Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Shadows on the Wall Chapter Fourteen Part One

Chapter 14: A Sea of Familiar Faces


by Nicky


PART ONE: The Present



“In the great house of Collinwood on this night, an evil has been


discovered. But the woman who has discovered it — a woman who’s


life has been as unorthodox as anyone else’s on the estate — this


woman may begin a strange and frightening journey into a past that is


not her own.” (Voiceover by Grayson Hall)



1



Sobbing. A dry, rasping sound full of grief and hollow despair. A

man? Surely a man.



Julia groaned and tried to sit up, but ultimately fell back weakly

against the mint-green satin pillows. She opened her eyes; the room,

wherever it was, was dimly lit with candlelight, and she could that she

was lying, uncovered, on a canopy bed. There was a pervasive aura

of timelessness in the room where she now dwelt, as though someone

had lovingly restored every atom of a time gone by. She could see a

vanity in the corner with perfume bottles and a silver brush and mirror

set laid out side by side. A pink ribbon, curling and brittle, lay

discarded and forgotten. No, she decided, not forgotten. Obviously,

whoever belonged to this room was not forgotten. Anything but.



And still the sobbing went on and on. Julia finally managed to

succeed, and rose into a sitting position with

her weight resting on her right elbow. She peered into the gloom. It

WAS a man, and his back was away from her, but she knew him

instantly. It was Barnabas Collins, and he was staring up a the portrait

of a woman that dominated the room. She was noble looking in a

vague sort of way, with large, doey brown eyes and titian ringlets

pulled back behind her head. Her hands were folded placidly in her

lap.



“Barnabas?” Julia whispered, and he stiffened, then turned to face

her. His features by candlelight were soft; the flickering lumination did

much to dispel the craggy, haunted features she had glimpsed just

before he had begun to throttle her.



“So you’re awake,” he said in a grating voice devoid of emotion. He

seemed worn out, shrunken somehow. “I sent Willie to Collinwood to

explain your absence.” He smiled grimly, and it was suddenly a

ghastly parody of humanity, but Julia felt a pang of sympathy for him

nevertheless. “You and I are to spend the evening going over my

branch of the family’s history ... for your book, you see. We’ll pass a

pleasant evening, and then you’ll return to Collinwood in the

morning.” He scowled. “Except that you and I know there is no

English branch of the Collins family, don’t we, Doctor.”



“Why am I still alive?” Julia asked in a calm, rational voice that

surprised her.



Barnabas raised an eyebrow. “Your forwardness always surprises

me, Doctor,” he said with a sad shake of his head. “Has it ever

occurred to you that I may be offended by such a question?”



Julia smiled wryly. “Has it ever occurred to you that I might have been

offended by your attempted murder of me earlier this evening?”



He sighed. “Touche.” He crossed the room and stood next to her,

looming over her with his sad eyes and downturned mouth. His face

was seamed but not wrinkled, and it only added to the air of mystery

that surrounded him. I’m going to pierce the core of that mystery,

Julia thought, and determination to succeed flooded over her again.

“You were saved by a ghost, Dr. Hoffman.”



Julia drew in a startled breath. “A — a ghost? A real ghost?”



“Certainly not a false one,” Barnabas said, but there was no mirth in

his voice.



“Why would a ghost save me?”



“Why indeed, Doctor?” Barnabas returned her question forlornly.

“Why would she help you, spare you, unlike my other victims? Unless

...” And his voice quavered. “Unless she knows that my time is

drawing near ... that the last vestiges of my humanity have fled and I

am nothing but an animal ... a vicious, despicable beast ...” He put his

hands over his face, stifling a sob, but his shoulders quivered and his

chest hitched.



“Barnabas,” Julia whispered softly, tenderly. “Barnabas, it’s all right.

I’m fine. You — you didn’t kill me after all.” He dropped his hands

and stared at her, disbelief marking every angle of his features. “It’s

true. I understand, Barnabas. I saw how tortured you were the first

night I met you. And when I finally realized the truth, I knew that you

could never enjoy —”



“How could anyone enjoy an existence such as this?” he snarled, and

turned away from her, fuming. “I haven’t seen the light of day or felt

the warmth of a human touch for almost two hundred years ... two

hundreds years of isolation from others, two hundred years of

darkness ... all because my father could not force himself to destroy

me.” All the fury fell from his voice like shackles clattering to the floor,

and he only looked tired.



“Who was the ghost, Barnabas?” Julia asked softly.



“I don’t think I should tell you,” he said petulantly. “I don’t think you

understand enough to know.”



“I understand more than you think I do!” Julia exclaimed, and

clambered to her feet, where she stood for a moment, swaying,

lightheaded, as all the blood rushed to her head. He turned to stare at

her disinterestedly. “Barnabas, I knew what you were ... I came to

your coffin, but not to destroy you! If I thought you were only a ... a

loathsome animal to be put down, wouldn’t I have brought a stake

and hammer with me?”



He was watching her thoughtfully. “Why didn’t you, Doctor?” he

asked, and his voice was almost tender.



“Because I know I will succeed,” she growled fiercely. Despite

herself she took one of his hands in hers, and in his surprise he didn’t

draw away. She ignored the deathly cold that seemed to pulse from

his flesh in waves and concentrated instead on staring into his eyes. “I

can cure you, Barnabas. I can make you live again, give you back the

life you never had.” Her eyes glowed with an emerald

phosphorescence, and as though entranced, Barnabas couldn’t look

away. “I can make you a normal human being again. All you have to

do is trust me.”



“Trust you?” he whispered.



“Trust,” Julia said. “That’s all I ask.”



“How can you cure me?” he asked curiously. “How can you even

try?”



“I have been studying cases such as yours all my life,” Julia said. “I

never thought I’d find an actual

specimen —”



His face clouded. “I am not an experimental animal for your

amusement, Dr. Hoffman,” he said, and his voice was icy.



“I know, I know,” Julia said hastily. “I’m sorry. But Barnabas, don’t

you see? I’ve managed to isolate a destructive cell in your

bloodstream, and I’m convinced that it’s this cell that keeps you the

way you are.” She was trembling with excitement. “If I could find this

cell — isolate it — and ultimately remove it from your bloodstream

...”



“I would be cured,” he finished for her, but then shook his head.

“No,” he said savagely. “SHE would never allow it. She’d never let

you cure me, bring me back from the hell she’s imposed upon me —”





Confused, Julia asked, “She? Who is ‘she’? Who are you talking

about?”



“Never mind,” he growled. “How do I know that you’ll succeed?

What methods would you use?”



“Well,” Julia said, slipping into a clinical tone to mask the excitement

that was now glowing within her, “the basis of your problem is the

destructive nature of your blood cells. There’s an imbalance that

causes more cells to be destroyed than replaced. My objective then is

to alter the structure of your blood.” He gasped, then closed his

mouth violently, hiding the emotion that had dawned on his face for

that brief moment, and then his eyes were like flint again, like tiny,

cold pebbles watching her unemotionally. “I would inject a new

plasma into your arterial system.”



He turned back to the portrait above the fireplace and stared at it for

several moments before he turned back to her. His voice was soft,

almost inaudible, as he said, “You begin to intrigue me, Dr. Hoffman.

When can these experiments begin?”



Soon, Julia thought, unable to prevent the smile that spread over her

face like sunshine. I believe that someone can love him as he is; I’m

willing to give him everything that I have, and I don’t care what the

cost is. No, I don’t care about that at all.



“We’ll begin them tomorrow night,” Julia said. “A new life is waiting

for you, Barnabas, I promise you.” She didn’t notice the way he

stiffened at her employment of that term, or how his brow knitted

together with the stain of suspicion.



2



That’s right, Victoria ... my baby, my darling ... keep coming to me ...


keep coming to me ...



Entranced, Victoria Winters drifted through the halls of Collinwood,

ethereal and ghostly. Her eyes were wide and blank and focused

straight ahead of her, completely unseeing. All she could hear was that

sonorous, compelling voice in her head directing her, commanding

her, bidding her to follow.




The West Wing, Victoria ... you know where to find me ... the West


Wing ... keep coming ...



“The West Wing,” Victoria murmured sleepily. Wasn’t that where

David had been hiding the first night she’d arrived on the great estate?

Surely it was. And Mrs. Stoddard had been so upset; even Dr.

Hoffman had noticed. There was a secret there, she could sense it. A

secret ...



Yes, Victoria ... a secret ... a great and mysterious secret, a


wonderful surprise ... come and find it ... come


and find me ...



“I’ll find you,” she whispered. “Just tell me where to look ...” She

paused before the imposing hardwood door that led to all the secrets

chained within the West Wing, forsaken by the family. But why?

What lurked within that was so dangerous?



You’ll find out, Victoria. Just ... just open the door ...



The voice was stronger now, and she could detect an undercurrent of

eagerness, and a voracious, all consuming hunger. She stopped, one

hand on the latch, now uncertain. She shook her head. What am I

doing here? she wondered, and a glissade of terror razored down her

back. I should be ... be in —



“Vicki?” Vicki cried out involuntarily and spun around, confronting a

very startled Carolyn, who was watching her with one eyebrow

raised. “What on earth are you doing out of bed at this hour?”



“Carolyn,” Vicki breathed, a sigh of relief, and looked around her,

bewildered. “I — I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know how I came

here.” And it was true. The memories of the voice were already dim

and fading, part of a nightmare she didn’t care to remember. She

laughed weakly. “I guess I was sleepwalking.”



“You poor baby,” Carolyn fretted. “You must be freezing in that

skimpy nightgown.” She threw her wrap over Vicki’s shoulders and

began to lead her away. “Honestly, you must be scared out of your

mind! I’d be a mess if I woke up at the door of the West Wing. At

least I stopped you before you got any farther.”



“Any farther,” Vicki whispered, and glanced over her shoulder. For a

moment, she could have sworn —



“Wait until I tell Mother in the morning,” Carolyn laughed. “She thinks

I’M a kook; wait’ll she gets a load

of you!”



“Carolyn,” Vicki said hesitantly, and the other girl stopped, watching

her curiously. “I ... I wish you wouldn’t tell your mother about this.”

She smiled. “I don’t want her to worry, that’s all.”



“All right,” Carolyn said, a puzzled frown marring her pretty features.

She shrugged. “If you say so.” She squinted at Vicki in the dark as

they tripped down the staircase to the second floor. “Hey,” she said,

“maybe you ARE a kook.”



“Yes,” Vicki said, and thought of the last thing she’d seen before

Carolyn had led her away. My imagination, she thought, but

wondered. The doorknob to the West Wing wasn’t turning, Vicki

thought, but she was uneasy; it couldn’t have been turning, as though

there was someone inside who ... who wanted out ... “Maybe I am a

kook after all ...”



3



“She’s gone?” Cassandra asked a week later, delicately sipping the

sherry a glowering Mrs. Johnson had set down before her. An

unseasonable chill had set in earlier in the afternoon, and so

Cassandra had instructed that a fire be built in the drawing, where she

now reclined on that hideous olive green excuse for a couch in her

favorite robe, black and flowing, with white lace cuffs and a smooth,

rounded jewel pinned between her breasts that glowed with an

internal, crimson flame. “Just like that?”



“Just like that, darling,” Roger said, stroking her other

hand and watching her attentively. Honestly, Cassandra thought with a

moue of disdain, he’s like a fawning puppy dog. Perhaps I should

have used a lower dose of love philter. “She’s gone forever, and

she’s never coming back here.” He blinked. “That’s what her note

said, at any rate.”



Cassandra smiled deviously. Of course Laura had left no note —

there hadn’t been time to do much of anything when she’d combusted

into flames and was crisped into ashes in a matter of moments — but

Cassandra had seen to it that a neatly addressed envelope, replete

with a “dear John” letter of sorts, and even in the former Mrs. Collins’

handwriting — had been left in Roger’s bedroom, and of course the

cottage had been thoroughly freed of Laura’s meager possessions and

horrid excuse for a wardrobe. Black

vinyl dresses? Cassandra had thought at the time, disgusted, before

she’d melted it to ichor with a wave of

her hand. “Splendid,” Cassandra said, and forced herself to kiss his

cheek. “I know that she was a bother to you darling, and I don’t want

anything to interfere with our happiness. I say, good riddance to bad

rubbish.”



“It’s all so sudden,” Roger said, puzzled. “She seemed so intent on

taking David away with her, and then ...” He shook his head, and

downed the rest of his brandy. “She absolutely disappeared. I’d

almost suspect foul play if I hadn’t received that note from her.”



Cassandra smirked. “Fowl” play is more like it, she thought, and

allowed herself a mental giggle.



Three sharp knocks in a row interrupted her reverie, and she frowned

with a brief glance at the clock that hung on the wall. It was almost

midnight. Who on earth came knocking at midnight?



Roger was already rising to his feet, grimacing, one hand to the small

of his back. He’s already an old man, Cassandra thought, irritated,

but smiled prettily at him when he said, “I’ll get it, darling. You just sit

there.”



“Of course, darling,” she purred, and amused herself by levitating the

sherry glass over to the bar, where it was magically filled, then

returned by invisible agents to her outstretched hand. She could hear

Roger padding in his slippers and robe to the front door, then she

heard them open, and Roger said, “Yes? How may I help you?”



The next voice that greeted her ears sent shivers down her spine, and

she froze as a man’s voice, sleek and weasely, said, “Roger Collins!

I’d recognize you anywhere! You are Cassandra’s husband!”



No, Cassandra thought, and a blaze of anger melted the initial ice of

her shock, this isn’t possible. What in

Hecate’s name is HE doing here?



“I am Roger Collins,” Roger said, stiff and pompous as always. “And

who are you?”



“Oh, forgive me,” the other man said. Cassandra sat where she was,

frozen in fury, refusing to turn to look at him. It’s exactly what he

wants me to do, she thought angrily, and I will not give into him again.

“My manners are atrocious sometimes, simply atrocious.” His voice

was hale and booming with a slight tinge of snide, just as it had always

been, just as it had been the last time she’d seen him. That had been

almost a hundred years ago, when her pose as Miranda DuVal had

been deciphered by the head of the Collinsport coven she had been

ordered by her Master to join. He had called himself “Evan Hanley”

at the time, but

she knew that wasn’t his REAL name, anymore than hers had been

Miranda then or Cassandra now. Easy aliases, but that didn’t explain

what he was doing here NOW when he should have died a hundred

years ago. “I’ve looked forward to meeting you ever since I heard

about the marriage,” the man continued. “My name is Nicholas Blair

... Cassandra’s brother.”



“Cassandra’s ... brother?” Roger said, astounded. “Oh, do forgive

me. Please, come inside.”



“Thank you,” Nicholas said, stepping across the threshold. “What a

lovely house you have here, Mr. Collins. Very European. I can almost

sense the secrets that must have collected here over the centuries.”



“This ... this is quite a surprise,” Roger said, and their voices drew

nearer. They were about to enter the drawing room, and Cassandra

would be expected to play along. Damn him, she mentally hissed, but

rose to her feet and turned expectantly as Roger finished, “But an

extraordinary surprise.”



“Nicholas!” she exclaimed, and thought to herself, if anyone deserves

an Oscar, it’s me. “Nicholas, what on earth are you doing here?”

Which is exactly what I’d like to know, she thought.



As always, Nicholas’ acting skills were impeccable; he dashed

forward with the most ridiculous expression of affectoin on his face,

and lugged her into a crushing embrace; she was smothering, and

could smell mint and tobacco. “Cassandra, it’s so wonderful to finally

see you again.” He drew back, still gripping her by the shoulders, and

she could see the cold, malevolent glint in his eyes, that mocking,

weasel smile. “I came here to see you and meet your new husband.

Aren’t you glad to see your big brother?”



“Ecstatic,” she said, fighting to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. If

only I had my doll and pins, she thought, but bit her tongue. She and

Nicholas had a long, complicated relationship dating back almost

three hundred years and at least one previous incarnation. He had

been a lawyer in the small Massachusetts town of Bedford when she

had been a mere servant girl to the Collins family, the ORIGINAL

Miranda DuVal, helpless, docile, and utterly without power. Nicholas

had been Amadeus Collins’ personal lawyer for several years, and a

devoted servant of the Black Lords of Chaos; after an attempted rape

by the old bastard who employed her she had gone in tears to

Nicholas and begged him for help. His refusal to help her infuriated

her, and so she sought out the Powers of Darkness herself, but was

killed before she was able to procure even the smallest talent. Her

reincarnation as Angelique Bouchard in Martinique wiped clean most

of her memories of her life as Miranda, but enough remained that she

recognized Nicholas when he appeared to her again in the rainforest

of Martinique, bringing with him that devil’s smile and proposing a

devil’s bargain. When she had encountered him in 1897 while posing

at Collinwood as Miranda DuVal, she found that, as a punishment for

some past ineptitude, the Devil had erased his memories of his

previous life and forced him to start over as Evan Hanley, a lawyer

and a friend of Quentin’s. Obviously he had redeemed himself and

was now forcing her into a charade as brother and sister, but the

reason, or decided lack thereof, baffled her. His sense of humor was

the same, she thought grimly, and offered her cheek for him to kiss.

He did it with relish, and she repressed a grimace at the smacking

sound he left in his wake. “Oh, Nicholas,” she gushed, “how are

you?”



“Fine,” he said, grinning his sharp white grin, “finer now that I know

for certain that you’re all right.”



Brow furrowed, a still befuddled Roger asked, “What do you mean

by that? Why wouldn’t she be all right?” He laid a protective hand

against her arm, and she gritted her teeth so as not to shrug it off.

“Cassandra, dear, are you not telling me something?”



“Oh, it’s not a terribly big deal,” Nicholas hemmed and hawed. “She

just didn’t let me know in time for the wedding. I hadn’t heard from

her in several weeks and thought it time to get in touch with her.”



“But I called him first,” Cassandra interjected sweetly.



“Yes,” Nicholas purred. “So you did. I came as quickly as I could.”

He lifted her chin up with his index finger and stroked it with his

thumb. “You shouldn’t do things like that now, Cassandra, especially

since you’re married. This dropping off the face of the earth without

so much as a note business has got to be finished. Why,” and his

Cheshire Cat grin widened if possible, “what would your husband

think if you should just vanish one day? You might never come back!”





Dread filled her throat with black water, but she smiled confidently,

and took Roger’s arm in hers and squeezed it tightly. “Of course I

won’t do anything like that, darling.” She stared up at her husband

with eyes of blue ice. “My brother’s always been very strict with me.

It’s one of the reasons —” and she pierced Nicholas with her eyes —

“I’ve always adored him since I was a child.”



“Sometimes you’ve got to be strict with her, Roger,” Nicholas said.

“She needs it.”



Roger chuckled, and lovingly patted his wife’s arm. “I’ll remember

that,” he said.



Cassandra cleared her throat, capturing Roger’s gaze and then

locking onto it with every hypnotic power at her command. “Darling,”

she said softly, “why don’t you go upstairs and go to bed. You’re

very tired, and Nicholas and I would like some time alone.”



Roger blinked once, and smiled widely. “You know, I think I’ll go

upstairs to bed. I’m very tired, and I think that you and Nicholas

would like some time alone.” He kissed her cheek, shook his head

once, and then dazedly wandered out of the drawing room and

vanished up the stairs. Nicholas shut the double doors behind him,

then turned to face Cassandra. She was utterly unsurprised to see that

he was still smiling.



“At the risk of sounding ... banal,” he sneered, “it’s a small world,

isn’t it?”



All pretense of sisterly love dropped like a stone from her face, and

she crossed her arms and angrily crossed to the fireplace where she

stood, leaning against the mantle and glaring into the flames. They

flickered across her face and created a shadowed wonderland of

planes and impossible angles surrounding her enormous, vicious blue

eyes. “What are you doing here?” she snapped. “I didn’t send for

you, and I don’t want you here. I command you to leave this place

immediately, do you hear?”



“But sister DEAR,” Nicholas growled, and seized her arm. His fingers

dug painfully into the flesh, and she cried out as he spun her around to

face him. He was no longer smiling, and his face was very white, and

she saw that he was furious. Rage blazed in his steel-gray eyes in an

inferno. “I am not some spirit for you to summon and banish at your

will,” Nicholas said in a low, dangerous voice.



“Then why are you here?” she dared to cry. I’m not afraid of him,

Cassandra thought resolutely, and shrugged out of his grip, then

rubbed her throbbing arm while staring at him sullenly.



“I was sent by the Master,” Nicholas said, relishing the way she spun

to stare at him, open-mouthed. He chuckled. “I don’t think I’ve ever

seen such a look of shock on your face. Was it my news or merely

because of me?” He winked at her lecherously.



“There is no reason for the Master to have sent you,” Cassandra said.

“I have everything perfectly under control.”



“Do you?” Nicholas purred. “I wonder.”



“What does that mean?”



Nicholas examined one gloved hand with one eyebrow disinterestedly

raised. “Your goal is to keep Barnabas Collins under your spell,

correct?” She nodded suspiciously. “That’s why you’ve come up with

this idiotic plan, posing as Roger Collins’ wife, changing your hair,

when there are people on this estate who recognize you —”



“I have admitted my identity to no one!” she cried defensively. “No

one except Laura Collins, and I destroyed her.” She crossed her arms

and beamed at him triumphantly.



“So you did,” Nicholas said, bored. “What of Quentin Collins and

Professor Stokes? Are you forgetting that Quentin is immortal now,

and knew you as Miranda DuVal? Allowing your portrait to fall into

their hands was one of the stupidest mistakes you ever made; equally

stupid was allowing Quentin to retain his memories of you as Miranda

... and the fact that he knows your true name ... Angelique.” She

opened her mouth to protest, but he continued. “And what of

Barnabas himself? He recognizes you, Cassandra, and he’s plotting to

destroy you.” His face darkened. “And that isn’t all he’s plotting.”



“What do you mean?” she cried, dismay shrilling her voice.



“You are familiar with Dr. Julia Hoffman?”



“Of course,” Cassandra said impatiently with a dismissive wave of her

hand. “She’s Elizabeth’s dried up old college friend or something. I

haven’t paid much attention to her.”



Nicholas rolled his eyes and groaned. “Oh, my DEAR, how you do

disappoint me. So many opportunities, and all of them bungled. You

never pay attention to the really important things. Instead you’re

content to let them float by you. It’s no wonder your schemes never

reach fruition. It’s TACKY, my dear, and a true witch is never,

EVER tacky.”



“How do you know so much about the people in this house,”

Cassandra asked, “and what about Julia Hoffman? What does she

have to with Barnabas?”



“Let’s just say that I have my little tricks as well,” Nicholas said

smugly. “As for Dr. Hoffman, right this moment she’s at the Old

House with Barnabas Collins, discussing the possibility of a cure for

his ... condition.”



Horror forced a piercing exclamation from her mouth. “No!”

Cassandra cried. “No, that isn’t possible! She doesn’t have the

power to accomplish it!”



“It has nothing to do with power,” Nicholas said, disgusted. “It has to

do with knowledge and intelligence,

two resources you are sadly lacking, my dear. I’m not sure if it’s

possible, or if she’ll even succeed, but she stands in the way of your

curse, Cassandra, and you canNOT allow that to happen.”



She was absolutely furious. “I can handle my affairs myself, in my own

way, Nicholas,” she snarled, “and I don’t need YOU here to help me

... or hinder me. Return to the Underworld Nicholas ... now!”



He stared at her coolly, appraisingly, his mouth seeming to vanish

altogether, and then reared back and slapped her. The cry of pain and

anger left her mouth before she could repress it, and she stared at him

coldly. “You’ll be sorry you did that,” she whispered huskily, alarmed

to find that tears lingered on her eyelids. I won’t cry in front of him,

she thought desperately; I won’t! I won’t!



“I thought so,” Nicholas sighed with mock sadness. “You’ll have to

be taught a lesson, my dear, and I’m the only one qualified enough to

teach it to you.”



“You have no power over me,” Cassandra cried defiantly. Her voice

was shrill with panic and anger. “I order you to leave this house!”



Nicholas stepped back from her, and suddenly the room was swept

into shadow, save for one pulsing emerald light that illuminated his

lizard-like features as he waved his hands mystically in the air, creating

strange patterns and sigils that blazed with that same liquid green

phosphorescence before fading away. “I summon a spirit from

beyond the grave,” he intoned, “a man who died in this very house. A

man who met his untimely death at the hands of a supernatural

murderess ... come forth, wronged spirit! Return from the shades

where you now dwell to exact your revenge!”



“What are you doing?” Cassandra shrieked, her voice high and

waving with terror. The temperature in the room had plummeted, and

goosebumps shivered up and down her arms in a tide. Her eyes were

wide and frenetically blue. Nicholas continued waving his arms, and

the air before him began to shimmer and quake, and when a dark

figure began to materialized Cassandra felt the chill of an icicle pierce

her heart as she recognized him.



“WITCH!” the ghost growled. Its eyes were savage, burning lumps of

coal; it was dressed in a black frockcoat, and it held the specter of a

guttering torch in its bonewhite fist.



“You can’t be here,” Cassandra quavered, backing away with one

warning hand held out. “You can’t be!”



“Oh, he very much can,” Nicholas smirked. “You murdered him, after

all, and isn’t it natural for him to desire vengeance?”



Cassandra’s trembling hands tried to form the familiar witchpatterns,

but nothing happened. “I command you with every power I have to

return to the earth of which you are a part!” she screamed, but the

ghost of Reverend Trask merely grinned at her ferociously. “In the

name of Beelzebub —”



“Your Master has no power over me!” the ghost of Trask thundered,

and raised the torch, which now blazed with a fierce, supernatural

light. “We shall see who’s master is stronger, your’s or mine!”



“Nicholas,” Cassandra begged, “you can’t let him destroy me ... you

can’t!”



“What’s to prevent me?” he asked coldly. “Should I vanish like you

have commanded me to, and leave you at the mercy of the good

Reverend?”



“No,” she sobbed as Trask advanced on her no. “No, you can’t!”



“You condemned me to an untimely death,” the ghost of Trask

boomed, looming over her. “I’m going to destroy you, witch, and pay

you back for the agony you have caused in this world before I send

you into the hellfire of the next!”



Cassandra closed her eyes, and for a moment was swept back into

her own past, when she was a lonely, terrified servant girl known then

as Angelique. She had first met the Reverend Trask, an imposing man

with haunted, shadowed eyes and a voice like crushed glass, with his

black hair in a widow’s peak above his protruding forehead and his

lips curled into a permanent sneer when he had arrived at the great

house in January of 1796 at the bidding of Abigail Collins, the

fanatical spinster sister of Joshua Collins, Barnabas’ father. Abigail

was convinced that there was a witch at work in the new house, and

she was equally convinced that it was Phyllis Wicke, the colorless,

mewling governess to ten year old Sarah Collins, Barnabas’ little

sister. Since she was such a strange creature she was a perfect

scapegoat for Angelique’s own sorcery, and when Jeremiah Collins

and Josette eloped, Phyllis was blamed for it. Unfortunately for

Angelique, the good Reverend decided to question her as well.



She recalled perfectly how he had stared down at her with those

same cold, flinty eyes, and how nervous she had been under his gaze,

how she had tried so hard not to fidget lest she give herself away.

“You go to the woods alone,” he had challenged her, “to meet with

Lucifer himself! You may as well admit it, girl ... I can see the truth in

your eyes!”



“Oh no!” she had wailed. “No, please! I go to the woods because it

is quiet and peaceful, and I can be alone with my thoughts.” She

bowed her head; the mountain of golden curls (how she missed them

now!) were held tightly in place with the aid of a white mopcap.

“Please, sir ... I go alone to the woods to be closer to my god.”



“Your god,” the Reverend Trask sneered. “A false idol ... a god of

murderers and thieves ... a god of witches!”



“You mustn’t believe that,” she had sniffed. Tears burned in her eyes.

“I beg of you!”



He had studied her carefully, and she felt his gaze as though she were

being branded with red-hot pokers. “Angelique Bouchard,” he had

pronounced with great precision, “I condemn you as a witch and a

consort of Satan. I shall bring you before the bailiff in Collinsport this

afternoon and you will be tried for the witch you are.” His hand shot

out and clutched her by the wrist; his fingers were like steel, but she

refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing her scream.



“Take your hands off me,” she had growled between gritted teeth.



“You will not dare to speak to a man of God in such a manner,”

Trask spat.



“You are not a man of God,” Angelique chuckled. “You are a

FOOL, Reverend Trask. You have the spirit of evil in you!”



He slapped her across the face then, driving her to her knees.

“Blasphemer!” he had screamed, and for one terrifying moment she

was afraid that he would draw others to the drawing room, but no

one heard his strangled cry of anger, and no one came to his aid. It

was just as well; she would need to take care of him now, before he

did anything drastic, but she had to do it quickly; if anyone caught

them together they would suspect her as well, and she couldn’t have

that. Not now, when she was so close to achieving her goal:

becoming the bride of Barnabas Collins.



“You cannot hold onto me anymore, Reverend Trask,” Angelique

said slowly, “because my arm is burning hot.” He yelped at that

moment and drew away, panting cool air onto his scalded hand that

was already beginning to turn an angry red.



He stared at her with wide, frightened eyes. “You are a witch!” he

cried, pointing a trembling finger at her. “I was right! I was right!”



“So you were,” Angelique said coldly, rising to her feet. “But you’ve

never encountered a real witch before, have you ‘Reverend’.” She

smiled mockingly. “You have no concept of the powers I have, but

you’re going to learn. But it will the final lesson, Reverend Trask,

because this lesson is fatal.”



“When you speak,” Trask quavered in a high, reedy voice, “the devil

speaks for you!”



Angelique nodded. “Perhaps this is true,” she said. She raised her

hand and thrust it forward. “Your heart,” she intoned, “is beginning to

beat faster ... and faster!”



“No!” Trask wailed, but his hands were pressed to his chest and he

had already fallen to the ground. “No, you cannot do this to me! Not

a man of God!”



“You are mute,” Angelique swore. “You cannot speak!” Trask glared

up at her with wide, bulging fish eyes; his face already darkened to a

dull, beat red, and his feet thumped an angry tattoo against the carpet.

“You’re going to die, Reverend Trask, but no one will ever find your

body. You’re going to disappear without a trace.” Angelique closed

her eyes and willed the flames of hell to rise within her; when she

opened her eyes they were a depthless obsidian. Trask blanched, and

all the color drained from his face, leaving it a blank, staring mask.

She held out her hand and Trask jumped as though stung, and began

to convulse. A pleasure of pure demonic pleasure spread over

Angelique’s face as the Reverend Trask was

engulfed in the flames of Hades; they spread rapidly, eagerly licking at

him clothes and his flesh and his hair; his mouth opened and a spurt of

flames danced on his tongue; his eyes burst into jelly; his hands

became withered, charred claws. After several seconds only a

smudge of ash remained on the carpet, and Angelique smeared it

daintily beneath her heel until it was hardly noticeable. A sigh of relief

escaped her lips. “Poor Reverend Trask,” she gloated. “Such an

ignominious death. And no one will ever know the truth ... no one!”

Her laughter rang out, evil and high and malicious, and filled the room

with a cacophony of demented delight ...



... the same room wherein she now cowered from the ghastly spirit

before her. His teeth were long and very white, and his eyes in death

flickered with madness, just as the torch he wielded flickered at her

menacingly. “You will be the one who is burned now, witch!” Trask

cackled. “Burn ... burn, witch ... burn!”



“NOOOOOO!” Cassandra shrieked, falling backwards. “Take it

away, Nicholas, please! Take it away!”



“Very well, my dear,” Nicholas said, pleased. “But we have an

agreement, yes? You will allow me to stay at Collinwood without

further issue so that I can do my job, and not interfere with whatever

plans I may have. Agreed?”



“Agreed!” Cassandra screamed. “Anything! Just take it away!”



“Avant,” Nicholas said brightly, and snapped his fingers. The ghost of

Trask whiffed out of existence like the flame of a candle before a

strong October wind, leaving behind the faint trace of sulfur and the

tang of smoke. Cassandra rose shakily to her feet, and brushed

herself off.



“That,” she snarled, “was completely uncalled for.”



“But so necessary,” Nicholas said. “You can see that I haven’t

forgotten the necessary precautions in dealing with you, hmmm, my

dear Angelique?”



“Yes,” she admitted grudgingly, her eyes downcast.



“You poor dear,” Nicholas cooed. “This HAS been a trying evening

for you, hasn’t it.” His voice became granite. “But it will be even more

trying if you don’t fly to the Old House this minute and *deal* with

Julia Hoffman. Is that clear?”



“Quite clear.” Cassandra’s voice was sibilant. “Are you sure you

should allow me to go on my own? I might bungle it, after all.”



“Don’t test me, Cassandra,” was the equally sibilant reply. “You have

only so many chances, and I warn you that I may change my mind at

any second, and then I would be forced to summon the Reverend

back. You wouldn’t like that, would you?”



But he was speaking to an empty room. Cassandra had vanished into

thin air. “Dammit,” Nicholas snarled. “I HATE when she does that.”



4



“I cannot believe that only a week has gone by,” Barnabas mused, his

face lit by the flames in the fireplace; at Collinwood, Cassandra

Collins was receiving a very unexpected visitor. In one hand he held

his silver wolf’s head cane, and in the other a tiny cylindrical object, a

glimmering golden music box that was obviously very old. He had

been holding it all evening, since the last injection, and Julia was most

curious about it. It played a beautiful tune, a tinkling, chiming minuet,

and she was quite entranced by it. “It really is quite amazing.”



“The fact that you can now see your reflection is considerably

encouraging,” Julia agreed, and sipped at the

tea a beaming Willie Loomis had prepared for her fifteen minutes

before.



“I have changed so much since the experiment began,” Barnabas

marveled.



“Do you feel it’s a change for the better?” she asked coyly, examining

him, but he was still staring at the music box.



“Of course,” he said simply, and chuckled. He turned to her, smiling

like a small boy on Christmas. His cheeks were blooming with roses

of health. “There, you see? I cannot remember the last time anyone

made me laugh.”



“I enjoy your laugh,” Julia said shyly, and he smiled at her.



“I only wish there were some way we could hurry the experiment,” he

said wistfully, and returned his gaze to the music box again.



She stared at him, surprised. “I thought you were satisfied with the

progress we’re making.”



“Oh, I am!” he exclaimed. “I am very satisfied. I feel as though the life

I was living is years behind me instead of a week. It’s such a gratifying

thing to me ... not to feel the need for blood.” As a psychiatrist Julia

had encouraged Barnabas to talk about what he referred to as “the

curse” after each injection, and she was pleased that their impromptu

therapy sessions had yielded such a closeness between them, and

only in a manner of days! The suspicion and mistrust he seemed to

feel for her had all but faded away; I must be careful, she thought

now, not to do anything to endanger that trust. Barnabas was still very

skittish, like a frightened horse, and she didn’t want to scare him away

... or provoke him to any madness that might be left over from his

vampiric nature. “Do you realize how happy you’ve made me?” he

asked now, and she almost dropped her teacup. “I don’t know how

I’ll ever be able to thank you.”



She coughed dryly into her hand, suddenly very nervous. “It would be

... pointless to now, anyway,” she

said huskily, aware that he was studying her curiously, but she was

suddenly afraid to meet his eyes. “We must wait until we achieve

complete success.”



“Of course,” Barnabas said, abashed. He lifted the lid of the music

box, and the tinkling melody spilled forth, crystalline and soothing.



Julia listened for a moment, entranced, then asked, “Where on earth

did you find that?”



He swallowed with apparent pain, and Julia wondered if she hadn’t

made a grave mistake, but instead he replied softly, “I gave it to

someone I knew a long time ago ... someone I loved very, very

much.”



“It’s beautiful,” Julia whispered, enthralled.



“I intend to give it to someone soon,” Barnabas said. “Yes, as soon

as possible ...”



Ten minutes later, with Julia out the door and Barnabas settled

comfortably in his chair before the roaring fire, he found that he could

now sort his thoughts out. The sudden whirlwind of success (but not

total success; he was keeping the possibility of failure in the back of

his mind) had opened up a multitude of doors for him, and scattered

all his plans for his future into the dust he should have been a hundred

and fifty years ago. He was no longer sure what he wanted to do, or

where he wanted to go. Staying at the Old House permanently was an

attractive idea, but in his vampiric state not plausible. He would never

age, for one thing, and while the rest of the family withered and died,

wouldn’t they find it strange that good Cousin Barnabas looked

eternally young? And there was David Collins, for another problem.

Elizabeth and Roger had already regaled him with tales of David’s

daring exploits while exploring the Old House and its adjoining

property; what if he should stumble into the basement one day and

discover Barnabas, at rest in his coffin? The thought was blood

curdling.



And yet, there was still one plan he had not abandoned, and that plan

would begin to unfold very, very shortly.



In fact, with several soft knocks on the front door, it had begun

already. Barnabas rose gracefully from his seat and glided towards

the door. He already knew who would be standing outside, and he

was right.



Victoria Winters smiled as he stepped from the shadows. “Mr.

Collins, it was so nice of you to invite me

here this evening. I couldn’t wait until dinner was finished.” She

lowered her eyes, suddenly embarrassed.

“I’m afraid I was a little rude. I didn’t excuse myself from the table.

I’m setting a terrible example for David.”



“Nonsense,” Barnabas said briskly, and stepped aside, his arm

outstretched in a welcoming gesture, and Vicki gladly stepped across

the threshold. “I have a present for you, my dear,” Barnabas said

after she was comfortably ensconced in a chair across from his. The

fire blazed between them, rustling and crackling mysteriously from

time to time, and popping quite thunderously when a knot would

explode, and then they would both jump.



“A present?” Vicki cooed. “For me? Oh, Mr. Collins, you shouldn’t

have.”



“Oh, yes I should,” Barnabas said. “And you must promise to call me

Barnabas from now on.”



“Then you must call me ‘Vicki’,” she said.



“’Vicki’,” Barnabas said, pronouncing it carefully, and then shook his

head. “I’m still not used to that. Would you mind dreadfully if I

referred to you as ‘Victoria’ from time to time?”



“Oh, not at all,” Vicki chuckled. Thunder echoed outside the house,

and Vicki turned her head uneasily towards it. “That’s strange,” she

remarked. “I don’t recall a storm building when I left the house.”

Thunder boomed again, rattling the ancient glass in the windowpanes.



“We’ll have to see that you forget the storm for the time being,

Victoria,” Barnabas said, his eyes gleaming. He rose from his chair

and walked slowly over to the mantle over the fireplace, where he

lifted a small, gleaming object into his hands, and then presented it

grandly to a wide-eyed Victoria. She took the music box in her

trembling hands and stared at it mutely. Awe shone off her face, a fact

Barnabas was not unaware of.



“It’s ... it’s beautiful,” she whispered, then looked to him with shining

eyes. “Oh, Barnabas, I don’t know what to say!”



“Open it,” he whispered, and closed his eyes as the haunting, familiar

tune washed over him again. “It belonged to Josette DuPres,” he

murmured, his eyes still half-closed. “My namesake, the original

Barnabas Collins, gave it to her just before she died. She would listen

to it for hours, and claimed that its music would haunt her heart for

eternity.”



“Josette,” Vicki whispered. “The woman who died at Widow’s Hill.”

Barnabas bowed his head; tears trembled minutely in his eyes, but

Vicki was enthralled in her own thoughts. “Elizabeth told me there’s

something of a legend about her.”



“Yes,” Barnabas said, his voice thick with pain.



“I’ve read about her in the family journals,” Vicki said.



“She came here from Martinique to marry my ancestor,” Barnabas

said. She was as delicate and graceful as the flowers that bloomed in

the gardens she kept. The original Barnabas met her there while on a

business trip, and was ... quite taken with her beauty. Her feelings for

him were tender as well. They realized they were in love, but it was

too late, for Barnabas had already set sail for America.” He was

staring into the distance, his eyes shadowed and haunted, and now

Vicki saw the tears, and wondered. “They wrote letters, back and

forth, for months, and with each one their love expanded until

Barnabas finally proposed. She was to come to America to live

forever ... until her untimely death shattered their dreams.”



“What happened?” Vicki whispered, now thoroughly enthralled.



“A ... a tragic accident,” Barnabas said, and his voice was a rose

crushed underfoot, steaming in tropical heat. “She married his uncle,

Jeremiah Collins. A mistake ... a terrible, terrible mistake. She fell

from the cliffs at Widow’s Hill, just as you said. It broke my ... my

ancestor’s heart.”



Vicki found that tears now glistened in her own eyes, and she

swallowed. “So sad,” she murmured, and took Barnabas’ hand

unthinkingly in her own. “You’re very attached to your family’s

history, aren’t you.”



Barnabas blinked, returning to the present, and then smiled shyly.

“Yes,” he said. He cleared his throat, and then lifted his eyes to hers,

as brown and fathomless as his own. “Have ... have you ever been in

love, Victoria?”



“Once,” she said quietly. “And you?”



“Once,” he admitted. They sat for a moment, both quiet, both lost in

their thoughts and in each other’s eyes. Victoria opened her mouth to

say something, and that was the moment the true horror began. At the

same time the wind outside rose to a shriek, the flames in the fireplace

between them blazed up and out, seeming to run in almost liquid

streams up the brick and spread over the mantle. Barnabas watched

in open-mouthed horror, and then turned to Victoria. She had

slumped backwards in her seat, her eyes open and wide and staring.

Barnabas felt his heart skip. For all appearances, Victoria Winters

was dead.



“Victoria!” he cried, and rose from his seat to rush to her side, but the

room was filled with an unholy shrieking noise, as though the pits of

hell had burst open and released an unholy choir to fill the earth with

the shrieks of the damned. The unearthly wailing noise soon resolved

itself into a devilish cackling, the laughter of a woman he recognized

instantly, just as the flames reformed and shaped themselves into HER

image, floating high above him, a demon of flame. She wore an

empire-waisted dress, and her hair was a stream of ringlets in a

corona around her head; her eyes were chips of coal and glowed a

hellish red. Her mouth split open and issued that insane laughter until

he thought his head would split. “Stop!” Barnabas

shrieked. “Stop it, stop it!”



“You would not come to me in life, Barnabas,” the fiery specter

crowed, “so I have given you all eternity to change your mind.”



“Angelique!” Barnabas hissed, baring his fangs. “What have you done

to Victoria Winters?”



“She is under my spell, Barnabas,” Angelique chuckled, “and she will

awaken after we’re finished with our ... talk.” Her eyes gleamed like

golden coins. “I had to see you again, for just a moment, so I could

tell you what the future holds.”



“I have nothing to say to you,” Barnabas growled. “Leave this house.

Return to Collinwood ... return to your husband and the mockery you

call a marriage.”



Her lower lip trembled with fury. “You are a fool, Barnabas,”

Angelique spat. “You think you know everything, but you are wrong,

and you must be proven wrong. You think with the help of a doctor

you can escape me, but you’re wrong Barnabas.”



“So you know even that,” Barnabas snarled. “Is it not enough that

you’ve returned? Must you torment me too?”



“I live to torment you, Barnabas,” Angelique said. “I will torture you

for the rest of eternity, as the curse dictates. Peace will never be yours

as long as I exist on this earth.”



“Then I will have to see that your time in this world is cut short,”

Barnabas snarled.



“You can’t hurt me again, Barnabas,” Angelique cackled. “I’m

warning you, Barnabas. Cease these experiments or all will be lost ...

everyone at Collinwood will die, starting with Victoria Winters ... and

that dried up old doctor you’ve recruited to help you. You will see,

Barnabas ... the dark and terrifying thing I conjure to stop you will

turn your blood to ice!” Her voice rose to a shriek, an insane,

triumphant declaration.



“You leave Victoria out of this,” Barnabas glowered, but Angelique

was already losing form and substance, and the flames began to

retreat into the fireplace.



“Lost, Barnabas,” her sibilant voice whispered from nowhere and

everywhere. “Lost ... lossssssst ...” And as he stared mutely at

Victoria, and as her eyelashes began to flutter, the sound of

Angelique’s diabolical cackling filled the room like a screaming flock

of ravens, black and thick, like currents of midnight water.



5



Julia stared mutely at the music box on Vicki’s bureau, and willed the

tears that burned now in her eyes to evaporate. Her lower lip

trembled and she thrust out her jaw in a belated attempt to halt the

flood; her nose twitched once, and she turned away, hiding her face

from Vicki, who was oblivious to the Doctor’s torment anyway.



“Isn’t it lovely?” she was saying, and her voice indicated her own

feelings for Barnabas. Julia felt a knife twisting into the knots of her

stomach, and she knew that she was almost incoherent with jealousy.

“Barnabas gave it to me last night.”



“Did he?” Julia asked in what she was relieved to find was a relatively

normal voice instead of the strangled squawk she expected to emerge

from her throat, which was dry and parched as a desert. The tinkling

sound of the music box’s minuet filled the room as Vicki lifted the lid,

and Julia had to bite down on her cheek to stop from screaming. Her

mouth tasted of dark copper, and she realized that she’d bitten down

so hard that she was bleeding. Perfect, she thought bitterly; could this

day get any worse?



“It has such a beautiful legend attached to it,” Vicki sighed, cradling

the box in both hands. Julia scowled, but managed to erase it by the

time Vicki looked back up at her. “Have you ever heard of Josette

DuPres?”



Of course, Julia thought instantly, the woman Barnabas lov — almost

married in the late 18th century. “Yes,” Julia said. “She’s mentioned in

several of the family journals that Elizabeth and I have been perusing.

She was a suicide, wasn’t she? Jumped from Widow’s Hill?”



“Yes,” Vicki said. “It’s so romantic. A tragic love story. She came to

marry Barnabas, but married his uncle instead, and no one seems to

know why. Barnabas told me that not even Josette herself knew.”

The governess’ eyes were hazy and far away. She leaned against the

dresser, cupping her chin in her hand. “Perhaps that’s why she killed

herself. Maybe her ghost still walks the night, searching for her lost

lover ...”



“That’s ridiculous,” Julia said, more sharply than she had intended,

and Vicki blinked at her, startled.



“Julia,” Vicki began cautiously, “is everything all right?”



Julia rubbed her eyes, and then smiled weakly. “I’m sorry for

snapping, Vicki,” she said. “It’s just ... I’m a little on edge. I’ve been

treating Mr. Collins, Barnabas, that is, the past week for that eye

condition he has, and I’m afraid the work’s been getting to me. Lots

of late nights.” Vicki nodded. “I should probably go take a nap. If

you’ll excuse me ...?” She walked briskly from the room, leaving a

perplexed Vicki behind her, and made her way down to the library,

where she stood frozen for nearly an hour before the flames in the

fireplace.



“Lost in thought, Dr. Hoffman?” Julia spun around to find Cassandra

Collins staring at her from the doorway, a tiny smile playing

inexplicably on her face. Her black hair was carefully coifed today

(awfully heavy on the hairspray, Julia thought with irregular cattiness,

but then again, why should that be different?), and she wore a

stunning scarlet trapeze dress festooned with great gold buttons. Her

bare arms were delicate and white like ivory.



“You startled me, Mrs. Collins,” Julia said reproachfully.



“Cassandra, please.” She was the epitome of friendliness and grace ...

so why didn’t Julia trust her?



“Cassandra, then,” Julia said carefully. “I’ve had ... a difficult morning,

Cassandra. I’d like to be alone.”



“Of course,” Cassandra said, abashed, and Julia almost believed that

it was genuine. Come now, Julia, she admonished herself. It’s obvious

the woman isn’t a golddigger — if she had been, she would have

married

Elizabeth — and she’s so much in love with Roger ... what on earth

can you have against her? “It’s just that ... well ...” Cassandra seemed

very nervous, and thus fanned the spark of curiosity Julia found

aroused within her. “I’d like to ask you about ... Barnabas Collins.”



Alarm bells went off in Julia’s head for no apparent reason.

“Barnabas?” she asked gruffly. “What about him?”



“You know him well, don’t you?” Cassandra’s tone was suddenly

almost accusatory.



“Yes,” Julia said reluctantly. “We’ve become good friends since he

arrived here.”



“Then perhaps you know why he’s been so hostile towards me,”

Cassandra said tearfully. Her hands shook, and she knotted them

together nervously until Julia thought her fingers would snap off.



“I don’t know what you mean.” Julia was casual.



Cassandra seemed on the verge of tears, and this surprised Julia as

well. “He has accused me of all kinds of terrible things, and I just

don’t understand.” She leaned forward confidentially. “Just between

you and me ... he isn’t ... well ... crazy, is he?”



Julia backed away from her, stiff and unyielding. Her eyes were chips

of stone. “No, he certainly is not,” she said, and her voice was

granite.



Cassandra dropped her eyes and shuffled her feet guiltily. “I’ve

crossed a line, haven’t I,” Cassandra said

quietly, but Julia thought that she was watching her with hooded eyes

... mocking eyes, and she didn’t like it. Not one bit. “I’m sorry, Julia.

I so want us to be friends. You’re the only one in this house who has

showed me any kind of consideration. I would value your friendship

so much. Please believe me.” She seemed so sincere, Julia thought,

doubt niggling at her as she chewed on her lower lip, but in god’s

name, why don’t I want to believe her?



“Mr. Collins is in a lot of pain,” Julia said, somewhat inadequately.

“He can’t be judged for some of the things he says.” She studied her

for a moment, this beautiful young girl (surely she couldn’t be any

more than ... oh, say ... twenty-one?) that had married into one of the

most influential families on the East Coast. A harmless girl, of course,

with her big blue eyes and dainty figure and neatly trimmed black

curls. Nothing wrong with the picture, not a hair out of place, and yet

something nagged at Julia, and she was annoyed that she couldn’t

define it, so for the moment she simply ignored it.



“Pain?” Cassandra asked, almost too eagerly for Julia’s liking. “Do

you know what kind?”



“You seem terribly interested,” Julia observed, and Cassandra

reacted, drawing in a sharp breath, and then dropping her eyes again.

She IS interested in Barnabas, Julia thought, surprised; of course, I

should’ve seen it before.



“Just concerned,” Cassandra said uneasily. “Are you ... treating him?”





“Yes,” Julia said. “Really, Cassandra, I do have a lot to accomplish

before —”



“Of course, of course,” Cassandra said, then, impulsively, she drew

Julia into a tight embrace, and Julia deeply inhaled the cloying scent of

roses that hung about her in an almost tangible miasma. “Thank you,

Julia, for being my friend. You won’t regret it, I promise you that.”

She closed the door after her, leaving Julia alone with her thoughts.



And yet, here she was again, standing alone in Vicki’s room like a

thief, and this time the music box was in HER hands. I was so sure he

was going to give it to me, she thought, and allowed a single tear to

wind down her cheek. She sniffed miserably. Why should I expect

him to love me? He still loves HER, Josette Collins, and he must see

something of her in Vicki. Bitterness filled her mouth with bitter,

brackish water, and she turned away from her expression in the

mirror guiltily, terrified of the harridan’s face she had seen peering

back at her with dark, empty eyes like gateways into an unimaginable

midnight void.



“If only I knew more about him,” Julia whispered. “If I knew him

better I could help him more ... I could rid him of the curse

permanently. How did it fall upon him? If I knew only that much, think

of the progress I could make!” Unconsciously she was toying with the

lid of the music box, allowing it to rise and then fall, but not enough so

that the melody spun out. Yes, she though to herself. If I cure

Barnabas he’ll owe me a great debt ... such a debt that, perhaps, he’ll

forget all about Victoria Winters ...



She realized then that the necklace she’d donned that morning (a

simple silver chain with a rounded opal dangling from it, a gift from

poor, unfortunate Tom) was no longer around her neck. Dammit, she

thought. Where on earth could it have gone?



It was better for Julia that she did not know that, at the precise

moment she was toying with Josette’s music box, Cassandra Collins

was poised in the drawing room, curled up on the hearth and staring

into the flames so that they danced in her wide, icy eyes. In one hand

she held a pin; in the other a doll made of clay ... with Julia’s necklace

wrapped tight around its tiny, fragile neck. “You are Julia Hoffman,”

she addressed the doll, and held it high above the flames. “You are in

my hands, just as this clay doll is in my hands, and I hold just as much

power over you, Doctor. I can touch my finger to the clay, and

wherever I touch you will burn, for my power was given to me by the

Devil himself, and you will know it soon!”



In Vicki’s room Julia sighed, and then examined the music box that

she cradled so possessively. It was obviously very old; the gilt had

chipped and faded in some parts, but it was still intricately lovely.

Such a beautiful melody, she thought wistfully, and lifted the lid.



And in that instant was thrust into a blackness darker and colder than

any midnight she had ever known.



In the drawing room, Cassandra gasped as the doll twisted in her

hands, and fell to the hearth, where it crumbled into meaningless dust.

She stared at it, open-mouthed, and dropped the pin in her haste to

scramble away from the curling, writhing flames. She was poised

watchfully, a safe distance away from the fireplace, panting.

Something is wrong, she thought, confused. Something is happening

that I have no control over ...



It struck her then, and wide-eyed, she gasped aloud, “She’s gone ...

Julia Hoffman ... has ceased to exist!”



TO BE CONTINUED ...

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