Shadows on the Wall Chapter Nineteen

Chapter 19:  The Heart's Filthy Lesson (spurned lovers)

by CollinsKid

(There's always a diamond friendly

Sitting in the Laugh Motel

The Heart's Filthy Lesson

With her hundred miles to hell...)

Oh Ramona

If there was only something between us

Other than our clothes...

Something in our skies

Something in our skies

Something in our blood

Something in our skies...

- David Bowie, "The Heart's Filthy Lesson"

"what's the matter, trevor? scared of something?"

- Helen Lyle (Virgina Madsen) , "Candyman," 1992

*/*/*

"My name is Victoria Winters. There is a number, cosmic and

perfectly shaped, in the stars tonight. It starts as a pin-prick in a sea of

blackness, and it grows to engulf all space in the sky. It chokes

pipelines and lays waste to fate. It is a cancer. A rogue element has

been introduced to the scene. Where it walks, plants wither and die,

and a blackened, scorched path forms through lives, minds, souls.

And when it walks, it walks under that number in the sky.

That number is a four."

*/*/*

barnabas & mrs. collins dream:  future already (cause we're lovers)

i'm fast asleep now.

- bjork, "headphones"

(...pulsating in their heads & because despite themselves they are still

binded together on the same black loop their cortexes pick up the

same bleep and the prophe-play dereels in both their heads; their

eyeballs rotate and cassandra squirms next to her husband.)

(somewhere in the dream, a reel screams:PICTURE START:)

and suddenly, they're both falling, from the edge, down widows hill --

a special trajectory and course. first them, then it's josette (his heart

bleeds) , then it's vicki --

...there is a puff of eldritch fire, and they see the autopsied body of

tom jennings. despite their thick (reptillian) skins it makes them retch;

the crisscrossing saw-scars are all over his flesh and he's the color of

dead fish. as they watch, his black morgue table is suddenly an open

dirt grave, and then his nails are growing, growing like knives, and he

bares his teeth, which are animal and freakish; his eyes open and spill

out high-beams of yellow light. he grins, and those freakish jaws

clamp down on their skulls --

another puff of blue fire, and it's a familiar bedroom -- windows open

to admit a raging storm, wind and rain everywhere, shutters

CLANGING and CLANGING rhythmically, and somewhere a rock

song waxes and wans in their ears:all you need is love, love, love (but

it ISN'T, she insists)

a wall of fire, and then david collins stares into them. an alien sun

blazes in the immediate sky above him, entirely too close to them, and

he says:"i can't think" --

& then vicki is there, and she points to something creeping in a dark

corner; a japering silhouette, creeping around and up and down (& he

suspects himself) . they push through the darkness...

...to a house by the sea, dark and victorian, and inside a huge,

rambling sitting room dripping with jewels and spacious furniture,

there's coffee shop waitress maggie evans, but she looks very little

like coffee shop waitress maggie evans -- in fact, she's in a dark

evening gown and her hair is fashionably styled and her lips are purple

rouge, and she's in the arms of her lover who is (NICHOLAS?? she

exclaims in disbelief) -- somewhere in the universe, vicki says, "she's

such a good friend" --

and somewhere, behind the darkness, over storm-swept fields and

just at the lip of the great, black woods, something is rustle-racing

through the tall grass, snarling and gnashing and pounding through the

crops around a stately old farm. it is An Animal That Walks Like A

Man!, and that man is quentin (IMPOSSIBLE she says) .

and then tom's back, grinning through those black-bleeding, distended

razor-jaws, eyes glowing like an overgrown, and as that white

joker's-face leers/leans in at them, he screams:CAN WE GIVE IT

ANOTHER SHOT BABE?

(They wake up in starts and remember too little.)

*/*/*

awake (willie loses hours)

There was dirt in his mouth.

William Hollingshead Loomis tried, failed, then tried and succeeded to

feebly lift his shaggy head, spitting frantically to try and excise the taste

of land from his lips. Well, what the fu...

He was belly-down in the middle of a field full of ragged, high

dead-brown grass. Around him, grubs, centipedes, ants puttered

through little lives in the soil. Above him, the wind roared over the

before-dawn sky. It was dark gray up there, and the clouds were

starting to die. There was precious little light, but some. Willie

checked his wrist; watch was broken. But it last put the time at 4:45.

His clothes and hair whipped in the wind; the storm in nearby Bangor

was still passing over them. He realized suddenly that the field he was

in was in fact at the mouth of the great woods, which looked oh so

looming and dark this not-morning. The giant trees swept in the wind,

too, as if raging down at him.

(this is a hunting ground.)

A before-dawn windstorm, and he was in the middle of it. Willie

didn't like it, as he raised himself on weak legs. Didn't like it at all.

   This field seemed to stretch on for miles, and the woods were like a

gaping maw. And the sky was storm-swept and barely light...how had

he gotten here? He'd been at Tom Jennings' coffin, waiting to do the

deed...had he done it? *Had* he?

Willie looked up, and squinted. Not too far before him was a huge

farmhouse, slightly Victorian and a bit weather-worn. He recognized it

as Tom, Chris, and little Amy's farm. In the back yard, a swing or two

whipped in the wind on old metal chains, squeaking. The empty

animal pens were stained and rotting.

He still swore he heard horses.

Willie's head was like a hive of bees; buzzing and stinging. He shut his

eyes tight and shook his skull back and forth, trying to regain his

skewed equilibrium, and almost lost his balance. He was damned

dizzy, and hungry. Weak as a pussycat. Why, he hadn't felt like this

since --

(before) -- what?

-- but he didn't know. Cursing, Willie coughed a couple times, and

felt his ribs ache. He'd been sleeping for too damn long. He had to get

back to the Old House, talk to Barnabas and Dr. Hoffman; he hoped

Barnabas hadn't left for that drive up the coast yet. The poor guy was

seein' sunlight for the first time in at least two of Willie's lifetimes; he

was all anxious to see everythin' he'd been missin'. Still, he hoped he

could get some straight answer on whether he'd put the kibosh on ol'

Tom --

-- but just like that, the thought was gone from his head, and Willie

Loomis' focus became home, and breakfast, and a shower, in that

order. Thoughts of a funeral home and a dead man slipped his mind,

through some sort of crack. It was damned creepy out here in the

field just before dawn, with the wind all shriekin' and the sky sorta

in-between light and dark. He would be happy to get back to

civilization. And so he started trudging forth the scything brown grass,

on those drunken seaman's legs.

Willie would not realize his mistake til late that evening, when he

began to bleed from the wound on his neck.

*/*/*

J-E-R-K (the mysterious paradise of mortals)

she's your cocaine

your exodus laughing

she knows what you are

so shimmy once & do it again...

- tori amos, "she's your cocaine"

The old sundae machine creaked and rattled through the motions like

a trail-worn mule. Behind the glass counter of the spic-'n-span, pure

white-yet-inviting Collinsport Inn coffee shop, Maggie Evans sighed

as she finished her last bout with the old contraption and handed a

cone full of cookies-'n-cream to yet another child peering over the

glass. "And that's it," Maggie said, wiping her hands with a dishtowel

and then wiping the sweat from her brow, a loose lock of red hair

spilling into her eyes from her once-(a million years ago six o'clock

that morning)-perfectly coiffed 'do. "Go open bank accounts."

The quintet of neighborhood kids scattered with their ice creams,

peeling for the warm-brown wooden doors at the edge of the coffee

shop, then hanging a hard left at the front doors of the Inn. The front

door slammed back on its hinges unhampered behind them, and from

his post at the front desk somewhere not far off, Mr. Welles growled

something at the already-gone children about the door and wood.

Maggie, already back at the coffee, couldn't suppress a smile. The

coffee shop crowd was sparse this morning; a few guests hung around

the corners and at the window, and a fisherman and two truckers

Maggie was familiar with sat at two different tables, the former

stinking of mink oil and nursing a scalding cup of black coffee and the

latter picking at two bowels of the day's special soup (cream of

chicken) . Maggie bent over the oven and checked the status of the

pot pies. It was now very hot and far too aromatic back here behind

the counter; she longed to get a breath of fresh, cold air. Her back

ached and her hands were red. Her bright pink uniform already had

    coffee stains; her white apron was ragged and her matching hat was

askew. Not yet noon and already I feel forty-eight, she thought with

faint gloom. That was happening too much these days. Was Pop even

up yet? Then, with growing dismay:  was he even home?

Maggie's face was pinched with frustration as the bell over the front

door rang again. A moment later, a new customer entered. Maggie

recognized him immediately -- wavy, jet-black hair like a movie star,

razor-sharp mustache, twinkling, gleeful eyes, permanent

flash-frozen grin showing off perfectly capped, glittering white teeth.

Dapper manner and clothes; felt hat. It was the man she'd given the

ride to not long ago; it was --

"Angelic morning, isn't it?" Nicholas Blair boomed good-naturedly in a

cultured voice that washed over Maggie like syrup, so loud that the

truckers and the fisherman all looked up, weary and wary, and shot

the ignoring city slicker sour looks. "If I was much more of a

romantic, and I'm not sure that's humanly possible, I would swear

those little ones that just tore out of here were fugitive cherubim."

"Congratulations," a beleaguered Maggie said as the new customer

sidled into a seat across the counter. "You used the words 'fugitive'

and 'cherubim' in this town. You now get a free cup of coffee."

"Do I really?" Nicholas Blair smirked, mustache twitching as if trying

to rip itself from his upper lip.

"No," Maggie said, hefting a tray full of piping-too-hot pies from the

bottom of the oven, feeling her pores close and burn and her thoracic

muscles scream. "I'm just leading you on. I've had one whale of a

morning."

"And she *puns,* too!" Nicholas exclaimed, still grinning to swallow

the world. "So were you the kind caregiver that fed those children

their daily treats?"

"Yeah, that's me. I'm the fence."

"How...Christian of you," Nicholas simpered.

Maggie snorted as she closed the oven up again. "Yeah, that's me;

God's daughter. I'm a pushover of a bank; occasionally one of 'em's a

few change short. So I put it on the ever-growing tab sheet." Maggie

held up a large notepad on top of the oven, full of scrawled names,

then tossed it back down. "If it were real debt, I think I'd have a few

households by the short hairs."

"So go commercial," Nicholas quipped, still grinning like the Cheshire

 Cat and never taking his eyes off her.

Maggie laughed, a light sound like the tinkling of carnival bells, and

put a saucer and cup of coffee down next to him. "Then where would

the Bobby Simpkinses of the world be?"

"At great loss for not having known such a lovely charity as you,"

Nicholas said, smirking.

That voice was syrup again, and Maggie flushed. "You, Mr. Blair, are

too much. I can't keep up with you."

"I wish you'd try," Nicholas purred. "Tonight, at the Blue Whale,

perhaps? A meeting of the minds, a tale of two walks of life:the mortal

and the angel?"

Maggie chuckled, mopping up the counter. "I'm flattered, and you're

very suave. But I'm afraid I'm kind of spoken for."

"Kind of?"

"My six-month anniversary's tonight," Maggie said. "You might know

him, actually; Quentin Collins?"

Nicholas' brows knitted like an angry furred animal and he squinted.

"Quentin? Why, yes; one of the in-laws...well, all my best wishes to

you..." His brows knitted further, contorting comically, and he

stage-whispered:"*That's* surprising..."

Maggie frowned, amused. "Is it such a shock he's with a duck like

me?"

"*Duck?*" Nicholas exclaimed loudly, again drawing glares of ire

from the townies in the back. "*You?* You underrate yourself, Miss

Evans, you're a swan...well, no, no, that's not it. It's just that...well, I

got the impression that Quentin Collins was something of a playboy."

Now Maggie really started to frown, but just a little. "Playboy?

Maybe a little, but he's definitely a one-woman man. And I have the

spyglass to prove it." (but not the engagement ring, a voice in her head

hissed, and her heart sunk a little)

Nicholas shrugged, doing an excellent job of looking unconvinced. "I

suppose you're right. I don't see how he could ever want for another

if he's already with you."

"Keep it up and you might get a piece of pie," Maggie smirked. But

then, nagging at her mind:"Anyway, I don't see why you'd think that,"

she said unsteadily. "Quentin's my guy. There's nobody else."

(is there?)

Maggie Evans and Quentin Collins had no common wavelength:it was

an unpleasant facet of their relationship she had become accustomed

to. He'd started by flirting with her, and he'd won her easily, because

he was handsome and worldly and loved by so many, and she'd felt

like the luckiest gal with the most wonderful guy. Once, in what

seemed like ages ago, he'd told her to just enjoy the ride. But Maggie

had learned that with Quentin Collins' ride came a rocky road. Where

he'd once been so consistently fun-loving and adventurous, Quentin

was now a man overcome with formerly-sporadic bouts of

melancholy, solemn introspection, and stark, grave views on the

future. It was as if before he'd known her he'd seen countless

wastelands, and no matter how far down he managed to bury those

stark memories, they inevitably would rise up and plague his psyche

again. He was smarter than she was; she knew that...and he'd been

places, and she'd been nowhere. You once wanted to be an artist,

Margaret, she thought. And yet here you are:small-town waitress and

harried wife, even though you're really a daughter -- living in malaise

through routine and repetition.

Tom's death had ripped him open, and still Quentin drew his coat

closed from her; he would not let her share his hurt, choosing to live

inside a blast zone of his making. She had suggested calling off the

anniversary dinner at the restaurant in Bangor, but he'd been stoic and

refused; they had a date and he would keep it. She tried to protest,

but couldn't. He was the Adonis that would not open for her, even

though she did at a moment's notice (oh but for the months since that

hadn't been just figurative...) ; the Roman statue that wouldn't crack

and melt in her arms, but rather left her reaching, reaching around his

sides...

(you see more than i do, she'd said once, when he was in one of his

blackest moods, mourning the invisible.)

(you wouldn't like what i see, he'd said.)

She felt like an alien around him. What if someone else could see

what she didn't? She knew there was someone smarter, more

graceful; swan instead of a duck -- could he find her? Had he?

(why wouldn't he *touch her?*)

Her blood was ice water.

"Well, congratulations are in order for you," a snake's voice ssssaid,

and Nicholas Blair's laughing-moon eyes brought her back to reality.

"Quentin's an inordinately lucky man. The fates have smiled on you

both."

"Th-thank you," Maggie said shakily.

"Delectable coffee," Nicholas purred, finishing his cup and placing it

on the saucer. He slapped down a wad of bills, including what

Maggie noticed was quite a large tip. "Borne from Heaven...just like

you. He put his hat back on, and then promptly tipped it at her.

"Good day to you, Miss Evans -- "

"Maggie," Maggie said softly, still lost in her thoughts.

Nicholas' face suffused with suppressed glee. "Maggie," he cooed.

"Have a beautiful anniversary."

And with a swirl of gray he was gone, and the bell at the front door

tinkled in his wake.

And Maggie felt hollow.

*/*/*

grieving process, part 1 (curse)

wake up dead man.

- u2, "wake up dead man"

 

(the tambourine rattled, and it had begun.)

Quentin sat in the gazebo, his clothes slept in and ragged. Uncombed

and unshaven. His eyes were dark pools that went on forever and

betrayed nothing.

His huge paw clutched the neck of a decanter of brandy. He'd

wanted to get drunk and hadn't; it was just barely sipped. He nursed

it feebly, cursing his lack of resolve. He'd wanted to be numb, but

hadn't the stones to go all the way. Every day but today, he thought

wearily. O Quentin Collins, the fool who doesn't drink when

depressed. Carl would find it exceptionally funny, but Carl found war

funny (then again, so had he once) .

He'd been out here for hours -- in fact, he'd been out here all night.

They'd all known better to bother him, especially Julia, who was no

doubt back at the Old House with Cousin From England trying to

piece together the grand puzzle that was He. He'd said too much and

would say no more; they'd tipped their hand and he refused to tip his

own. His dear two hundred year old cousin had an agenda, but then

so did he and Eliot.

And so did Angelique.

He was actually surprised that dear *Cassandra* hadn't come out;

she had an exceptional talent for nosing into wherever she knew she

shouldn't be and playing poor maligned Polly Pureheart. And damned

if she didn't actually make you feel just an inch bad for abusing her --

if only for a moment.

But she had to be scared. If Tom was loose, it meant trouble for her

too.

(didn't it?)

He knew Tom would rise. He knew it but he had shoved it to the

back of his mind. Eliot was no doubt flooding the phone line back at

the house with urgent messages in hopes of holding council with him

about the crisis, but Quentin could not deal with it right now. He was

on overload. He'd stayed out here all night in the woods, and he'd

half-hoped that he'd look up at three in the morning and there Tom

would be, with a mouthful of razors, grinning at him -- because he

wondered, portrait or no portrait, just what would *really* happen.

(wouldn't death be just fascinating right now?)

Oh what peace that would be, that little cowardice. To uncover that

wretched old horror on canvas, to take a jack-knife and to split it

open, watch it fall apart as he began to disintegrate -- then at least, no

one else would go before him, the forever man.

"Quentin?"

A vision under a canopy of green leaves, a flickering, painful memory,

and there she was. Vicki Winters stepped cautiously onto the gazebo,

her eyes sympathetic saints, welling with something, her composure

and composition grave. Her almost-purple hair swam down her back,

unencumbered for once. She really did look quite beautiful -- but

then, she always did.

"Victoria," he muttered gamely, trying to put on a decent face and

failing miserably. He didn't need this.

Vicki's face was a moue of sorrow. "Quentin, I'm *so sorry*. I'm

sure you were very close to your cousin...I can't imagine how you

must feel."

"You're right," Quentin said aloud, almost unaware, and the Forest of

Oshden and a wizened old claw flashed into his mind. "You can't."

"But I want you to know, I'm here," Vicki said, taking a seat beside

him. "If ever you need someone to talk to, or anything at all -- I can at

least listen."

"You wouldn't want to," Quentin murmured. "No, I don't think you'd

want to listen to what I'd have to say at all."

"Quentin, that's not true." Vicki sighed, softening even more. "I know

what it's like to...lose some people, some things. When you lose

someone close to you, you lose a piece of your identity. And my own

identity is so very shaky -- when I lost a friend, it was a little less of

me. So I can understand how you feel, if only just a little."

"You don't know that," Quentin snapped, and Vicki recoiled.

"Quentin," she said, her face growing a shade pale. "I'm sorry; I only

wanted to try and -- "

"And what?" Quentin continued, cutting her off, his eyes blazing

through his shaggy mane of hair. "You thought you would

commiserate with me; we'd share sad stories? Did you think I would

be so willing, so open to you? You don't know me like you think you

do."

"I'd like to try -- "

"*Would* you?!" he shouted, and now Vicki was really recoiling. He

sipped from the decanter and laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. "Oh, I

don't think so, Miss Victoria Winters of the Hammond Foundling

Home. You see; I know everything about your life in that short string

of words. What do you know about me? What do you *really*

know? Because I can guarantee you that everyone back at the Great

House -- they only know what I let them. None of them know the

first thing about the strange, dark thing that my life has been, and

neither do you."

He leaned in close to her, and she was shivering now. "Did you think

we'd form an emotional bond?" he hissed. "A spiritual one, maybe?

Do you think we'd grow close, and spend a long morning watching

the stormy skies and sharing in my pain?

"You don't know the first thing about *pain,*" he spat, taking another

long drag from the decanter, feeling it course through his veins.

"That's not true," Vicki shot back.

"And you don't know anything about me -- " Quentin said, cutting her

off. "-- And the death sentence that I am. That's right; death sentence.

Is that what you came looking for? Did you want to make a

*connection?*" he growled, leaping to his feet and stalking towards

her, pushing her back against a wall. He was hating himself, but

couldn't stop. "Did you come looking for eternity? You'd better stop

and think if you *really want it.*"

She shoved him away from her, hair askew, eyes blazing. "I don't

know what kind of man you are, Quentin," Vicki spat. "But I know

it's one *I don't want.*"

She stalked off the gazebo, heels clacking, and Quentin sank down

onto the bench again, trying to curl into a fetal position, eyes burning,

misery sizzling through him. Her hair whipped around her, and she

turned back to him once more.

"My life is *not* a short string of words," Victoria Winters hissed,

eyes liquid fire. She leaned in his direction. "What did *you* come

looking for?"

She was gone.

*/*/*

information (spy eye)

"you won't have it. by hook or by crook."

- "the prisoner," 1968

Julia's brows knitted into a scarlet moue of disgust, eyes glittering

under newly-formed red tresses that slid down to her shoulders. "No,

Professor Stokes, I *do not* want any English tea. You know why

I'm here; it's pointless to continue to deflect my questions."

"But oh so entertaining!" that baroque voice boomed back at her, still

jovial and pleasant at all costs. T. Eliot Stokes put down his teacup

and clasped his huge hands together as he looked back across his

sitting room at the apprehensive woman. "Really, Doctor Hoffman,

you have the persistence of a small short-haired marmoset. And I find

that endearing, until the marmoset's jaws latch onto my coat sleeve,

anyway. But I'm afraid there is nothing for me to say, on Quentin

Collins or any other...arcane subjects. I'm afraid you've come to the

wrong person to indulge your sweet tooth for the strange and

mysterious."

"I know you and Quentin are close friends," Julia said, crossing the

room with quick, determined stride, circling like a shark. "And I'm

well aware of your field of expertise. One must draw the obvious

conclusion. You can't honestly tell me that you and Quentin Collins

aren't sharing the same secrets -- about his 'curse?'"

A rich, sweet laugh. "Oh, Doctor Hoffman," Eliot said with a flourish

of his teacup. "Now, I fear, you truly have lost me."

The steam was practically pluming from Julia's ears. Her mouth was a

jagged, sharp little line. "This is lunacy, Professor Stokes. We both

know our respective parties are in the business of keeping secrets --

secrets about the Collins family, and the strange occurrences plaguing

the people at Collinwood. And we *both* know all about...about

Tom Jennings." She was slightly pale, and her hands shook

involuntarily for a moment before she forced herself to halt them. She

stared him down. "We should be aiding each other instead of playing

these paltry little games."

"My dear Doctor -- can I call you Julia?" Eliot began, sitting down

slowly in his favorite easy chair. "It's obvious you very much want

something from me. I'm afraid I have nothing to give, and am woefully

ignorant about all topics Tom Jennings, and other sundry stories.

Furthermore, if I was playing any kind of 'game,' I would care to

believe it would not be paltry, and rather glorious and engaging." He

cocked an eye at her, showing a mouthful of glittering white teeth in

his smile. "With that said -- you have admitted to being a broker of

secrets. What secrets might you have for sale, Julia?"

Julia's hands were balled into little fists, and she continued to glower

with anger. "Very well," she hissed. "If that's the way you want to play

the game, Professor." She stalked stiffly over to the door of the little

Victorian house, and gripped the doorknob.

"Why, Julia, it's the *only* way to play," Stokes said, his voice like

hot butter, his grin magnanimous and vaguely Santa Claus. "By the

way, your new hair is excellent."

The door slammed behind Julia, and Stokes shook his head

goodnaturedly and went back to his tea.

And, outside the nearby window, Carolyn Stoddard slid down the

side of the little house like a cat, ears still perking up.

*/*/*

dead land (visitor)

There was a burning bird in the sky.

David Collins saw it through the window of the old sedan, with his

nose and hands smooshed up against the glass like suction cups. He

watched it intently as it soared over the cornfields, through that stark

gray, rainy sky, as the car passed over bump over bump in the old

dirt road through this countryside, and as the light drizzle on this

strange Sunday spattered against the window.

"What's got you so fascinated, David?" Vicki asked as she continued

to gamely drive the car through this very difficult terrain. David neither

looked up nor responded, face still squinched up against the window.

But, a few choppy seconds later, the bird was gone and David,

dejected, plopped back into an upright position in his seat. "Why are

we going out here again?" he muttered.

"Because, with poor Mr. Jennings having passed on, your little friend

Amy must be so lonely up at the old farm. And Dr. Hoffman says

she's only got a few relatives she barely knows up there looking after

her. So we're going to see if we can make her feel a little better and

pay our respects. That's why I helped Mrs. Johnson bake those meat

pies and make those sandwiches; that's what they're for." She

motioned to the large care package of food in the back seat.

"He's dead," David said mildly. "Sandwiches won't bring him back."

"Oh, David, hush," Vicki sighed.

"She's not my friend," David continued, sullen. "I barely know her.

They just keep getting us together. I don't think she knows how to

talk."

"David!" Vicki exclaimed. "You stop talking like that about poor

Amy. You know how it is to lose someone close to you."

David just glared at her, doing his very best to see red. "Anyway, I

think it's pretty *stupid*," he scowled, folding his arms resolutely, as if

that settled it. "You never met him." His eyes lit up, and his features

slipped into an evil grin as he turned his laser-like gaze onto Vicki.

"Did *Quentin* tell you about him?" he simpered, voice dripping with

juvenile mocking.

Vicki's face flushed like the sun. "David, that's enough," she said

quietly in a too-controlled voice. Her hands were white-knuckled on

the steering wheel. "Now you hush." David flopped back on his seat,

supremely satisfied, and stayed there.

The car drove down the rickety pike, following the slip-shod wooden

fence that had seemed to be with them for miles. Finally, they hit the

crucial turn and arrived at their destination. The Jennings farm was a

stately old place, with one big house and a smaller barn off to one

side. The little animal pens were empty now, as they had been for too

long, looking forlorn and disused. The few cows and chickens left

were off grazing somewhere -- who knew if they'd come back. As it

was, the house itself was dreary, done up in moody grays and dark

blues, with faded paint peeling and rusty gutters, and a screen door

dangling from hinges. Where it had once been beautiful, it was now a

dying Gothic homestead, the paint literally starting to wash off under

the rain. It stood under that dead gray sky, a monument to a broken

home.

Two sharp thumps, and David and Vicki exited the car, heels digging

into the dirt and the squishy, dead lawn, now sparse with grass. David

actively watched where he stepped, plodding along down the path

with Vicki's hand on his shoulder, her other holding the hot care

package to her chest.

They hopped up the steps to the old screen door, which Vicki peeled

open with a metal scream. She winced; David grimaced. Under their

feet, a dirty, mud-stained WELCOME mat which was now a very

faded yellow read:COME ON IN! Through the smudged glass of the

front door, only a few vague, dim outlines of a stark interior could be

seen; a stair here, a hall there. The rain trickled down through the old

gutters and pitter-pattered against Vicki's leg.

Vicki rang the bell. Moments passed, and her ears perked, listening

for any footfalls or calls.

Nothing.

She rang it again. Then, again. Perplexed, Vicki sighed.

David was not amused. "Can we go now?"

"*No*," Vicki said, looking to him reproachfully. "We're going to give

this food to Amy and her relatives."

"What're ya gonna do?" David asked, now hopping on one foot and

alternating his feet, bored. "Break in?" His hopeful expression

indicated he might enjoy this approach.

"No," Vicki said again, grousing. She sighed, frustrated, and leaned

on the doorknob to balance herself on the tiny step. It was obvious no

one was there. She'd just have to place these under the door and

leave a note --

Just then, the front door creaked like an old, old woman, and the

knob slid through Vicki's hands. Just like that, the door opened. It

had been unlocked the whole time. With a soft klick, it blew ajar for

them, propelled by the light wind.

Vicki and David stared through the open door, into the dark abyss of

the Jennings front hall. It was a dusty, dimly-lit old house, with

antiquated old furniture and the smell of old permeated all things. The

floor was dirty; a carpet in the front was stained and faded. A nearby

hall mirror was spattered with some sort of debris and unclear. It was

as if the place was dying, and had been for years -- ever since Tom

and Amy's parents had gone on to their reward. It seemed the house

already had as well, and the people inside it were living in an ornate

open grave. The banister on the stairs looked dodgy, and the wooden

stairs themselves climbed up for what seemed like miles, to what was

a dark and phantom-like upper floor. Down the hall, the kitchen

looked unclean and a distant window looked out onto the fields, and

more rain. Somewhere in there, an old, old clock ticked away the dry

seconds and minutes and hours and years.

David peered out from behind Vicki. "It's *haunted*," he said

gleefully.

"Oh, it is *not*," Vicki grumbled. She shifted her balance, hefting the

care package, and stepped through the doorway cautiously, feeling

just slightly apprehensive -- as if giving away her position outside the

house meant her penetrating a phantom curtain which hid -- and

contained -- whatever shades skulked inside.

The floorboards creaked underfoot, and Vicki started a little. David

hopped inside, looking up and down all around. He wrinkled his nose.

"It stinks in here."

"David," Vicki began with exasperation, but then she smelled it too --

more than must. Something rotting, old. It was coming from the

kitchen, and it was truly rancid.

She cleared her throat. "Is anyone here?" she called out, her voice

ringiing through the old air. "Hello?" David just rolled his eyes.

"It's a dump!" he cried with something akin to joy, and before Vicki

could stop him David was bolting down the hall to the kitchen, then

swinging a right into some unseen room.

"David!" Vicki yelled out, and hurried down the hall after him.

She found herself in the kitchen, where the stench only hinted at

before hit her full-blast. Vicki couldn't help but grimace as she took in

the room; a trio of windows set into the walls, all dirty and

translucent, aged by the winds and spattered by the rain. Some

garish sort of green-&-blue wallpaper that was probably vibrant and

pretty once, but was now faded, stained, and ugly, peeling in spots of

shocking white. The plain off-white floor was filthy, now almost

brown. Two ancient dog bowels were off to one side of an ancient

gas stove, still with water and (Vicki retched) years-old dog food in

them; next to that, a back door leading out onto the rainswept pens

and back field, and from there the still-dark woods. A refrigerator

was set next to the sink, but judging by the strange, sibilant noises it

emitted every few minutes it wasn't working too well. A huge metal

lamp swung softly just above the old wooden table for four in the

middle of the room, with its phony-white top. Scuff marks at the ends

of the chairs. At opposing walls on either side of the room, two large

bulletin boards absolutely covered in faded, old pictures, childrens'

scrawled drawings, and other mementos hung from the walls.

Vicki's heart ached again for Amy as she stepped in closer to one of

the pinned-up photographs. It was old, tinted brown now, and it

showed Amy and Tom and their family, outside their house in a better

time, when the paint was dryer and brighter, and the animals more

plentiful and healthy...there they were:Amy, Tom, their parents,

and...Tom?

Vicki's brow furrowed.

(who IS that?)

Outside, the rain picked up, whipping against the glass with a sharp

rat-a-tat. Vicki started, straightening up, and let out a deep breath. It

really did stink in here, and the light was precious little. Just as before,

it felt like a place for the dead -- dank, strange, remote, and, here

behind these old windows, with the noise of the storm muffled just a

little, completely out of sync with the live world.

But still, there seemed to be something inside here with them...enough

to make her disconcerted.

Enough...and breathing.

It was then that Vicki noticed the scrawl at one edge of the bulletin

board in front of her. Something dark-brown, almost red; huge,

child's-scrawl letters jumped out on the wood. It was just a fragment

of a message, crazily cartoonish in its size and penmanship, but it

made Vicki's skin crawl and her breath hitch.

ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE, the words screamed.

Next to it, the family picture smiled back at her. Goosepimples down

her spine.

(we need to leave now.)

Vicki placed the care package down on the kitchen table, scrawled

out a note on a napkin for the obviously-out relatives, and then

crossed the kitchen into the nearby sitting room, which was even

more of an antique than the front hall, full of brown, old furniture;

faded couches, drapes, carpeting. A little coffee table sat in the

middle of the room, with old waterglass outlines imprinted on the

wood. Across from it, a tiny, old TV. Next to that, shelves upon

shelves of old, dust-choked books. David was plopped down lazily

on a nearby easy chair, which she was sure was covered in yet more

dust and would no doubt make him sneeze like a banshee any

second.

"Come on, David," Vicki said firmly. "We're going."

"Already?" David whined, hopping out of the easy chair. Vicki was

amazed he didn't leave a child-sized outline in the dust. "We just got

here!"

"I left the food with them," Vicki said, hurrying back down the front

hall, keeping an arm on David as he hurried before her, half-pushed.

David grumbled something as they approached the still-ajar front

door, and Vicki let out a mental sigh as she saw the

somehow-comforting gray of the rainy, muddy outside and the old car

through the screen door.

She was about to hustle David back outside when a scraping noise --

like razors on glass -- screamed across both their ears from above.

Both Vicki and David froze in their tracks, and slowly turned to face

the staircase. In the background, day and the car seemed to call out

to them with the distant pitter of the light rain -- light streamed in

through the open door; a gaping, pleading mouth.

The stairs still led up to that dark abyss on the upstairs floor. Now

Vicki realized a door lay at the top of the stairs, closed shut from

them. She was sure the sound had come from there.

The pictures on the wall leading up the stairs -- more relics of a family

past -- hung there, watching them watching it.

Vicki's heart did a figure-eight as the faded, torn wallpaper on the

wall to her right caught her eye -- there, on the wallpaper, was a huge

paint-splash of dark arterial blood, recent and wet. The image

screamed behind her eyes and she was about to scream, when it

vanished.

But the memory remained -- blood on the wallpaper.

(i DID see that.)

Her spine moaned in horror.

Vicki put a foot on the first step, and then stopped. She turned and

looked at David, whose mouth was a sharp, white line. His eyes were

obsidian and small, and he had nothing to say.

Her heart surged with apprehension. In her head, that red message

blasted into her brain.

(i don't want to go up there.)

So she didn't.

"Come on, David," Vicki said through a mouth full of cotton, and the

two turned and exited quickly, the door clicking shut behind them with

a hollow nick from the lock.

In the kitchen, the clock continued to tick, like an impotent bomb,

rising over the muffle of the rain.

Outside, Vicki and David got back in their car and drove off down

the road, back to home and light.

The house was not empty, and it watched them go.

*/*/*

the grieving process, part 2/absolution (infidelity)

(beyond his ken, he was unaware of automobiles speeding up the

rainy road, towards the great old house, and so he sits...)

Quentin was back on the gazebo steps again, splayed on his back.

Staring up through that canopy of green. The rain was starting to hit

harder, pouring down in little rivers, turning the garden into a

rainforest. Peeking through the leaves, the gray sky was getting

clogged with black clouds, and thunder, the siren call of the storm,

was beginning to roar somewhere far away. The weather was in that

phantom zone between afternoon and evening, where everything hung

-- baseless. The decanter was nearly bottomed out now. He didn't

feel as drunk as he needed to, though his veins were warm and his

brain felt like gelatin -- the razor edge on the pain had not dulled, but

*had* become rusty and infected, sickening him to the core. Fantastic

job, he thought. You can't even get drunk right anymore.

He wondered, if the rain poured harder, if it soaked him more, would

it absolve him his wrongs? Would it make up for the triangle of trees

in Oshden, for the passion he'd so easily sank into, for the fire?

Would it take back the ringing tambourines, the hand that ruled the

world?

There was a rustle in the bushes, and he wearily turned his head, dark

movie star mane slipping into his eyes. He brushed it away, and...

...there she was again.

Vicki was at the lip of the garden path, coat drawn around her, skirt

still soaked nonetheless. Her hair tangled and wet against her neck

and brow. She stared at him wistfully. Judging him. He felt

redemptionless, remembering earlier when he'd seen red and spat at

her, and he lowered his head in sorrow.

A long moment passed, with just the whispering whirlpools of rain

kissing the air and sound barrier. Finally, Vicki spoke.

"I asked you before," she said quietly, "what you came looking for.

And I'd still like to know -- damn the consequences. Despite what I

may find."

Quentin smiled ruefully through dry, cracked lips, staring down at a

particular spot of muddy grass, listening to the rain. "And some days

I'd like to tell you, despite what you may find." He lost his smile, and

just looked tragic. "But other days...no."

Vicki took a seat on a conveniently-placed fake rock, among the

many which Cassandra's too-chic decorators had recently installed,

and tossed her wet hair back in a cascade of raven ropes. "Are you

drunk, Quentin?"

Quentin laughed a little, soft and weak, still staring at the ground. "Oh,

I tried hard. But no. I can't seem to...get a handle on it today." He

rubbed his forearms. "My blood's warm. That's it."

Vicki inhaled the wet garden air, slowly and easily. "You loved him

very much, didn't you?"

"More than he knew," Quentin mumbled. "More than anyone knows."

He drew a hand down over his face, and flashed a weak echo of that

famous smile at her. "See this? It's all sleight-of-hand."

"You said that before," Vicki said, rocking on her rock. "But there is

something true to you, Quentin; I know it."

"You surprise me," Quentin said. "No one would fault you for

severing all contact with me. I was a fool."

"You were in pain," Vicki said. "You still are."

"I was a fool," Quentin repeated. He hung his head. "I've been a fool

all my life. I paid for it and I keep paying. Tom was part of it."

"Tom was ill," Vicki protested.

"I am the master switch," Quentin said drolly, inflection betraying

heartache. "I may not look like much, but I assure you, I am the cause

of his death."

"You look like a lot," Vicki said softly, padding over and sitting down

on the step next to him. "But no, you did not kill Tom. I know it,

Quentin, whatever your history -- you are not a death sentence. I

imagine you've seen much anguish and hurt in your life, but it doesn't

make you who you are. What defines you are the things you do, and

the way you live your life. And no matter how you may have lived it

before, or what you've done in the past, right now you're one of the

most gentle, caring people I've ever met. You're an...an amazing soul,

Quentin." She blushed. "I feel like there's volumes of things I could

learn, behind your eyes."

"You're teaching me," Quentin says. "Slowly but surely. And I am a

worse student than David. I'm the dunce. You're the oracle, whether

you know it or not."

"You're not a dunce," Vicki said gently. "And you'll get through this.

You have Maggie. You have your family."

Quentin let out a pained, rattling sigh, and stood on weak legs. "My

family," he mumbled as he took a few errant steps towards a patch of

drenched lillies. Vicki stood by the gazebo, clutching a wooden strut

and watching his back. "My family," he repeated. Then laughed

hollowly. "Blood is everything. Especially here, in this place."

"I've noticed," Vicki said.

"Does it hurt?"

She bristled. "A little," Vicki said softly, sadly. "But I also think it's

beautiful."

"But you wouldn't," he said, turning to face her. "If you'd been here

for the duration. It's a vicious cycle -- and I'm part of it. They don't

know me, not a one of them. They see the poor, renegade relation.

The playboy, the writer. They don't see me for what I really am." He

shook his head. "I don't think I'd want them to."

"You insist on being a mystery wrapped in an enigma," Vicki said,

folding her arms with wistful amusement. "I think you romanticize

yourself."

"I wish that were true," Quentin said with a sad little nod.

He strode up to her, close. "You know what I wish? That I could be

like you."

Vicki laughed. "You're insane."

"It's no joke. You're what I aspire to be," Quentin said, eyes aching.

"No history; no ghosts. No tainted blood. No yesterday, just...today.

And tomorrow. And the day after that. Stretching on for thousands of

miles. Living in the future instead of dying in the past. Because that's

where I am. I try to pull myself forward but the rope cuts my hands. I

have no ground to stand on. You see things so clearly, so unfettered

by self-pity or immeasurable guilt. You see a world I lost years ago --

delicate and vibrant, but courageous, because one's nature determines

their reality. When they lose that, it's all over. But you won't. I knew

the moment I first saw you; you'll never lose, Vicki. You'll never lose."

They were cheek to cheek. The rain was pouring now, drenching

both their skins. She stared up into his eyes. "You make me out to be

a force of nature," Vicki said shakily, licking her lips. "But I'm not."

"You're my salvation," Quentin said, voice cracking.

Vicki shook her head, eyes liquid again. "Quentin, I'm not a

salvation," she whispered --

"And I'm wrong for you," Quentin finished, cutting her off. He was

breathing heavily and so was she, bathing each other in hot recycled

air. "I'm an unhappy ending to a finished story -- "

"No, you're not," Vicki hissed desperately. "Quentin, you're n -- "

She didn't finish, but it was mutual.

The spark flashed, and they kissed. And both swooned in each

other's arms.

 ...but...

...unseen, unnoticed, and ultimately uncared for, Maggie Evans stood

at the edge of the garden path in her expensive, just-bought lavender

evening dress , watching her heart break. Her eyes exploded with

oceans of tears, her cheeks sizzled, her fists balled with her new (and

also very expensive) jeweled purse, and she nearly swooned herself in

sheer despair.

Within seconds, she was clicking in her best (and soon broken) heels

down the path, through the gravel driveway (where she in fact

slipped, fell, and gashed open a stockinged knee before picking

herself up) , and leaping back into her car and speeding back down

the hill, because although she hadn't heard a word of their

conversation, Maggie Evans knew that, unlike Victoria Winters, she

would never be Quentin Collins' salvation --

-- and her Roman statue was dead.

(and beyond his ken, the beat goes on.)

*/*/*

anything but figurative:maggie makes a connection (have a beautiful

anniversary)

"She's the kind of gal who is everybody's pal...and nobody's friend. A

wisecrack can supplant reality, and a big laugh can avoid truth. For

essentially, Maggie is a lonely person...hoping for something and

expecting nothing."

- "Shadows On The Wall," Art Wallace, 1966

-- and then she was in the driveway (Pop's car gone again

godDAMNit she wouldn't do this tonight) , and the car screeched to

a halt, and she rushed and fumbled with her keys her keys too many

and the lock slipped and she nearly fell and the door swung open and

Maggie rushed in through the rain into the dry and slammed the door

shut with a thundercrack.

Her ears burned, and her blood was ice and fire, and her heart her

HEART was slamming against her ribcage and she felt like she was

going to throw up as hard and disgusting as Pop on his worst days

and she thought 'six months six months of futilety' she thought

Margaret she thought Margaret you could have been a landscaper an

artist and here you are serving kids ice cream and fishermen cream of

chicken.

Quentin's my guy.

(crock of shit.)

She hurled the purse across the room with a shriek, and it hit a blank

canvas with a dull thump before dropping to the carpet. She kicked

her heels off with a scything of her legs, and then she sobbed and

sobbed, almost in physical pain.

She could feel her heart bleeding.

Across the room, Pop's always-half-finished canvases, of little

children, of dockworkers, of boats even -- all seemed to be sitting

there, mocking her:What a great guy you've got, Maggie. Six months

of banging up against a wall. Fantastic.

There was a knock on the door. Maggie sobbed harder. This she

didn't need.

(don't answer it.)

So she wouldn't. And she sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed.

But the knocking didn't stop.

So Maggie stumbled to her feet, and nearly ripped the door off the

hinges opening. Her eyes were red and swollen, and her nose was

running, and she was the picture of wounded animal.

Nicholas Blair was standing there.

 

Bowler hat in hand, contrite. Brows knitted in deep, soulful concern.

More honest than she'd ever seen him; the syrup was gone. Gloves

on. Rain pouring down on his perfect hair.

"Maggie," he said softly, looking very worried for her.

She let him step inside silently, and shut the door behind him. She

started crying again; couldn't help it. "Maggie," he said again, now

very concerned. "Maggie, what's happened?"

He put his hand -- now ungloved -- on her arm gently.

And because that was almost all she'd ever asked for Quentin Collins

but so much less than she'd needed, and because she hadn't been

touched in months, and because she was ultimately terribly lonely and

had few close friends (Carolyn was everybody's friend, particularly if

there were drugs involved, and Vicki was now a dead issue) , and

because she had a dead-end job and still lived with her ungrateful

alcoholic father, and because she was rapidly approaching 24 and still

here in Collinsport, Maine, and because he'd treated her like a queen

since the second he met her, and because her head was on fire and

her heart was hemmhoraging:Maggie kissed him.

Hard. Long. She drew away, then pulled in again.

Passionate. Burning.

The little hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stood up.

He took her in his arms. Kissed her back. Rough. Intense. Emotional.

 They stumbled back down the steps.

Her eyes and loins were burning, and a fire started to crackle that'd

been dead for *SO LONG* and she kissed and -- kissed and they

hit the -- couch -- his hands were everywhere, and she was breathing

so fast --

(...and somewhere, back up on that hill, with quentin, vicki winters'

mind was conflicted and full of remorse. "we can't do this," she

protested feebly...)

Her blouse was coming off and his hands were up her thigh; they

were like silk -- he kissed her neck -- her mouth, her eyes -- she

ripped his coat off, tugged at the buttons on his shirt -- her lipstick

was ruined --

their hearts exploded --

("it would be for all the wrong reasons" -- but vicki didn't know she

believed that. "and we'd hurt good people. it's not right and it's not

fair.")

Her legs kicked; her equilibrium spun around like a top -- his cheek

was on his -- his *hands* -- his mouth -- her bra was undone -- his

belt came off --

("maggie's such a good friend...")

She pushed and melted into him again, and her cerebral cortex and

nerve endings crackled like wildfire; her hair was everywhere; her

mind was a tidal wave -- lightning went up her thighs --

("we couldn't hurt her like that...")

And he THRUSTED into her and the world exploded -- Maggie

cried out -- she PUSHED back -- it had been centuries --

their minds melded -- she felt joined -- the dimensions around them

compressed then exponentially cycloned out of control -- the storm

battered the windows --

-- she THRUSTED --

(-- she reached around the Roman statue's sides and EMBRACED

--)

Maggie was afire.

*/*/*

storm (willie bleeds)

The rose curtains whipped and blew through the open air as the

shutters CLANGED and CLANGED like gunshots back against the

windowframe in Josette's room on the top floor of the Old House.

Light and dark flashed across the ceiling like a shadow play, and wind

and rain swept in as if machine-propelled. The window yawned open,

looking out onto the dark, dark woods, and millions upon millions of

violent, shaking trees, bent back by the hurricane storm. The candle

flames whipped back and slowly started to wink out, leaving the old

room in more and more darkness. From beyond the window, a wild

ghost, bent on unnatural vengeance, seemed to scream and shriek for

satisfaction to the occupants inside.

Willie Loomis -- "the occupants" -- was curled up in a ball in the

inside corner of the room's closed door. He whimpered and moaned,

and his neck trickled scarlet, burning with pain. His mind was a

bushfire of horror and pain, and impotent terror. He didn't want to

look out there, onto those crazy spook woods, and he didn't want to

see that black sky, and he didn't want to look back at the house on

the hill and know --

(what's next)

-- he didn't want to know what he knew.

The banshee outside screamed harder, and Willie cried out, terrified

of things he couldn't see but knew were there. He was paralyzed. The

monster in his mind was frozen in his memory, and it took all his will

just to suck in breath.

A candelabra crashed to the ground, shoved by the winds, and Willie

jerked from his fetal position. Blind horror was smashed onto his face,

and he quivered like a dying animal...

(...and his mind's eye a pale, gaunt, nude figure with blood-red scars

racing up and down and all over his body leaped at him with eyes like

fire and jaws full of jagged glass and latched on to his throat like a

giant leech and his will was null, his soul forfeit)

Willie closed his drowning eyes tightly, and rocked back and forth,

moaning inconsolably.

On the nightstand above him, an old, old record player stood

stationary, with a single black record onboard.

The wind screamed.

*/*/*

kitchen/david sees shadows

Something was moving behind the curtain of the kitchen window.

David was positive, as he stared intently at the darkness just beyond

the white curtain obscuring his view. He sat at the table alone, with his

dish of cookies and his glass of milk, his last snack before bed. The

kitchen was quiet and dark now; outside the storm raged unceasingly,

but it was muffled from in here. He'd seen the full moon earlier.

Now he swore, along with the other japering shadows creeping

around the shadowy kitchen, that he saw something else out there.

"David?" Vicki called out as she entered from the servant's door. "Are

you almost finished with your snack? Come now; I don't want to have

trouble getting you into bed like last night."

"There's something out there," David said resolutely, staring into the

depths. "Outside the window." He pointed at the glass.

Vicki crossed over to the table, and stared at the window. "David,

there's nothing. It's just a tree branch or some leaves."

"There was someone out there," David said stubbornly. "I know it and

you can't change my mind."

"Alright; I won't try to change your mind," Vicki said, sighing. "Now

come on; finish up and let's get you to bed."

David was the picture of indignation. "Go take a look," he said. "Pull

back those stupid curtains and look for yourself."

"David, this is ridiculous."

"Oh, so now you think I'm ridiculous?" David snapped, chin

trembling. "I *didn't* make it up!" He stamped his foot.

"I'm sorry, David, I don't think you're ridiculous at all," Vicki said

solemnly. "And I'm sure you didn't make it up; I believe you saw

something but I don't think you saw anything but a tree branch." The

whole vibe in the kitchen was admittedly giving her the willies; all

polished metal and glass, spic 'n span, from the linoleum to the drapes

-- and so empty...

She crossed to the window. "See, I'll even take a look."

And with that, Vicki drew open the drapes to reveal the dark night

beyond the window -- and an empty stretch of lawn leading out

towards the woods, and Widows Hill. "See?" Vicki said reassuredly,

both to David and herself. "Nothing's out there. Satisfied, Dick

Tracy?"

"No," David groused, obviously disappointed. He traced the rim of

the half-empty milk glass with a finger. "I wish someone had really

been out there," he pouted absently. "Then I could've proven you

wrong."

"I'm very sorry to disappoint you," Vicki said. "Now hurry and finish

your snack, and Saturday might come quicker." She headed across

the room, a silent chill going up her back again as she took in the

wide-open, dark and sterile kitchen, and that dark maw of a window.

David frowned, disgusted, and finished his glass of milk.

Outside, the wind picked up, and turned into a constant, unending

siren scream.

*/*/*

nancy drew (carolyn breaks and enters)

...And a few floors up, closer to the eye of the storm, in a large dark

room, the golden doorknob to Julia Hoffman's room turned and gave

way.

Carolyn slipped in between the door like a cat, and swiftly shut the

door behind her, keeping an ear perked for any ambient noise. As the

storm thundered outside and shadows danced across the walls like

obscene phantoms, she strode purposefully (but quietly) towards

Julia's desk.

A few tugs, a jiggle, a prayer and a twist, and the skeleton key in

Carolyn's gloved hand conquered the desk lock. Carolyn pulled the

drawer open, revealing a treasure trove of Julia's personal effects, but

nothing worth her time. She then turned to the dresser drawers ,and

found little more than a whole lot of clothes. Carolyn went through

drawer after drawer of clothes, clothes, clothes, probing and finding

nothing. She shut the last drawer with an annoyed sigh. Paused.

Thought. Thought. Thought.

Then, an ancient, cobwebbed memory of playing in this wing at age 7

flickered into Carolyn's mind, and she eyed the jeweled mirror above

Julia's desk.

With a creak, the mirror slipped off the wall -- and exposed the

hidden compartment for all too soon. Pleased as punch, Carolyn

twisted the knob of the compartment and opened it up. There, for her

eyes only, were Dr. Julia Hoffman's many, many medical diaries.

Carolyn's mouth curved into a black cat's killer smirk...

...and below her, phantom footfalls echoed somewhere within the

Great House.

*/*/*

four (all you need is love, love, love)

"catch you with my death bag!"

- killer BOB, "twin peaks," 1990

cause we're lovers

& that is a fact

yes we're lovers

& that is a fact

& nothing will keep us together...

- david bowie, "heroes"

from the other end of the hallway, a rhythm was generating...

- patti smith, "land:horses/land of 1,000 dances/la mer (de) "

The double doors of the Old House slid open with a comforting

creak, and Julia, purse in hand, stepped through the doorway, slipping

in the darkness.

Closing and latching the doors, she shuddered from the after-bite of

the storm cold, and drew her jacket close to her for but a moment

before slipping it off and tossing it onto a nearby coathook. She

placed her purse down on a desk in the drawing room, and smiled

tiredly as the candelabra's tiny fires danced across the dark walls,

which cascaded with ice-white and black as the storm went through

its natural seizures just beyond the window. Even now, the wind and

trees roared at her through the glass, that portal to chaos she'd just

left.

It had been hell getting to and from Wyndcliffe, especially with the

storm working itself in a lather all day. Her expedition to Stokes' had

run dry. But at least she had the last of the medicine for Barnabas to

take when he got back from his trip upstate, to make sure his

newfound life and light stayed forever.

She circled the room absently, and her face bloomed into a graceful

smile as she thought about Barnabas, racing up and down the coast,

probably adoring this storm and the myriad sensations it brought him;

sensations and feelings they all took for granted, even the bitter cold

she'd fled with such determination moments before. She thought of

him, watching the gray sky all day, bathing his face in that preliminary

drizzle, walking along the beach for miles and never once dreading an

unkind sun. And she wanted desperately to be there with him.

But it was enough that he was out there, on his odyssey, she thought.

He needed this time, and she knew he was having the time of his life.

Digging into Quentin and Stokes' clandestine alliance could wait a day

or two. They had won a great victory -- despite the loss of Tom, she

thought as her face fell. Oh, Tom, I couldn't give you what you

wanted or needed. I'm sorry, more than you can ever know; for you,

for Amy. And I thank God that Willie was able to give you the true

peace you deserved before you went into the ground. Angelique can't

deny you it, no matter what. I hope you find all the happiness you

could ever want for, in that world beyond my comprehension...

It was then that Julia saw the record player on the front desk.

Her eyebrows knitted, and Julia frowned. A *record player*? Surely

Barnabas hadn't bought this so quickly; was he taking to it all so well?

No, that was impossible; it hadn't been there when he'd left --

Thunder rolled, and all but one of the candleabra blew out.

The room was bathed in darkness, with splashes of light slipping

across the room from the outside; iridescent shard-shapes, made of

natural chaos, shimmering like spectres. Watching Julia, as she grew

very pale and clutched a hand to her neck.

(something is not right here.)

Flame bloomed down the hallway, and Julia rushed around to see

candles, lit and burning, down the dark hall. She dithered, standing

there in the foyer, and she suddenly felt very afraid.

There were muddy footsteps at the foot of the stairs.

And sneaker scratchings on the wood floor.

The wind wailed, lonely and quiet in the creaky old house.

(*she had not had to use the key to open the door.*)

Julia went for the doors.

The record player shrieked, and began to play.

She froze. Her mind was feverish; her heart beat ceaselessly and full

of frightful impotence. Outside, she could hear the growls of the

hurricane. Just then, a high-pitched guitar twang shrieked through her

eardrums, and a wild, repetitive beat shook the drawing room and

foyer.

It was a rock song.

And a familiar one, too, as Julia recognized brisk young voices

crooning. It was a song she knew. It was one she'd heard in a radio.

The Beatles, in fact; those kids from England. "All you need is love,

love, love," the young lead singer sang out, and Julia crazily wondered

if she'd stumbled upon some clandestine rock concert.

(...Held in Barnabas' house. Oh, right, Julia.)

There was a series of loud, brisk, insistent scratching noises down the

hall, like a wild animal with claws scraping, and Julia whipped around

to face the dark column of the hall.

A figure was stumbling down the corridor, cloaked in shadows.

"Who are you?" Julia croaked, her skin screaming with gooseflesh as

she backed up. "Don't come any closer!"

The rock song burst into a loud, insanely raucous chorus, and a pair

of huge, powerful arms grabbed Julia from behind at the waist and

spun her around.

Julia gasped as she whirled around, and her breath died in her throat

as she came face-to-face with her attacker.

The pallid, death-gray face before her was the color of dead fish, and

as the lightning's illumination cascaded across the room again she saw

golden-yellow slits for eyes. The lips were full and ruby-colored,

shining brightly with (blood) , and the face was twisted into an

insane/obscene leer of desecration.

Tom Jennings burst into a wild, gaping grin, razor-teeth gleaming as

Julia's eyes fixed on his. "HI, JULIA!"

He threw her across the drawing room, and she screamed.

The music was blaring now, almost drowning out the storm, and Julia

struggled to pick herself up off the floor, moaning in horror and

hysteria. Tom stalked around the archway to the drawing room,

pacing like a wild animal. Outside, the storm continued to rage. The

dim-but-stark candlelight in the room bathed him in unnaturally-clear

spotlight. "DID YOU MISS ME, JULIA?" that fun-loving, guy's guy

voice, now demented and demonic, boomed out over the music. "I

SURE MISSED YOU! I SURE MISSED YOU!"

"Oh, *GOD*," Julia moaned, beyond all human terror.

Then he bounded across the room and he was on her again, and the

room spun crazily -- "JULIA!" Tom cried boisterously. "IT'S ME!

IT'S ME! IT'S TOM!" He kissed her neck, lecherous and diseased,

over and over, then her cheek, then her forehead, and Julia squirmed

and beat at his hands and screamed and screamed and that stupid

pop song got louder and louder, beating back the noise of the storm

--

With a feline-beast roar, Tom bashed her across the face, instantly

bloodying her nose and blackening her eye, and making her crumple

against a candelabra, which tumbled to the ground with her with a

hard CLANG. Julia moaned and screamed and moaned and

screamed, crawling now across the carpet, trying to get away from

that bounding, gibbering thing bouncing towards her, and the world

was still spinning and the dark was everywhere and the Beatles song

screamed with drums and clashing guitars --

 

-- he was on her again, and with another snarl, he punched her again,

slamming her back against the archway. Julia crumpled, insensate, and

tried to get her bearings -- but Tom leaped onto her again, and

bashed her in the face again and again. His preternatural strength was

merciless, and very potentially lethal. Julia almost swooned.

"JULIA!" he screamed again, and pulled her into a limp lover's

embrace. He dragged her around the room with him, clutching her in

his claws, and "All You Need Is Love" screamed like soundtrack as

he pulled her into an obscene, non-consensual parody of a dance.

Tom's arms pulled hers up and down, and his feet bounced around,

and Julia tried to collapse but he struck her across the face and she

lost teeth, and then he threw across the room again and she

SLAMMED into the banister of the stairs, and her breath was gone

and her lungs screamed as she sank to the floor.

Julia's head skewed around crazily, looking for something, anything to

save her, but everything was moving so fast and the world was like a

crazy carousel and --

To one side of the hallway, the shadowy figure was hugging the wall.

Light bathed things, and Victoria Winters leaned limply against the

side of the hall, a crumpled heap of arms and legs. Her face was pale,

her eyes a sea of distant horror.

Vicki bled profusely from her neck. "Julia," she half-mouthed,

half-croaked, and then seemed to swoon standing up.

Vicki's head bent back, and a fresh, bright smear of dark arterial

blood shone on the old, faded wallpaper.

Julia screamed as Tom leaped upon her again, and threw her back

into the drawing room. She slammed against the fireplace and felt her

wrist sprain. She leaped to her feet and tried to make a rush for the

door, but didn't make it to the archway. Julia screamed as Tom

pounded her in the face again, they flung her at the window. Julia

smashed against it with a krak, but did not break it.

She slid down the glass like a smashed bug, sinking like a stone.

Julia's eyes were now very blurry, but they rolled, rotated, and fixed

on someone -- something -- across the room. At the other end of the

room, something was crumpled half-in, half-out of the drawing room

closet, next to the fireplace. Julia, momentarily winded and clutching

at consciousness through intense shock, struggled to get a clear look

at whatever was there, watching it watching her, at what seemed like

miles across the room.

Lying in a sprawled heap on the carpet, half-in and half-out of the

drawing room closet, David Collins' cheek was smooshed against the

floor, and his eyes were wide and vacant. A bright scarlet stain was

blooming on the white throw rug.

"I can't think," the zombie-eyed child mumbled thickly over the din of

the Beatles.

Julia croaked in utter despair, coughed up blood, and then shrieked

with a newfound rush of adrenaline and horror as Tom dragged her

up to her feet once more, cradling in her arms like a wounded bird

and rocking her to the crazy, jangling music. His hands clutched at her

breast, her thighs, caressed her face. The whiteface joker leered at

her with corpse-like glee, and she felt his stinking breath on her neck

as he rocked her crazily back and forth, off-tempo and violently.

"ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE, JULIA!" Tom shrieked at the top of

his deceased lungs.

Julia screamed for her life.

"CAN WE GIVE IT ANOTHER SHOT, BABE?" Tom howled

insanely, and broke into grating, choppy, beyond loud laughter.

His sharp nails scratched at her neck, then his hands grabbed her

wrists, pulling her back against him hard. Her neck bent up to his

mouth. Julia's voice reached sonic proportions as she screamed

endlessly, but never managed to drown out the Beatles once. She was

hysterical, horrified, helpless, hopeless; her knees buckled, her feet

scrabbled, she jerked and jerked -- the storm beat at the windows --

John Lennon sang his happy song --

 Tom Jennings' monstrous canines buried themselves in Julia Hoffman's

jugular with a spray of crimson, and latched on like a starved leech.

Julia howled as her blood burned, and her body became wracked

with inhuman pain, and her heart susurrated; her veins drained and her

eyes burst with helpless tears; her spine was jelly and her hands beat

and beat and her legs gave way and her hips jerked; she felt fire up

her thighs; there was some sort of twisted, obscene, alien climax --

(a mental reel screams:END)

Black.

To Be Continued ...