A Tribute to Grayson Hall

This is for my friend Nancy Be.

Shadows on the Wall Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter 45: Hearts & Bones

by CollinsKid

 Voice-Over (Grayson Hall) "Collinwood, in the year 1897.  The precipice of a

new century, and a house of full of secrets, and fractured hearts.  In the

midst of this tempest, one young woman has traveled backwards in time on a

desperate mission to salvage not only her existence, but that of the entire

Collins family of the 20th century..."

 

It was somewhere in that light/dark nethertown, that balmy, post-storm spot

between night and day, when Quentin Collins finished his third cigarette --

cheap, overly sweet, Parisian -- and stubbed it out on the gazebo floor under

his heel.  A light drizzle was all that remained from that previous night's

storm, and in the sky, the black clouds hid away a still-growing dawn, their

secret to keep -- and below them, Quentin and his.

The living dead, he muttered inwardly.  Clearly, Grandmama is no longer the

sharp serpent I'd always known her to be.  The things she'd said were a bit

left-of-center, even for her. When Edith Collins had finally finished her grand

statement, she took a long, phlegm-rattly heave of oxygen, and settled back

into a dreamless reaper's sleep.  Quentin at first had thought her dead, and

had waited there for four uncertain minutes, trying to discern what had just

happened.  Then she snored, and he swiftly exited.  He'd paced the grounds,

this drenched grove of avarice, in the hours since.  Smoked.  Pondered what

she's said.  And here he was still.

The living *dead,* he scoffed again.  What lunacy.

(madness.)

(except...)

....Except for everything else about Grandmama that he and Sister Judith knew,

and no one else had ever bothered with -- or dared to think about.  She was no

ordinary rheumy old crow, eyes milky and blood purple, oh, no; ever since he'd

been little, Quentin had always sensed the 'off'ness in his dear Grandmama, and

as he grew, and learned of things that his parents spat on, he came to

recognize that strangeness as not strangeness at all, but in fact a black

nimbus enveloping this 'poor, frail' old woman who sipped tea and read tawdry

romances; a halo of the darkest magic, always shimmering, always protecting,

always consuming.  His Grandmama was no ordinary Grandmama, oh, no; she knew

all and saw all.  At least, she had, for now twilight was falling upon her

black stage, and she was not going quietly.

Was it madness?  Delerium?  All-too-human frailty finally winning out over

arcane mysticism? Could Quentin take the chance of dismissing her ranting?

Edith's time was almost up; he doubted she would finish out the week.

(Barnabas Collins...the living dead...)

Quentin had seen the portrait, of course.  Looked like a rather stiff gent,

likely to no sooner drop that cane than rip his own arm off.  One of the living

dead?  He'd looked like he was already there.

(Can I take the chance of believing in you, Grandmama?  Or is this your last

joker's joke?)

"What's with you?"

Quentin spun.  Under a curtain of leaves, Magda leaned against an oak tree, out

of the rain.

Quentin chuckled.  "What's always been with me, Magda m'dear, light of my

life," he said jovially/desperately.  "The foulest luck."

Magda folded her arms, her brown face crinkling with a sly smile.  "Don't tell

me your precious Grandmama was not swayed."

"My precious Grandmama is about to do high tea with Mary, Queen of Scots,"

Quentin grumbled, slapping one of the gazebo's supports with an open hand.  "In

the meantime, I'm still broke."

"You always broke."

 "You wound me, Magda," Quentin pouted.  "Can't you spare some of that gypsy

luck of yours, and sprinkle it on me?"

"How was Europe?" Magda asked, sashaying over to him in her crimson robes and

deftly changing the subject.  She slung an arm around his waist.  "How many

fortunes you make and lose in one day, eh?"

"Thousands upon thousands," Quentin mumbled, a hand over his eyes, shielding

him from the missing sun.  He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Jenny woulda never stood for that," Magda said, baleful.  "She woulda set you

right long ago." Melancholy overtook her.  "But..."

Quentin clenched her weathered palm.  "But Jenny isn't here," he said, softly

but swiftly. "That's the way things are, Magda; you know that.  And you know

I'd change it if I could."

He saw her face soften and knew he could still operate her, too, like he always

did.  "I know," Magda said simply, voice a little stuck.  "I know." She patted

his palm, maternal.  Then, clearing her throat, she pulled away, swaying a bit

around the gazebo, flapping her robes idly.  "So, what?  Edith give you the

big, bad secret?"

"So she thinks," Quentin said, rubbing his nose again.

"Well, what was it?!"

Quentin paused.  Then, he spun on his heel, fixing Magda with a wolfish grin.

"It's that all the world's a puppet show, and we are Grandmama's marionettes,"

Quentin murmured.  "And this puppet is getting his own solo act -- cover charge

and all.  You wait and see, Magda; I'm not played yet."

Magda folded her arms, smirking.  "You been played all your life." Quentin

laughed boisterously at that, and she did too, and then he took her arm and

they strolled through the grounds, damp from the rain, watching the sun rise.

And as Quentin felt that mottled light bathe his brow, he looked up into that

incandescent nova and thought, your games are very charming, Grandmama, but

your age is over.  And I no longer have any patience for antiques...

*/*/*/*

 

Vicki was sitting on the divan in the drawing room staring at a cup of

translucent, thick tea and feeling the sun on her back and wearing 19th

century clothes, still trying hard to take it all in as Edward Collins droned

in her ear, a protective -- a lover's -- arm around her waist:"...can't stress

how sorry I am that you had to witness that, my darling, my brother chafes me

so; he's been impossible for years and we all so hoped he would go to Europe

and not return; maybe that's wrong of me I don't know but it seems that things

are so much more peaceful when he's not about how was your trip you look as

though you have a chill may i help you with your tea?" and as she looked at him

and his ruddy cheeks and that Roger-face she thought is there an animal in that

moustache, and if so, what kind, and does it bite and is that why he's so tense

all the time?  and they don't expect me to actually marry him do they?

Out of her reverie, she stirred, smiled, and said, "Thank you...dear...I'm

fine," and picked up her tea and sipped it.  It was somewhere between lemons

and oil.  Vicki thought of the Industrial Revolution, and then corsets and

ribcages.  Her heart cringed.

"So your trip was decent, then?" Edward asked delicately, as though tiptoeing

around his rather out-of-sorts bride.  It must be the travel, he thought.

 "Very," Vicki said.  "Except, except for a bit of a storm, I'm afraid.  I

suppose that's why I'm a bit peakish today."

Edward's grin was wide and relieved.  "Perfectly understandable!" he said.

"Even in this modern age we are unable to tame the weather; an awful pity, if I

do say so myself.  And to go from a metropolis such as New York to all the way

out here...well, I can understand the culture shock. I've experienced it a time

or two myself, on my trips.  You'll get used to it, darling, see if you don't.

You'll be a world traveler before you know it."

Vicki pursed her lips.  "Ah....yes." Please God, no, she thought silently.

"Oh, look!" Edward exclaimed, and his voice was so booming Vicki winced and

almost dropped her teacup.  Did he *have* to shout everything like a carnival

barker?  "The children!"

Vicki wanted to disappear.  There, at the suddenly-opened drawing room doors,

stood the maid, Beth, pretty and wilting in a house such as this -- Vicki knew

the look -- and below her, indeed, were Edward and Laura Collins' children.

With a sort of detached non-surprise, Vicki recognized Jamison and Nora Collins

as mirror images of David Collins and Amy Jennings.  Oh, how amusing, I see,

what a kick, her mind mumbled tiredly, then checked out.

Jamison and Nora stared at her like she was Hitler himself.  Vicki struggled to

move her legs and rise as Edward stood and went to embrace his children.

"Jamison!  Nora!  Good morning, you two -- come meet your new mother!"

Vicki's heart squeaked like a greasy wheel, and died.  Could he have introduced

her as *anyone else?* Anyone at all?  Mickey Mouse, perhaps?  She somehow managed

to stand and smile politely -- I am *so sorry* her brain desperately tried to beam

to them -- and say, "Um, hello...Jamison, Nora.  It's very nice to meet you.

My name's -- " Mud?  Hitler? YourNewMother? "-- Victoria."

The children flash-fried her with their eyes, then simultaneously looked up at

Edward. "Have you heard from my mother?" Nora asked her father.  "Has she

written you lately?"

Edward hemmed and hawed, shrinking away bit.  "Er, uh, no, Nora darling; I'm

afraid not...but, but do, do come sit, and meet Victoria!"

Oh, Christ, Vicki thought.  Victoria, the Eighth Wonder of The World!

Jamison zeroed in on Vicki with his ray gun eyes.  "Is she going to be staying

here?  With you?"

 Edward folded his arms.  "Now, Jamison, don't make me become impatient with

you. Miss Winters is very important to me; I love her a great deal, and I will

be marrying her very soon.  She will be a part of my life, and a part of yours.

Now you've only just woken up, and she's had a very long trip; please come

meet her and see if you can't make friends."

"We can't," Jamison snapped, and then added:"Have you sent Quentin away again?

I won't have it!"

"I have done no such thing," Edward exclaimed, suddenly finding himself on the

defensive, and hating it, and so he puffed up his cheeks and roared back:"I

will not be spoken to in that tone, young man!"

"Grandmama wants Quentin to stay and I do too!" Jamison spat.  "I don't care if

you hate him!  I want to see him and I want to see him now!  I'm not having tea

with you and *Victoria!*" With that, he tore out of Beth's grasp and up the

stairs, with Nora soon nipping at his heels.

Edward stomped after them, but instead settled for howling at them from the

foyer. "Jamison! Nora!  Come back here this instant!"

"I'll tend to them, Mr.  Edward," the put-upon Beth mumbled, and hurried up the

stairs.

"See that you do," Edward growled, and with a huff, headed back into the

drawing room, his face red, his chest heaving, and his moustache twitching.  To

Vicki, he looked like an impotent bull.

Edward suddenly realized who was there, and broke into sunny smiles again,

sweat on his brow. He opened his arms.  "Well!  Darling!"

Vicki shuddered.

*/*/*/*

 "But she's so normal," Jamison Collins grumbled to thin air, and a spectre only

he could see, as he kneeled on the floor in that dusty old West Wing storage

room.  "Everything about her; her face, her clothes -- she's not my mother.

She never will be." He had gone through three sets of reprimands ever since the

debacle that morning -- one prim one from Beth that he shook off, one stern one

from Judith that left him meek and slightly abashed, and one furious, raving,

spittle-flying rant from his father that he couldn't remember very much of

because he had been furious, raving, and spitting right back.  Jamison Collins

and his father had not gotten along very well since his mother left, and it was

only getting worse as the years ticked by.  After enduring all the reprimands

and a confinement to his room, Jamison had puttered around with books and his

old toys until late afternoon, where he heard that siren call in his mind, and

had been compelled to shake off the shackles of tyranny and head for the West

Wing.

"Poor Jamison," the face made of light and fire simpered, those burning diamond

eyes glimmering eldritch-style.  "Familial strife becomes you, I think.  You

have flush in your cheeks again. It would seem that you enjoy doing these

little chores I give you."

Jamison swallowed.  "You know I don't," he muttered.  "I do it because you make

me."

"Make you?"

"Yes."

"And how do I make you?"

"You just do," Jamison said, pouting.

"Is it a spell, then?" the woman made of magic asked teasingly.  Jamison felt

like he was her palm, waiting to be crushed.  "What is this magic I've placed

on you, Jamison darling?"

"You say things, and I do them!" Jamison snapped, irritated and flushed.  Then,

blurting:"It's your eyes.  It's in your eyes.  You know it.  You told me

yourself to look at them.  And I always do, a-and look -- here I am."

A smirk.  "Here you are," the ghost murmured.  "Just one more question,

Jamison."

"Yes?"

 "If I wanted to, I could make you my doll.  You would turn on and off when I

wished.  You would kill your sister in her sleep for me.  I could make you do

anything I wanted.  There would be no discussion, either; no banter, no

*bonhomie.*" She spat the last word out, like poison. "You would not prattle on

and on about your fool father's new woman.  You would not become impatient with

me.  You would not be sullen.  You would not be anything.  You would simply be

a vessel, waiting to be filled.  But you're not.  You can discuss.  You can

question.  You can speak. You can think.  I've allowed you that.  I didn't have

to make you a toy boy, Jamison, because somewhere, deep down, there is a kind

of consent between you and I -- somewhere inbetween you and me, I offered, and

you took."

A sublime smile.  "Why do you think that is, Jamison?"

Jamison felt like he was made of ice.  The blood was gone from his face.  "I

don't want to talk with you like this anymore," he stammered.  "Tell me what

you want to do, and I'll do it."

The eyes glittered, and there was a laugh made of broken china.  "Very well.

No more talk." She fixed Jamison with those cobra's eyes, and he felt a blessed

warmth return to his veins, a white-hot ether.  "Listen to me, Jamison.  Listen

very carefully.  It's almost time for you to break that door down..."

Jamison listened, and as the sun began dipping below the trees again in the

day's endless cycle, he understood.

*/*/*/*

It was almost evening when Edith Collins roused again, from that dead man's

sleep that threatened to no longer be figurative.  She was sure it had been her

time last night, when she had unburdened herself upon that awful grandson of

hers, so like her but so doomed, and now here she was again, damnably awake and

alive in this damned bed.  She smelled must and lace, and old tea. She

struggled to sit up, and peer out the nearby window, and saw only red hues of

sunset.

"That's right, Grandmama.  You slept this whole day."

Edith turned and saw him there, in Judith's easy chair -- Quentin, legs

crossed, mock-reading one of Edith's novels.  He stopped, then smiled at her,

perfect white teeth glittering like a rabid dog's maw.

Edith harrumphed.  "You again.  Aren't you satisfied?  I gave you the secret."

"You gave me a madwoman's joke," Quentin said through a clenched, smiling

mouth. "And it's all been very funny, Grandmama, but I'm afraid the ride has to

stop now."

Edith chuckled with a creaking noise in her breast, and shook her head.  "Fool

boy.  I gave you what you sought, and you will not take it.  You are the joke."

Quentin rose in a flash.  "I am NOT a joke!" he snarled, furious.  "That's for

Edward, Grandmama, or Judith; not you!  You know better!" His hands, curled

like claws, shook violently.  His eyes were red-rimmed and wild.  "Or at least,

you will...in Hell..."

"Do what you will," Edith croaked.  "You think I'm afraid to die?  You think

I'm afraid of you?  The only thing that frightens me anymore is the thought of

living long enough to see God get around to turning his eye onto me.  You're

the one that should be afraid, rejecting my hand now!  Do you have any IDEA

what comes next?  Death is not the end, Quentin.  You'll need a patron -- "

"And will it be you, Grandmama?" Quentin laughed spitefully.  "From beyond the

grave, in your lace and petticoats, cold and in dirt?" He kicked the side of

the bed.  "I won't spend the rest of my life as nothing!  I'm worth more than

the luck I've been given thus far!  You know it, I know it!" In a flash, his

hands had seized a spare pillow.  "Now tell me the secret, Grandmama, the REAL

secret, or so help me God I'll bring Him down upon you quicker than you could

scream -- "

Edith laughed, long, and loud, and grating -- nails on chalkboard.  Then,

gasping, heart rabbiting:"YOU would bring God down upon ME," she spat, voice a

thick death rattle.  "I was born to love fools." Then, hoarse, hiccuping:"i

see...an animal...in you."

Quentin Collins stood over his Grandmama, pillow in hand.  "You see me," he

said softly.

He brought the pillow to her face. 

TO BE CONTINUED ...

Dark Shadows: 2012

Since we don't really have a poster or a trailer yet (though one seems to be forthcoming in March, supposedly), here are the images from the 2012 Tim Burton/Johnny Depp endeavor that I've collected thus far:

Shadows on the Wall Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter 44: Thief of Hearts

by Midnite

"Thus fate knocks at the door." --Ludwig van Beethoven

 

(Alexandra Moltke) "Collinwood in the year 1897 … A young woman has escaped

into the past in an attempt to return the hope of a future to her loved ones.

But to do so, she must first change the lives of the people that exist in that

previous time … and she will soon learn that pain and turmoil are not strangers

to them either."

 Beth's eyes were widely opened flowers-- blue blooms with their dark centers

clenched to conceal the true feelings behind them.  "You shouldn't have come

back!" she railed. "When Mr. Edward finds out…"

"My brother can't do a damn thing about it," Quentin said while encircling the

foyer.  "Not this time."

"How can you be so sure?  No one is allowed to even speak about you in front of

him."

"I'm here at my Grandmama's invitation." His voice had grown louder.  "Now tell

me why YOU'RE still here?"

She averted her eyes.  "Miss Judith asked me to stay on."

"You traded a handmaid's job for aprons and sweat?"

"I'm happy here." She had turned away but could feel his breath on her neck.

"You're lying," he whispered.

 "It's true.  I'm paid very well, too."

"Now I know you're lying." He held on to her shoulders, spinning her until she

was facing him again.  "You stayed because of me, didn't you?"

"No," she whimpered.

He was caressing her now, and smiling-- always smiling.  "Ahhh, Beth.  It's

good to feel something besides the cold."

"Quentin!" a voice shouted from the landing.  "Take your hands off her!"

"Hello, dear sister," he called out, but it was her employee that Judith

addressed next. "Grandmama had an accident.  Please see to it immediately."

"Yes, ma'am," was the answer before they passed on the steps, a sleepy tear

adorning one of the young woman's eyes.

"And be sure to lock the door when you leave," Judith added.

"You can't keep me away from her!" Quentin snapped.  "She's my grandmother

too."

 "Wait," she said while leading him into the drawing room.  Once the doors were

secured behind her, she turned to find Quentin unstoppering the brandy.  "The

servants are always eavesdropping," she told his back.

"What makes you think they can't hear us in here?" he asked, and she knew that

he was right. "Why did you come back?" she asked.

"Because Grandmama wanted me to.  Didn't she tell you?"

"Of course.  We became very close while you were … away.  She's often confused.

I'm sure that's what happened."

"Then why don't we go upstairs right now and ask her?" He watched as she paced

back and forth. "Jamison begged me to come back too, you know.  Where IS my

nephew?"

"He and his sister went up to bed already."

"This early?"

"They said they were tired."

"And you believed them?"

"Quentin, leave the boy alone."

 

"So you can crush his spirit?"

"And what would he learn from you?" she snapped back.  "How to seek solace in

alcohol?"

"Call him down here, then.  We can ask him if he wants his Uncle to stay.  If

he says he doesn't want me here, then you have my word that I'll leave first

thing in the morning.  But if he says he wants me to stay…"

"You would take a chance like that?"

"Chance amuses me.  You know that." He circled the divan, taking in the room.

"Nothing has changed.  But nothing much ever changes around here, does it?"

Judith sat and folded her hands in her lap.  "Things have never been worse,

actually. Everyone is fighting everybody else, and no one dares admit how they

really feel, even to themselves.  But you've always been so different from the

rest of us.  You never pretended to put your family's needs above your own, and

you know exactly what you want and aren't afraid to go after it.  And then

there's the way you treat women…" He was staring, she noticed.  "Am I being too

blunt?"

"Like a sledgehammer."

They heard several knocks, and by the time Quentin had availed himself of

another drink, he heard his sister say, "What do you want, gypsy?"

"I come to give you something that belongs to you," the familiar voice said.

"That's a first," Quentin declared while approaching the two women.  "And who

is this?" he asked.

"Cute, eh?" Magda said as a she glanced back at the girl that was frozen in

place behind her. "She's Victoria Winters.  She had an accident and I think

she's not right in the head, but she has papers say she here to marry Mr.

Edward."

 

Judith frowned at the girl's attire and careless hairstyle.  And what was she

doing out without a proper coat?  "It's warmer in the drawer room," she told

her.  "Come with me."

Once out of their line of sight, the remaining pair embraced.  "Quentin!  I'm

surprised to see you here," Magda told him.

"I could say the same about you.  Are you still reading Grandmama's cards?"

"Not so much anymore.  The old lady gets weaker, and your sister grows

stronger."

Judith had returned.  "She's warming by the fire," she announced.  "Magda, you

have our family's gratitude." But the gypsy held out an empty palm.

"Very well," Judith said as she placed a coin in it.  And when the other woman

had left, she said, "As soon as Grandmama is gone, I'm going to see to it that

every last gypsy is forced off the property."

~*~

It's freezing in here, she told herself after entering her quarters.  The one

tiny, cracked window was glazed with ice, and it mirrored a heart that was

shattered and unreachable and frosted with pain. She collapsed onto the bed but

quickly pulled herself to sitting when a door swung open and Quentin ventured

inside.

"You shouldn't be in here!" she shouted up at him.

"It's my house," he said coolly.  "I can go wherever I want."

"It's your grandmother's house," she corrected while scurrying to her feet.

"And when she's gone, it'll be Edward's.  Everybody knows that." She was

standing too now, her chin jutting out in defiance.

"They're wrong, because I'm the one that'll be Master of Collinwood.  And I

always get what I want," he told her as he boldly stepped closer.  "Tonight

you're going to learn that."

His hands grasped her shoulders, and she felt a rush of feelings, swift and

flowing as water.  She struggled to hold her ground but was no match for his

strength, so he dragged her toward him easily.  She turned her face away from

his lips, causing them to press against her temple instead, and next she heard

herself say, "Let go of me or I'll scream.  I'll scream so loud that the whole

house will hear it." He released her at once and she noticed that he wasn't

even looking at her but was eyeing something behind her, and then he pushed her

completely aside.  "What's this?" he asked while reaching for an envelope on a

nearby dressing table.

"That's mine," she said quickly.  "Leave it alone."

He counted the bills inside it.  "There's $300 here.  What are you doing with

that kind of money?"

"I earned it.  Now give it back!" She tried grabbing for it but he dodged her

grasp.

"Then why is somebody else's name on the envelope?" he asked.  "It says

'Filmore'". He let out a chuckle and added, "It looks like Edward's writing.

Did you steal it from him?"

"I told you, it's mine.  It's my savings."

"Well I'm going to see about that," he said as he tucked it away under his

frock coat and then patted the spot.  "And I'll need to hang on to it in the

meantime."

 "No, Quentin, please!" she pleaded, and turned away to hide tear-filled eyes.

For so long her heart had been a frozen sea that only this one man had managed

to break through, yet since his return she had encountered only cruel

intentions and a cold smile.  She reached deep inside to find her courage and

told him, her voice crackling, "I want you to leave now and never bother me

again." She waited, a small part of her hoping to hear his voice raised in

protest, but was unaware that he was searching for a key ring and that as soon

as he spotted it, the keys were silently scooped up into the palm of one hand.

What she did notice was the sound of his boots exiting her room and becoming

fainter as they stepped further down the hallway.

~*~

Quentin greeted his friend with the usual formality reserved for all their

public encounters.  "Hello, Mr.  Hanley," the younger man said, to which the

other in the pointy beard replied, "Good evening, Mr.  Collins.  I didn't

realize you'd returned." Then the latter's voice dropped to a whisper. "How did

you pull off getting back into the house?"

"I'll explain later," Quentin told him.  "I planned to stop by your house."

"I'm expecting a few members around midnight," the lawyer told him while

unbuttoning a cashmere coat that Quentin eyed with envy.  "But for the time

being, I have an appointment with your sister and it may take a while."

"You're here to see Judith?  What about?"

"You won't believe this, but it's about your Grandmother's will."

"Grandmama's will?" he asked, his voice returning to normal.  "Why would you be

seeing her about that?"

"Shhh.  I'm here to negotiate a price to change it in her favor."

"To leave Judith all the money?  But of course you're not really going to go

through with it?" Quentin demanded.

"She told me that she's willing to make it worth my while.  Can you believe my

good luck?"

"Whatever she offers you, I'll double it."

"The problem with that very generous offer," Evan said reprovingly, "is that

Judith can pay me now and you cannot."

Quentin moved closer.  "But I'll give you everything I have, and I'll inherit

the rest when the old lady is dead.  I hear it won't be long now."

"But all of what you have amounts to nothing."

"That's not true.  I happen to have $300 on me right now," he said while

producing the fat envelope, "and you can have it all.  And there's more where

that came from."

"I see.  What did you do-- steal that money?"

"Evan, you can't treat an old friend like this."

"Well, 'old friend', I'm afraid that I also have to deal with a, shall we say?,

cash flow problem."

"Oh great.  Just how much do you need?"

"I have to get my hands on $5,000 very soon or I stand to lose my house and

everything in it."

"Ha!  I knew that younger wife of yours would get you into trouble.  I'm sure

we can put our talents to good use in solving both our problems.  I can

personally see to it that the old witch is dead by morning.  Then if you can

rush the will through probate…"

"I'm sorry, Quentin, but I can't help you.  Now if you'll excuse me, I'm

already late, and I can't afford to make your sister angry."

"We're not done talking about this!" he said too loudly.

"I'll see you at midnight.  And by the way, there's something else that we'll

need to discuss later.  It seems that someone broke into my house earlier."

At last, Quentin seemed concerned about the misfortune of his friend.  "Was

anything missing?" he asked.

"Only a few items that weren't of any consequence.  But it's not like I can

report it… Miss Collins!" he called out as Judith emerged from the drawing room

and again closed the doors behind her.  He stepped forward to meet her in the

center of the foyer and deposited his coat on the table nearby. "It's wonderful

to see you.  I hope you can forgive my tardiness."

"It's quite all right," she explained.  "We had some excitement that occupied

my time. Edward's fiancée arrived this evening from Boston.  She's in the

drawing room, so why don't we take our business into the study?  Please excuse

us," she told her brother, who stared at their backs until they disappeared

behind the door, his dreams vanishing with them.

~*~

"Hello, Quentin." The feminine voice startled him because he thought he was

alone.  "I forgot you were in here," he told her, adding, "I haven't-- we

haven't met before, have we?"

"Oh no.  Judith was just giving me a crash course on your family."

"I see.  And, um, what did she tell you about me?"

"That you are very charming," Vicki said, blushing a little.  "And I learned

you have a younger brother named Carl who is vacationing in New York."

 "You'll find that Carl is very different from the rest of the Collinses.  He's

the only one that isn't afraid to laugh.  Would you like some brandy?"

"Thank you, but I already had some."

"You should get all you can before Edward starts hiding the good stuff again,

which will undoubtedly happen as soon as he learns I'm back." He sat beside

her.  "You look a little overwhelmed.  But don't worry, because our family

affects people that way at first."

"I- I don't think your sister likes me very much."

"She's probably just being overprotective.  But I'm sure she'll come around.

Look at how quickly you're winning me over."

"Judith said you had just returned from a tour of Europe," she said, changing

the subject.  "It sounded very exciting."

"Have you ever been abroad, Victoria Winters?"

"No.  Until recently, I was never far from New York."

"I thought you were from Bost-..."

"I told you what I would do if you ever came back!" Edward Collins' face was

flushed and his sculpted moustache was twitching.

"But Grandmama wouldn't look favorably on anyone that hurt her favorite

grandson, now would she?"

"You are despicable!"

"But I've returned to ask for your absolution." Quentin dropped to his knees

and pretended to pray: "Forgive me, brother, for the sins I committed daily

against you."

"You are no brother of mine!  You are no better than a lump of dung that one

tries to shake off his shoes if he has the misfortune to step on it."

Quentin stood and began to applaud.  "You don't know how funny you are,

Edward."

"Even if I can't do anything to you now, it won't be long before I'll be in

charge, and then I'll make you regret that you ever returned!" he announced

before stomping away.  Quentin squeezed the glass he held so tightly that

shards rained from his hand.  "You can still get out while you can, Victoria."

"You've cut yourself," she said.  "Let me see it."

"It's nothing."

"No, it looks very deep.  You should get a doctor to look at it." She helped

him wrap the bloody mess in a handkerchief.  "It'll be fine," he assured her.

Yet Vicki thought about the z-shaped gash on his palm and how familiar it

seemed.  She once used a finger to trace the scar on her Quentin's hand, she

recalled, while they shared a blanket on the lawn behind Collinwood.  But both

men couldn't possibly have received identical injuries. Her memory must be

playing tricks on her.

~*~

The first key chosen turned easily in the lock.  Now he could enter the

fortress, but first paused in the doorway to peer into his Grandmother's world.

The room was much larger than the bed, with one side jam-packed with journals

and oversized books from floor to ceiling and a large window that afforded a

fine ocean view on the opposite wall.  He surmised that all of these were as

useless to her now as her own limbs.

She was looking at him now, and suddenly the frown faded and her mouth grew

wider. "Is that you, Quentin?"

"It is, Grandmama."

"Close the door and come give me a kiss," she told him, and he sensed it was an

order and not a request.

"Are you as sick as everybody says?" he asked while dragging a chair behind

him.

"Not so much as they're hoping.  Everyone in this house wants to bury me before

I'm dead," she said pitifully.  "I dare not nap for too long, or I might wake

to find them throwing dirt on me!"

He kissed her cheek perfunctorily and seated himself at her bedside.  "Judith

tried to keep me away from you, but Jamison wrote in his last letter that you

insisted on seeing me as soon as possible."

"Your sister and brothers are weak, but you've always been smarter and more

resilient than all of them put together." She waved a bony finger at him,

adding, "If not for the drinking and womanizing, there'd be no limit to how far

you could go."

"I traveled a long way to see you, so it better not have been just to hear one

of your lectures."

"Oh do be quiet and listen for a change.  Quentin, I've looked into death's

eyes before, but this time-- this time will be my last.  But before I can leave

this earth, I must pass on the secret to the family member I feel is the most

suitable, and I've decided that you're the only one worthy to hear it."

"You mean there's really a family secret?  I've heard talk of it since I was a

little boy," he babbled excitedly, "and now I find out that it's not only true,

but you're going to tell it to ME.  I've been asking that my luck would change,

and I knew it would happen eventually.  Oh yes, I KNEW it would!"

"No, Quentin," she warned.  "Don't think of this as luck, or that it's the

result of your dabbling.  And haven't I told you to watch out for wishes?  Only

an amateur would waste a talent like yours on such foolishness."

"The secret, dammit.  Tell me the secret!"

"Very well, but my death isn't so imminent, you know.  The secret is really the

family curse," she explained.  "It's a burden that one family member in each

generation must take on." Overcome by a sudden spurt of coughing, she gestured

toward the water glass resting on her nightstand.

"What are you talking about?" he boomed.  "The secret will give me power,

right?  And I won't have to answer to anyone ever again."

"Water," she choked out.  He absently brought the glass over and met her mouth

with it, and she sipped a scant amount before pushing it away.  "Not power,"

she squeaked.  "The secret, if it got out, would bring death to everyone at

Collinwood.  Tonight, the fate of all future generations of Collinses will come

to rest on your shoulders."

He slammed the glass down and snatched up a bottle of red liquid.  "What's in

this medicine they're giving you, anyway?"

"My body may be worn out, but my mind isn't addled.  Now take care to not

interrupt again." Her emotions caused her to struggle for air between phrases,

not that he noticed.  "In the family crypt … on Eagle's Hill … there is a rear

chamber … that was carved into the rock … over a hundred years ago.  That room

… contains only a coffin … secured with chains and nails.  Entombed there … is

your ancestor … Barnabas Collins … who was reported to have sailed … to England

in 1796.  But the family records … are incorrect … since in truth … he lies

there in a cursed state … for he is now one of the living dead.  And you … you

must see to it … that he is never released … or that single act … would mean

the ruin … of us all!"

TO BE CONTINUED...