Chapter 23: Angels of Death, Angels of Hope
By Midnite
(Voiceover by Nancy Barrett): “The night air over Collinwood is calm, yet none
of its residents sleep peacefully. As a storm gathers in the distance, one
woman struggles to reconcile her unwilling participation in a macabre
partnership of master and slave, another is forced to walk its halls as one of
the living dead, and yet another has lost her soul to an 18th century
murderess. On this night, each woman will find herself poised to kill, and by
its end one will have succeeded.”
Owling eyes peered out at the expanse of lawn that resembled an inky sea under
the thick night sky. She stepped back from the window and began pacing the
kitchen, the rubber soles of her shoes making slippery sounds on the linoleum.
Even thunder would have been a welcome noise, but although the evening news
predicted a rainstorm, it wasn’t due for hours. For her, with everyone else
asleep in their beds, there was too much silence in the Great House.
She’d been roused too early by a dream that still seemed vague and fragmented.
With eyes shut tightly she tried to recall it, and at first conjured up only
pleasant sensations: the vivid blues and greens of the sea water, its swells
luminous from the bright sun as she floated contentedly. Then, she remembered,
her solitude was shattered by the appearance of a gathering wave, and as she
swiftly turned toward the rocky shoreline, a surge overtook and held her in its
sensual embrace. Struggling against it intensified its grasp of her, so she
relinquished and found solace in accepting that the desirous ocean, now a
gloomy red, would be her grave. … Her lids flew open, but the teakettle
screamed and Julia was being summoned to the stove before she could open her
mouth to make a sound.
She dismissed the dream as a residual memory of time spent in Tom’s thrall.
She was safe now, she reminded herself--- safe and, at the moment, wishing
there was someone sharing the kitchen table. As the chamomile bobbed and
steeped, her thoughts jumped to the Old House, and she found comfort imagining
that Barnabas was sleeping soundly. Did he ever wrestle with troubling dreams,
she wondered. Did guilt make him restless, or did he sleep still as a toy?
Was he a snorer, she mused, or did he gnash his teeth? The last image made her
smile, but the padding of footsteps traveled past the doorway, so she gathered
her teacup and saucer to follow the sound into the dimly lit hallway. Now the
steps were coming from the foyer where the lamp she had clicked on earlier
continued to burn, and she poked her head inside in time to glimpse billowy
chiffon exiting the top stair. Julia tiptoed forward to get a look at who-- or
what-- the figure was, but it had already disappeared. She brushed a wisp of
red hair from her forehead and giggled at her own silliness. There are no
spirits residing at Collinwood, she admonished… only family members haunted by
their own past.
Julia glanced at the flower arrangement on the mahogany table beside her. The
mass of white daisies, fresh when she came downstairs, were now dried up and
snowing onto the table. The ringing of the grandfather clock made her jump and
then chimed 5 times, but the clock above the stove, she reflected, had read
2:50 a short while ago. Mrs. Johnson needs to get that fixed, she noted. She
checked for her watch under a sleeve of her housecoat, but didn’t find it. I’m
SO tired, she told herself, that I don’t remember taking it off. And so she
ascended the stairs to enjoy her tepid tea in solitude and, hopefully, fall
back asleep.
As she reached the upstairs hallway and began to head toward her room a door
clicked shut behind her. It was the entrance to the skeletal East Wing, and as
far as she knew only Elizabeth and Mrs. Johnson had a key. Recalling that both
were usually up at daybreak and considering they might need help, but mainly
because she was genetically curious, Julia decided to investigate.
The entrance led to a single hallway lined on one side with a row of windows
and closed doors on the other. A door at the far end shut with a quick snap.
Thanks, she told no one in particular.
Inside, a lone candle illuminated the windowless room that was littered with a
strange mix of castoff toys and yellowed linens. She picked up the candle and
moved forward cautiously. “Who’s in this room?” Julia called out. She shivered
from a sudden chill, and set the candle down on a table to grasp her shoulders
tightly. “Liz? Mrs. Johnson? I saw you come in here. Where are you?” She
reached for the candle again and realized it was perched atop a gaudy, pink
coffin. “Oh God, no!” she cried. “He’s dead! Tom’s dead!!”
“It’s not Tom’s,” a voice cooed from behind as Cassandra slipped out of the
shadows. “It’s mine.”
“Noooo!” Julia whimpered, her feet nailed in place. She recalled the daisies
transformed to flour, and Cassandra’s absence during breakfast the past few
mornings. “Oh nooo, Tom did this to you,” she told her. “I know it!!”
“But Tom is gone forever, doctor. I’m in charge now.”
Her situation was bleak, she knew; Cassandra was in front of her only exit.
Think, girl. Think! “You’ll need to get into your coffin soon,” she blurted.
“The sun is going to rise any moment now.”
“Oh, I have plenty of time. While you were in the kitchen, I set the foyer
clock two hours ahead.” Julia absently rubbed her wrist. “Looking for this?”
Cassandra asked, the doctor’s watch dangling from her hand.
“My God, you led me here!”
“Yes,” Cassandra giggled. “And I’m already enjoying this far too much.”
“What do you want from me?”
“To prevent you from using your medical knowledge to interfere with my plans.
I don’t want you undoing what I have in store for Barnabas.”
Julia cringed. “You’re going to make him what you are.”
“Very good, Doctor.”
“I know I’m not getting out of this room alive, but I won’t go down without a
fight,” she sniffed.
“How very heroic of you,” Cassandra sniggered. “But I have no intention of
letting you die.”
Julia studied her fate, namely the prospect of again being minion to a vampire,
this one crueler than the last. “Then in these last moments,” she announced,
“I’m going to enjoy seeing you like this--- a vile creature that subsists on
blood. Oh yes, I’m reveling in it already. You couldn’t have a more suitable
fate.” She saw her enemy wince, and continued. “Yet you’ll never obtain the
one thing your victims have--- the one thing I have that you long for,
Cassandra. Our humanity.
“I’m going to relish…”
“I know a great deal about vampirism,” Julia interrupted. “You might say it’s
been my life’s study. And I know what you fear most, Cassandra. You fear
death. From the time you rise until the time you return to- to this place,
your main focus isn’t on being a Collins, and it’s not on Barnabas. It’s on
survival-- your survival…”
“You’ll pay for this, Julia Hoffman,” she said while pointing an angry finger
at her. “I PROMise you that.”
“We both know you won’t be able to continue your charade much longer. Someone
will discover your secret. And the family will be fighting for the privilege
of driving a stake through your heart. But who will the lucky person be? Your
devoted husband Roger? Your stepson? Barnabas?”
Cassandra’s eyes grew dark as she stretched her arms outward, and Julia felt
her own flesh urging toward her, like metal waiting for a magnet. “Dear God,
let it work,” she silently pleaded, “Let her kill me, please.” She closed her
eyes and waited, praying she had successfully provoked her to take too much.
Soft lips caressed her firm neck, and elongated teeth found their mark.
~*~
Vicki tossed feverishly, her delicate wrists flailing about on the bed. In her
dreamland, daisies grew wild around her and stretched like a field of popcorn
as far as she could see. She searched all directions for her secret admirer,
who was due to appear at any moment. He’d be coming for her, but she couldn’t
remember which side to watch, so she spun round and round and grew increasingly
impatient to see his face. And from somewhere nearby came a single click, but
she saw only the sluggish flowers and was unaware that a panel was soundlessly
sliding open in the darkness of her room.
Vicki plucked a daisy off its stem and began to pick at its white fingers:
He loves me He loves me not He loves me He loves me not He loves me…
Her eyes opened sleepily and stared at the figure standing over her in the
darkness. Its long hair was the same yellow-gold as the naked heart of the
daisy she held in the dream.
“Carolyn?” she called out drowsily. “He loves me, Carolyn. I hope it was
Quentin!” Her eyes fluttered and then closed for good, and she was fast asleep
again and unaware that a pair of shears was within an inch of her pillow. “I
hate you,” it whispered venomously. “First I will cut off your hair, and then
I will take your life.”
“We meet at last, Danielle…,” a voice interrupted from behind. Carolyn turned
to see a young woman take form at the foot of the bed. “…Two women, born a
century apart, that once loved the same man.”
“It’s you!” the thing inside Carolyn said. “Bon. You can watch me spill your
daughter’s blood.”
“I’ll see you in hell before I let you harm her!”
Carolyn saw nothing, but felt the crushing blow assault her right hand. Her
pained fingers released the scissors, dropping them to the floor with a clank
as she fled through the opening in the wall.
The noise startled Vicki, who sat up in time to see Louise’s lips curl into a
smile before she vanished.
Carolyn, her vengeance thwarted, raced down a secret staircase and into the
drawing room. Then, through a window left agape behind her, she exited fit to
kill.
~*~
As Cassandra fed, she felt Julia’s resistance fading, her essence swimming
further and further back, her limbs becoming limp as old carrots. But she
stopped and let her victim slide onto the dusty floor. “You get an A for
effort, Julia. But you’ll recover, and then the real fun can begin.”
~*~
Quentin climbed the back stairs of the Collinsport Inn at a meteoric pace. He
paused at the first floor landing to wait for his friend to appear in the
doorway. “Come on,” he told him. “I don’t want him sneaking out like
yesterday.”
“Isn’t that the point of this surprise attack?” Stokes asked. His expression
betrayed that he was enjoying the game.
“Yes, but I want to be sure that busybody won’t warn him off again,” Quentin
explained. “And even if someone has spotted us already, this is probably the
way he’d duck out again.”
“I take it the ‘busybody’ is Mr. Wells. He seemed pleasant enough to me.”
“He had to have tipped him off. He said Chris had checked out, but while he
was talking to you I checked the register, and his name wasn’t crossed out.”
“Ah, I wondered how you knew the room number,” Stokes said while struggling to
ascend the remaining steps to the top. “But you can’t blame him for feeling
protective. He spoke as if he had been genuinely fond of that whole family,
and yet here we are-- outsiders bothering the boy while he’s in mourning.”
Though he knew his friend was right, Quentin waved his hand dismissively. “Are
you up for this?” he asked the older man.
“I’m still a bit tired, but you’ve been waiting for this for a long time. So
yes, I’m definitely up for it.”
“Good. We have one more flight to climb up,” he said, bounding ahead.
“Quentin, wait,” Stokes pleaded. “I must tell you-- Before entering the
building just now, I-, well, a young woman brushed past me, and nearly knocked
me over. I’m sure it was your cousin, Carolyn.”
“Carolyn? Why would she be here?”
“I have no idea. I spoke to her but she acted as if I wasn’t there at all.
She got into a car and sped away, never once looking back.”
“You must be mistaken, Eliot. Carolyn wouldn’t even be awake this early.
Let’s go. This might be our last chance.”
“Of course,” Stokes said as he slowly trailed behind.
Chris had been lying awake on his tousled bed. “Who is it?” he called out, but
the knocking continued. He added, “Just a minute,” while searching for a
decent shirt, and settled on one found rolled up in a corner. The knocking had
stopped, and he smoothed his hair once and opened the door to greet a stranger
beside a familiar face.
“It’s you again!” Chris said to the taller of the two, trying to shut the door
despite the man’s rush to get inside. “Why are you following me?” he asked
miserably.
“You’ve got to listen to me. I can help you. We both can help you. My name
is Quentin Collins.”
“Collins? You’re not any Collins that I know.”
“Chris, I know about you. I know the burden you carry, and I understand and
want to help.”
“You know my name, but you’re not making any sense.”
“It’s about the moon. I know what happens to you when the moon is full. I
know your agony because I’ve been through it myself.”
“This is nonsense. You can’t help me. And you don’t know anything about my
life. Now get out!”
“Mr. Jennings, I think you should listen to him,” the larger man said.
Extending his hand, he told him, “My name is T. Eliot Stokes. I’m a Professor
of Occult Studies at the University in Rockport.”
“Occult Studies? This just keeps getting weirder,” Chris said, ignoring the
gesture.
“You’ve got to listen to us, Chris,” Quentin begged. “You can’t keep running.”
Chris stared silently for a moment. “If I took off, I’d only have to look over
my shoulder to find you, wouldn’t I?”
“If you’re asking me if I’m going to give up on you, the answer is no.”
“All right, all right. I’ll listen to what you have to say. But if I do, will
you promise to stop following me?”
Quentin’s eyes lit with hope. “I promise,” he said softly. How many times had
he practiced this, he reflected. There was so much he wanted to say to Chris,
and there were so many things he needed to explain: His wife Jennie. Her
accidental death by his own hand. Her gypsy heritage, and the curse placed on
him by her sister-- a curse that has been handed down through their daughter,
and their daughter’s daughter, Chris’ mother. The young man could never digest
this in one day, nor understand why Quentin takes responsibility for it all.
Nor could he be made to understand how he has temporarily escaped the curse
himself, and how could Chris then believe that his great-grandfather was
standing before him as flesh and blood. It wasn’t possible to say it all now,
yet if he lost this opportunity, the chance could be lost forever.
“Professor Stokes and I are working on a cure for your affliction,” Quentin
told him. Eliot shot him a curious look from across the room.
“A cure? A cure for what?” Chris asked, feigning ignorance.
“A cure for Lycanthropy. But we need to conduct more work. We think--- we
KNOW we can help you, but we need more time, and we need you in Collinsport in
order to run some tests.”
“You want to use me as a guinea pig?”
“No, not at all,” Stokes broke in. “Mr. Collins has suffered from the same
affliction. He was helped by someone from his past that was as eager to help
him as we are to help you.” Quentin nodded.
“Affliction,” Chris repeated as if tasting the word. “So what’s in it for
you?”
“We merely want to help you, and Amy, too,” Quentin said.
“Leave Amy out of this!”
If you stay, she’ll also benefit because she won’t be alone. Listen, there’s a
cottage on the grounds of Collinwood that’s not being used. You could stay
there, and when Dr. Hoffman, er, Amy’s physician says she’s ready to be
released, she can move into the main house where she can be close to you. I’m
sure my cousin Elizabeth will love the idea.”
“That’s fine, except…”
“Except when the moon is full?” Stokes offered. Chris stared silently in
response.
“We’ll help you,” Quentin promised. “We’ll keep you safe.”
“Don’t you mean keep everyone safe from me?”
“We’ll make sure you can’t hurt anyone, and we’ll protect your secret. What do
you say, Chris? Will you move into the cottage?”
“I-- I have to think about this.”
“Call me at Collinwood when you’ve made up your mind. In the meantime, I’ll
have our housekeeper get the cottage ready for you to move in. If you decide
to do this, you won’t regret it Chris, I promise you,” Quentin told him, a
comforting hand resting on his upper arm.
“Yeah, riiiight,” Chris told him while admitting to himself that this was the
first time a touch had given him comfort since … since just after his 18th
birthday. And there it was again--- memories of his slain brother had come
flooding back. “You have to leave now,” he told his guests before quickly
showing them the way out.
“That went well, don’t you think?”
“You told him we were close to a cure. You lied to him, Quentin.”
“I know, Eliot. But when the time came, I knew the truth was going to be too
much for him to take.”
Stokes sighed. “Well, you did what you felt you had to do to get him to stay,”
he said, checking his watch. “I’ve got to get going. Earlier I received a
phone call from a very desperate-sounding Victoria Winters.”
“Vicki called you? What about?” Quentin asked as he paused atop the main
staircase.
“She said she began having very unusual dreams recently, and Julia told her
to contact me about it. Then it happened again, and she was still quite shaken
when she phoned.”
“What sort of dreams?”
“She thinks a young woman has been trying to tell her something. She described
her as resembling both herself and her employer.”
“That’s odd. Maybe she’s just dreaming about herself?”
“I don’t think so. The woman said her name was ‘Louise’. I told her I had to
leave to take care of an important matter, so I didn’t have time to say much
more than to verify what Julia told her about my expertise on Collins family
history.”
“Well, she couldn’t be in better hands,” Quentin offered as they reached the
first floor. “I hope you can help her.”
“I hope I can too,” the other man said as they entered the lobby. Pausing at
the front desk, both stared at a thick red streak that reached a large blue
vase filled with cheerful daisies. Stokes shoved the vase aside and noticed it
was spattered with the same substance, as if covered in red ants.
They quickly circled the counter and were shocked by the grisly site. A body
soaked with blood lay on the floor, a gaping wound crossing its neck. “Call an
ambulance!” Quentin shouted as he stooped to lift its head, but let go when it
rolled oddly off his hand. “Oh God!” he cried, “It’s Mr. Wells! Somebody-,
somebody nearly cut his head off.”
“I’d say he’s been dead for at least an hour,” Stokes offered.
“Chris! What has he done?!”
“Quentin, I remind you that the moon hasn’t been full for several days.”
“No, it wasn’t. But who would do this?” Quentin asked.
“Let’s go into the next room to call the police,” his friend answered. And
both men retreated from the gruesome scene with its smell of death.
TO BE CONTINUED ...
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