strongly — or so fiercely — as now. Why
did the beast in the West Wing, whatever it was he had become, want
her to offer up those helpless victims? What did he gain by their
deaths? Why had two risen from death as mindless zombies? And,
more chillingly, what did it all have to do with Vicki?
“Please, no,” Elizabeth moaned. She had felt persuaded to bring Vicki
back to Collinwood, but who had done the persuading? Was it HIM
... or some other force, someone — something — that knew that she
might be the last the hope that the Collins family had?
Whatever the answer, Elizabeth knew that her task tonight would be
no easier.
8 — The Attack
Quentin Collins was one hundred years old. Born on a sultry August
evening in the year 1867, he had achieved immortality during his
thirtieth year, when he had returned to his ancestral home one blustery
March from a long and intriguing study of the occult abroad. He had
learned many things, many dark and mysterious secrets, but none of
them compared to the terrible configurations fate held in store for him
upon his return home. Laura, his brother’s wife; his own wife, Jenny
Racosi Collins, driven to the last vestiges of sanity, and her hag-sister
Magda; dear Jamison, who’s own sensitivity to the supernatural world
unfolding around him like exotic petals was quickly quelled; Miranda
DuVal, a mysterious and wicked woman who’s motives seemed so
intricate and so much darker than Quentin’s qwn; and finally Count
Andreas Petofi, a man — a creature! — possessing powers so great,
yet so seemingly and deceivingly infinitesimal that they were contained
in one severed hand.
Quentin chose not to dwell too long on Petofi or his powers.
Sometimes the Count’s mocking laughter, a sound more like the harsh
barking of a great dog, continued to haunt his dreams, even now, seventy years
later. Besides, Petofi was dead. Quentin was certain of it. Or nearly
certain, at any rate. The flames that had ravaged the hovel of his last
accomplice, an insane painter famous as Charles Delaware Tate, had
raged out of control for nearly a day, and nothing of the Count had
been uncovered.
Quentin swiveled now in his armchair and stared with one raised
eyebrow at the Professor’s own grave visage across the room from
him. This latest discussion with the eminent Professor, a man Quentin
trusted implicitly as he had trusted no one else, had brought up a
cache of disturbing memories, and he found himself helplessly awash
in them. “So that’s my theory,” he said.
Stokes swallowed a quick dose of sherry and wiped his mouth
absently with the back of his hand. “Maggie described the picture to
you? In intimate detail?”
“She even promised to let me see it,” Quentin said, “but Sam got
awful defensive about it. He didn’t even want Maggie to look at it
anymore. Thought he’d destroy it. I told him to wait until I could show
it to you, but he seems to think something’s wrong with it.” Quentin
frowned for a moment broodingly. “And if the subject is who I think it
is, he may be right.”
“Laura Stockbridge Collins,” Stokes said carefully. “A woman dead
for nearly a century, someone you saw live again when you returned
to Collinwood from Egypt, and someone who now seems to have
materialized here in Collinsport.”
“I saw her die on a pyre in Egypt, Eliot,” Quentin said softly. “And it
was my fault. Surely she realizes that. Once I realized what she was,
what she meant to do upon her return to Collinwood ...” His voice
trailed off, and he stared bleakly at his fingers, hands that should
rightfully be aged and withered and near dust. Yet they remained ever
youthful, just as Quentin Collins would continue, handsome and
young, into a bright and glorious future. He shook his head and
sneered.
“She tried to kill her own children in that time, Nora and Jamison,”
Stokes said, and Quentin nodded absently. The last rays of the setting
sun played carefully through the great picture window Stokes had
installed in his boxlike cottage nearly a year ago in order to bask in
the glorious rays of the morning sun; it also afforded him with a
stunning view of the sea, spread before him, placid and shimmering,
untapped beauty made element. “She used whatever supernatural
powers afforded her to begin a great fire in the West Wing of Collinwood,
and therein tried to lure her own children to their deaths.”
“And my death too,” Quentin said. “She wanted me to join her. I
think in her own twisted way she really did love me.”
“A feeling she no doubt has regretted ever since,” Stokes said wryly.
“There is no doubt in your mind of what she is?”
“None at all,” Quentin said. “And I think there’s only one reason
she’s returned.”
“For David?”
“Exactly,” Quentin said. “And he must be protected at all costs. I
think that this may be Laura’s last chance. If she fails in this endeavor
we may be rid of her forever.” His face fell. “But she’s already begun
her work. Roger disappeared last night, and no one has seen him all
day. I’m positive that Laura is responsible somehow.”
“And David’s ... sleepwalking, did you say?” Stokes had cocked his
head inquisitively and adjusted his monocle.
“That I can’t explain,” Quentin said with a quick shake of his thick
mane of chestnut hair. “Vicki and I found him in the graveyard with
the strangest array of objects, things he’d obviously taken from almost
everyone in the house, with the exception of me and Mrs. Johnson, I
believe.”
“Objects?”
“Oh, Julia’s handkerchief, Carolyn’s mirror, a bracelet of Elizabeth’s.
But that isn’t what worries me Eliot. It’s this.” He stood up and lifted
the portrait that Vicki had confiscated from Eagle Hill the night before
and set it on the table before the Professor. It depicted a gorgeous
blond woman with smirking eyes of ice and an angelic smile wreathed
across her supple features. Quentin stared at her grimly.
“Anyone you know?” Stokes asked, only half-joking.
“I think I might,” Quentin said, “and if she’s somehow involved with
whatever possessed David to go to Eagle Hill last night, then this
makes our problems with Laura seem as important as a kid with a
pack of matches.”
“Children with matches can be equally as dangerous,” Stokes said
absently. “Who is she? Or, perhaps I should say ‘was’. This portrait
is obviously an antique.” He squinted. “By her style of dress I’d have
to say it — and presumably she — are of the late 18th century.”
“I don’t know about that,” Quentin said. “When I knew her, she
called herself Miranda DuVal, but that face is unmistakable. It’s the
same woman, Eliot. I knew her in 1897. She saved the children and
me from Laura’s fire, but not for any reason that could be construed
as pure.” His face darkened. “Miranda was one of the coldest and
most cruel women I’d ever met. And that’s saying a lot.”
“Those objects,” Stokes said slowly, “were they arranged in a
circle?” Startled, Quentin could only nod. “I do believe I’ve seen this
painting before, perhaps during my research of the Collins family
during the late 1790’s,” Stokes said, and stroked his chin. “I’ll have
to do a little research, of course, to make sure that my hunch was
right, but tell me one thing: did this Miranda DuVal have any particular
scope of powers that you were aware of? Is it possible that she was a
witch?”
“I never ascribed her any particular label,” Quentin said. “She
disappeared shortly before I left Collinwood later in the year. I don’t
know what became of her. But her powers were unmistakable. She
may even have been as powerful as Petofi himself. But a witch?” He
paused, then asked, “Aren’t witches supposed to be immortal?”
“Your Count Petofi claimed immortality,” Stokes said, “but he’s quite
a bit different, isn’t he?”
The man ground his teeth together. “Petofi,” he spat. “That name rings
in my ears like a shotgun blast. I had hoped he’d died in that fire —”
“And it does take fire to destroy a witch,” Stokes supplied. “Or so
the legends say, but they haven’t proved to be particularly helpful to
our cause, have they.”
The man shook his head. “No,” he said mournfully. “And there’s been
a full moon this week.” His eyes drifted to the window of the
Professor’s rented cottage that over-looked the small nest of lights
below, growing steadily brighter as dusk became black night, and the
wide expanse of ocean that led into infinity. “I wonder where he is
tonight?” he mused aloud. “Has he killed? Is he even alive?” His eyes
flicked to Stokes’. “How am I to know?”
Stokes patted his hand sympathetically. “You aren’t,” he said. “We’re
trying all we can.”
“But not getting anywhere,” he sighed. “For all I know, Chris killed
himself years ago.”
“But we know that’s not true,” Stokes said. “We followed his trail
here, didn’t we?”
“Only to discover that he was gone again,” he said, then added, “I
suppose they missed me at the house last night?”
“Elizabeth in particular,” Stokes said. “You’re her favorite cousin, you
know — besides this Barnabas fellow, who might prove to be a
rival.”
The man raised an eyebrow. “Barnabas ... Collins?” he said. “The
man from the portrait?”
“Ancestor,” Stokes said. “From England.”
“Is he,” Quentin said. “I wonder.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Quentin grinned. “I’ll have to explain that at a later date.” Stokes
opened his mouth to protest, then settled back in his chair and
crossed his arms, harrumphing grumpily. “We’ll have to discuss our
strategy to deal with Laura at a later date as well,” Quentin said,
sliding his long trenchcoat over his arms. “Mrs. Johnson will hit the
roof if I’m late to dinner again.”
“I want to know as soon as there’s word about Roger,” Stokes said
as he opened the door for Quentin.
“I’ll call you first thing,” Quentin said. “Good night, Eliot,” he said,
and then the darkness had swallowed him.
Barnabas Collins, he thought ... the man I thought about the other day
... a name I haven’t heard mentioned since the night that Grandmama
told me the Secret when I returned home. I thought that the Secret
would be about the Collins jewels, Quentin mused as he strolled
towards his car, his heels crunching gravel underfoot. I had no idea
what a shock it would prove ... but I swore to keep it, and I
never told a soul. But if this Barnabas proves to be the dreaded family
secret ... what am I to do? Do I have any right to persecute,
especially with my life the way it is? What will I do?
His thoughts were shattered by a sudden piercing scream that rent the
night like the cry of a falcon. Forgetting his harsh judgments
concerning his character, Quentin flung himself forward, towards the
source of the screams, whoever it was. Another screamed echoed
along the deserted, unlit street, and Quentin gritted his teeth and
silently begged his long legs to grow another inch or three.
One final scream met his ears as he rounded a corner, and then it was
died away to a horrible, throaty bubbling sound. He was just able to
catch a glimpse of a dark, thin figure bending over what appeared to
be a young woman slumped on the ground. Quentin opened his
mouth, but no sound emerged, and then the creature lifted its head
and looked at him.
He couldn’t see its features, but its eyes gleamed at him in the
moonlight, and they were red like an animal’s.
Then it was gone. Absolutely gone, as if it had simply faded away.
Something flapped above him, and when he looked up, a bat
swooped overhead, chittering angrily and beating its wings.
“Barnabas,” Quentin whispered, then ran to the girl, who lay moaning
on the ground. She was unconscious, Quentin ascertained that
immediately, and her clothes were in a terrible disarray. The collar of
her dress had been shredded, ripped almost down the middle of her
chest, and the fabric itself was matted with blood. Her throat was
ringed with bruises, and more blood was even now trickling out of
two ragged punctures in her neck. Sick, Quentin realized now that he
recognized her: she was Sabrina Stuart, the girl who’s party Carolyn
had been attending earlier in the week when she’d suffered a bad trip
or whatever it was the kids were calling it these days.
“I’m going to get help,” he told her, and she blinked up at him blearily,
regaining consciousness for a few moments. “I’ll be right back, I
promise.”
My god, he thought as he turned and began to run back in the
direction of the Professor’s house, Grandmama was right. Barnabas is
the family Secret ... and he’s a vampire. And there’s absolutely
nothing I can do about it.
After he was gone, Sabrina tried to sit up, tried to speak. “H-help,”
she gasped. Her throat pained her terribly. Where had the man gone?
Why didn’t someone help her? But the effort was too great, and she
swam back into the comfortable grayness.
The crunching of gravel brought her back to the world. She opened
her eyes and could just make out a person standing above her, but
she didn’t recognize whoever it was.
“You must be in an awful lot of pain.” A woman, and her voice full of
sympathy. “I can help you. I can make the pain go away.”
“P-please,” Sabrina gasped.
“I have to take you to Collinwood,” Elizabeth Collins Stoddard said.
She didn’t want to do this ... she really didn’t ... but the girl was in
such pain already ... such terrible, terrible pain. “I’ll take you to the
West Wing,” Elizabeth cooed as she scooped the girl up and lugged
her to the car parked in the shadows, “and you’ll never feel pain
again.”
It was almost true, as it turned out ... but not quite.
9 — The Marriage
“So nice of you to come again, Cousin Barnabas,” Elizabeth said four
hours later, with her duty safely performed, as the sallow man with the
aquiline features and almost melancholy beauty lifted her hand and brought
it to his lips. They were ice cold, but she pretended not to notice. “Mrs.
Johnson has prepared dinner, and it should be ready within the hour.”
“Thank you, Cousin,” Barnabas said, “but I’m afraid my appetite isn’t
what it should be. I had Willie prepare me a small dinner after I ... I
awoke an hour ago.”
Elizabeth looked at him curiously. “Do you sleep during the day,
Barnabas?”
“I’m afraid I do,” he said, smiling tightly. “A malformation of my eyes,
unfortunately. It makes them extremely sensitive to sunlight, so I’ve
cultivated what may seem to be a bizarre habit to some. I sleep during
the daylight hours.”
“When you said ‘Willie’,” Elizabeth asked, “you weren’t talking about
Willie Loomis, were you?”
“I thought you might be startled,” Barnabas said. “I am aware of the
reputation Willie has in this village, but let me assure you, Cousin, that
he has proven an excellent servant and craftsman. Why, I cannot wait
to show off the work we’ve done the past night and day since we last
parted. The Old House will be host to a grand party soon to show
you all what splendor its capable of, I promise you.”
“I am impressed, Barnabas,” Elizabeth said. “And Carolyn was right.
The things you say are so lyrical, so nicely poetic.”
Barnabas opened his mouth to thank her, then froze, his eyes riveted
on the woman who had stepped from the foyer into the drawing room
where they now stood. Elizabeth followed his gaze and found Vicki,
who was staring in exactly the same way at Barnabas. They look as
though they’ve been separated for years and only just found each
other again. How extraordinary.
“Excuse me,” Vicki said slowly. “I wasn’t aware that you were
entertaining.”
“Come in Vicki, please,” Elizabeth said. “I want you to meet a cousin
of mine. This is my cousin Barnabas from England. Barnabas, this is
Vicki - Victoria Winters. She’s my nephew’s tutor. She only arrived
three days ago, but already it feels as though she’s part of the family.”
Barnabas stepped forward slowly, never taking his eyes off her’s.
“How do you do?” he asked, taking her hand and kissing it, just as he
had for Elizabeth. If Vicki noticed the chill of his lips she showed no
sign of it, and seemed as entranced as was Barnabas.
“I’m very pleased to meet you,” she said in a strange, thick voice.
“I don’t have to tell you that Mr. Collins is a descendent of the young
man who’s portrait hangs in the foyer,” Elizabeth said wickedly.
“No,” Vicki said. “You don’t. The resemblance is ... remarkable.”
“The name Victoria is so beautiful to me,” Barnabas said, that hungry,
intense expression lingering still on his finely carved features. “I
couldn’t possibly surrender a syllable of it.” He chuckled
self-deprecatingly. “Forgive me. As I explained to my cousin, I
indulge in fanciful attitudes from time to time. They’re not to be taken
seriously.”
“I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” Vicki said.
“You’re a very charming man, Mr. Collins.”
“Thank you, Victoria,” Barnabas said. He turned back to Elizabeth
almost reluctantly. “Have you had any word from your brother?” he
asked.
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed. “I’m afraid we haven’t,” she said. “And
I’m very worried about him. He never does this kind of thing, never.
Why, if only he would —” At that moment the front doors slammed,
and Roger’s cheerful voice boomed, “Where is everyone? Has this
drafty old house become a mausoleum?” And then, to someone else,
“I’m only teasing, darling. You’ll grow to love Collinwood.”
“I think I’ve fallen in love with it already,” a woman answered. Only
Vicki noticed how Barnabas froze, his face tightening into an
expression of startled horror, but at that moment the drawing room
doors were flung open, and Roger bounded into the room.
“There you all are!” he exclaimed happily. “I thought I wouldn’t be
able to find any of you anywhere.”
“Roger!” Elizabeth cried angrily. “Where on earth have you been?
We’ve all been so —”
“There isn’t time, Liz,” Roger said. “There’s someone you must all
meet.” He turned around, and as Elizabeth watched impatiently, Vicki
with curiosity, and Barnabas with undisguised horror, Roger led into
the room a beautiful woman swathed in green with her black hair
perfectly coifed and her blue eyes twinkling merrily. “I’d like you all to
meet my new wife.”
“Your wife, Roger!” Elizabeth gasped. “What on earth are you talking
about?”
“My darling Cassandra,” Roger said, “this is my sister Elizabeth, the
governess for our son, Miss Victoria Winters, and our cousin
Barnabas Collins, just arrived from England.” He beamed ecstatically
at his startled family. “Cassandra and I were married this afternoon in
Rockport.”
“I can tell that you’re all quite surprised,” Cassandra said shyly,
though the brilliant smile never left her face, “and I can’t say I blame
you. It must seem very sudden. It certainly seems sudden to me.”
“Sudden is the word for it,” Elizabeth said shortly, then blinked. “Oh,
I apologize, Cassandra. It’s just ... I mean, we had no idea that Roger
was planning an ... an impromptu wedding.”
“I didn’t plan anything,” Roger said peevishly. “Cassandra and I met
last night while I was strolling along the beach, and we went for a late
dinner, and then we went dancing, and then we talked until dawn, and
after all that I feel as if I’ve known her all my life. I proposed and we
were married this afternoon.”
“In Rockport,” Cassandra added helpfully. “At City Hall.” She turned
to Barnabas and batted her eyes innocently. “Mr. Collins, is there
something wrong?”
“Oh no, no,” Barnabas said quickly. “You remind me of someone,
that’s all, Mrs. Collins.”
“I hope you were fond of her,” Cassandra said. “I think we shall
become great friends, Mr. Collins. But you must call me Cassandra!
‘Mrs. Collins’ makes me sound like the lady of the manor ... and
that’s your position, Mrs. Stoddard, and I wouldn’t want to usurp it."
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said shortly, then turned to face her brother.
“Roger, there are several things we must discuss ... one of them being
your ex-wife, who is still very much on the property. And have you
even discussed this with David?”
“I told you,” Roger said impatiently, “there wasn’t any time for
anything like that. I’ve never acted on an impulse before, and I must
say, it’s quite invigorating.” He winked lecherously at Cassandra, who
blushed prettily.
“Come with me into the study,” Elizabeth commanded in her most
imperious tone. “There are a great many things that we have to talk
about. If you’ll excuse us,” she said to Cassandra before she seized
her brother’s arms and dragged him out the drawing room doors.
Cassandra removed her coat and draped it over one arm before lifting
her head to study the room. Her smile, if possible, widened. “I adore
this house already,” she said. “Roger’s told me that you both are new
to Collinwood as well. Do you love it too?”
“You’ve never been here before?” Barnabas asked slowly.
Cassandra looked at him with a bewildered expression on her face.
“Why, no,” she said, and giggled. “How on earth could I have been?”
“I’m fascinated by Collinwood,” Vicki volunteered. Something
strange is happening, she thought. Something between Barnabas and
Mrs. Collins, and I don’t like it one bit. But what could it be?
Cassandra turned to her, still smiling. “There are so many secrets
here, just waiting to be discovered.”
“Are you fond of uncovering secrets, Miss Winters?” Cassandra
asked, a bit archly, but continued to smile sweetly.
“Just those pertaining to me,” Vicki said, abashed. “I’m an orphan,
Mrs. Collins. I don’t know who my parents are, but I’ve always had
a feeling that, someday, I would find out. And I have an overwhelming
feeling that Collinwood figures prominently in my past.”
“I see,” Cassandra said, then to Barnabas, “And what about you, Mr.
Collins? You’ve never been here before, I take it. What do you think
about Collinwood?”
“It’s a masterpiece of architectural design,” Barnabas said. Why, he
looks like he’s trying hard not to snarl at her, Vicki thought, surprised.
What on earth is the matter? She was a little rude to me, but she’s
been nothing but civil with him. “A house built like this will stand
forever ... no matter who or what tries to tear it down.”
“A very strong sentiment,” Cassandra said, and Vicki could swear
there was a hint of barely controlled mockery in her voice. “And a
very noble one. Roger tells me you’re an expert on the Collins
history.”
“Not really,” Barnabas said guardedly. “My father before me was the
expert. But he died two years ago.”
“I see,” Cassandra said. “Have you a bride, Mr. Collins?”
“I have never been married,” Barnabas growled.
“I don’t believe that,” Cassandra said, and Vicki felt as though they
were sparring before her, circling each other like dogs with bared
teeth and hackles raised. “A man as handsome as you? Surely you’ve
caught the eye of a beautiful girl or two.”
“Not recently,” Barnabas said dryly.
“I was studying that portrait of you in the foyer when Roger and I
came in,” Cassandra said slyly. “It’s a perfect likeness of you.”
“That is not a portrait of me,” Barnabas said. “That is my ancestor,
the first Barnabas Collins. He lived in the Old House on the estate
when Collinwood was first built in 1796.”
“See,” she chided him, “you do know your family’s history. I have no
head for dates. The past just blends for me into one big blur.”
“I see,” Barnabas said politely, then turned to Vicki. “If you’ll excuse
me, Victoria,” he said warmly, and touched her hand briefly. “Please
give my apologies to Elizabeth and Roger.”
“But you mustn't go!” Cassandra said suddenly, and they both turned
to stare at her. “I mean,” she said lamely, “we’ve only just begun to
know each other. You’re a fascinating man, Mr. Collins.”
“We’ll see each other again,” Barnabas said, and stared piercingly at
her, a gaze she returned with an almost lofty turn of her head.
“Inevitably,” she smiled, showing her teeth.
“Yes,” Barnabas growled as he moved beyond her and out the
drawing room doors, “inevitably.”
Cassandra watched him as he went, and her smile slowly faded until
nothing remained on her face but a cold, watchful expression like the
inhuman stare of a cobra.
10 — The Little Devil
Morning saw a thin rain drizzling from a sky that was grey and
overcast, although it illuminated the green in the fields and rolling hills
outside Collinsport; they almost seemed to shimmer through the
sheets of rain. News of last night’s attrocity had already spread
throughout the town, and even though Maggie Evans had yet to serve
her first cup of coffee at her counter at the Collinsport Diner, she
knew that Sabrina Stuart had vanished into thin air after Quentin had
discovered her bruised and battered body last night. He and Julia
Hoffman had come in for a cup of coffee and a piece of cherry pie
(“Best damned cherry pie in Maine,” Julia always said) at around ten,
just as Maggie was closing, and had filled her in. Popular theory was
that the attacker, scared off initially by Quentin, had returned to finish
the job. No trace of her body had been found yet.
Now she was driving from the cottage she and Pop shared outside of
town towards the diner, enjoying her little bubble of solidarity, some
alone time before the flow of customers would begin around nine. She
liked to drive in the rain. To almost everyone else she knew it made
everything bleak and colorless, but a nice, gentle summer rain brought
out the best in the landscape. Even the rocks and the cliffs seemed
alive.
Ordinarily Maggie Evans wouldn’t stop for a hitchhiker, particularly a
man she didn’t know, but there seemed something extraordinarily
compelling about the man standing by the side of the road as she
came upon him a moment later, a long grey coat wrapped around
him, wool it seemed, and a pair of grey gloves encompassing his
hands. A little bowler hat prevented the rain from falling on his head,
but he didn’t even have an umbrella. A solitary suitcase sat next to his
heels. Maggie found herself pulling over, and wondered what had
come over her. If he’s some sort of attacker, she thought to herself
sternly, forgetting all about Sabrina Stuart and the cattle mutilations of
the past week, then you’d better pray those judo classes Pop made
you take weren’t for nothing.
“Hi!” Maggie exclaimed sunnily as she rolled down her window. “Are
you going into Collinsport?”
The man on the side of the road had been walking for what seemed
an eternity. Although, he thought, sneering, there were eternities that
bridged much longer spans than the amount of time he’d spent on the
road to Collinsport, and this wasn’t one of them. No, he’d been
enjoying his little stroll. He figured it gave him time to think, to sort out
exactly what he would do when he arrived at the great house above
Widow’s Hill. Until the rain started. And rain was one thing he could
not endure.
Which was why the young lady was now pulling over for him. An
easy enough trick. And, he thought, amazed, what a spectacular
young lady she is too. He couldn’t have picked better if he’d tried.
“I’m going to Collinwood, actually,” he said, stepping into the car and
dropping his carpetbag politely at his feet. His mustache above his
clever little mouth was awash with tiny beads of water that were even
now streaming down his chin. “Have you heard of it?”
“Heard of it?” Maggie asked incredulously. “Are you kidding? The
Collinses are only the biggest family in town. Collinsport is named
after them, as a matter of fact.”
“I’d gathered that,” the man said.
“Say, are you another relative?” Maggie asked. “One of their cousins
from England just showed up last night. Made quite an impression
from what I gathered.”
“Not exactly,” the man said, and grinned. “My sister married one of
the family, and I missed the wedding. I was hoping to catch the happy
couple before they flitted away on their honeymoon.”
“You must be talking about Roger,” Maggie said, startled. “I didn’t
know he’d been married. You must give him my congratulations. And
your sister too, of course,” she added quickly.
“I’ll pass it along,” the man said. “Are you from Collinsport?”
“I sure am,” Maggie said, and offered a lop-sided smile. “Maggie
Evans, quickest hash-slinger in Collinsport.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Evans,” the man said. He stared
out the window at the passing scenery, the tiny houses that became
more frequent as they reached Collinsport. How familiar it all was,
though he hadn’t been to this rat-infested hellhole for several years.
Hellhole, he thought, and smothered a chuckle. Now that was ironic.
Even more ironic than the relationship he and dear Angelique were
about to perpetuate. Only she just doesn’t know it yet, he thought,
and grinned darkly. “You and I will have to have a cup of coffee
before I leave town.”
“Are you staying long?” she asked.
“I’m not sure yet,” the man said. “I may have business in this
so-lovely little town. Yes,” he said to himself, “I may indeed.” I
wonder what she’ll say, he thought, amused. I wonder what her face
will look like when she sees me and I tell her that the Master has sent
me to watch over her, to see that she doesn’t make any of the
mistakes she did the last time she ventured onto the mortal plane. I
cannot wait for that moment, he decided. No, I just cannot wait.
“I didn’t catch your name,” Maggie said as she turned onto the road
that led steadily towards Collinwood.
“I am sorry,” the man said. “My name is Blair ... Nicholas Blair.” And
we’ll be seeing each other again, Maggie Evans, he thought. As soon
as I finish my business with my dear Angelique, we will get to know
each other much better ... on my terms.
And, continuing to stare out the window as Collinwood grew and
grew before him, Nicholas smiled to himself.
TO BE CONTINUED...
No comments:
Post a Comment