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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