Shadows on the Wall Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter 53 - Red in the Morning

By Nancybe

Voiceover (Grayson Hall): As a new day reluctantly dawns on Collinwood, the

dark clouds gathering on the horizon hold the promise of a stormy day. And as

the residents of Collinwood will discover, the storms will extend far beyond

the wind and rain that will soon batter the walls of the cursed mansions in

which they live.

There was no escape from the raging wall of flames that engulfed her, and

Miranda felt her skin begin to melt like tallow. She screamed in agony and in

rage that she had been bested by Trask, an ancient and until now weak enemy.

And now she was going to be sent back to her Master in shame and defeat just

when all of her plans had been coming to fruition….

Miranda closed her eyes, resigned to her fate. Laura Collins had been quite

right two centuries before – fire was her deadliest foe, and with her tongue

stilled by the maddeningly powerful Reverend Trask (did the man have a * first

* name? she wondered absurdly), she could not call on the Powers of Darkness to

save her. The scent of roasting meat swelled in her nostrils. * That’s me *,

she realized with sickening dread, *roasting just like a pig on a spit.* There

were definite disadvantages to taking on human form, but of course, it was too

late to worry about that.

Just when she felt she could endure the heat, the brilliance, the stench no

more, Miranda felt the fire abruptly lose a vast degree of its intensity. She

opened her wide gray eyes and gasped in surprise. Another ghostly figure had

appeared in the room, and the Trasks’ attention had been diverted to this new

arrival.

“Reverend Trask, we meet again.” The voice was surprisingly strong and bore a

thick English accent. It belonged to a tall young woman with auburn hair who

punctuated her statement with an ironic curtsy. Her wholesome looks were marred

only by the whiteness of her face and the dark purple bruises that ringed the

ivory skin of her delicate neck – and by the rough hewn noose that she wore

around her neck like a necklace.

Miranda watched as fear blossomed on the doubled face of the Trasks before her,

and he/they recoiled from the ghoulish woman in shock. At the same time, the

fiery prison that had encased her had dwindled further, and the heat of its

flames was growing colder.

“Who are you, girl? What business have you here?” he/they demanded.

“Ah, did you ‘ang so many as witches that you no longer remember all of our

names, ye bastard? Felicity Higgins, maid to the Spencer’s, at your service

*sir*.” The ghost’s sarcastic smile curled into a sneer of hatred. “You picked

me out to be your sacrificial lamb in Derry, ye did! And me no more than a few

months off the boat. I was innocent, but you ‘anged me just the same!”

“I did not destroy any who did not warrant destruction, only those who had sold

their wretched souls to the devil!” The tone was self-righteous, but it was

laced with underlying fear.

“Liar!” the woman screamed as she advanced on the self-proclaimed Right Hand of

God. “Liar, liar, liar,” she intoned in an endless chant.

There seemed to be only one Trask now, the Trask that Felicity Higgins sought,

and he retreated from her with terror stamped on his face. “If you are not a

witch, then you have no power over me! Be gone, wench!” he screamed.

“'Tis true that I ‘ave not the powers of a witch because I am not one nor ‘ave

I ever been one, ye charlatan. But I do ‘ave the powers of the unjustly

accused. As you said to this lovey ‘ere,” she said indicating Miranda, “ ‘I

‘ave grown powerful over the years.’ I ‘ave waited a long time for vengeance,

Reverend Trask!” This last was said in almost a growl that came from low in her

throat.

Extending a spectral hand toward him, the girl began her own incantation. “I

call on all that is Right and Just and ‘oly. I call on all who weep for those

who have died in vain. Send this man to his due *reward*!”

Trask screamed as tendrils of acrid black smoke responded to her command,

rising from the floor and twining around his legs like snakes climbing one atop

the other. The smoke thickened and continued to envelop him until all that was

visible was the cruel peak of black hair that adorned his forehead. His

terrified shrieks echoed hollowly off the walls for a long moment after his

form had vanished along with the carnivorous smoke.

It took a minute for Miranda to realize that she was alone in the room – no

Trasks, no servant girl – and no longer any fire. Putting her hands on her

shapely hips, she began to peel her distinctively shrill laughter. How ironic

it all was – saved from a Trask by an innocent girl who had called upon the

Powers of Light, of all things. She rocked back and forth on the balls of her

feet, filling the tiny chamber with a sound that threatened to shatter the

glass of the dingy mirror that hung above the scarred dresser.

Oh yes, it had been a very satisfactory day indeed.

Miranda glanced out of the room’s tiny window and noticed that dawn had begun

to bloom in shades of pink and scarlet.

“Red in the morning…” she whispered absently.

*******

“Red at night, sailor’s delight.

Red in the morning, sailor take warning.”

The familiar rhyme echoed unbidden through her head. Sleep had not come easily

to Beth Chavez the night before – worry for Quentin and the discomfort of her

beating from Jenny had limited her to just a few uneasy hours of slumber. She

turned her head wearily to watch as daylight began to serenade the sky with

streaks of pink and rose.

And the little rhyme she had just recited always seemed to prove true, too.

“Red in the morning.” It was going to be a stormy day, and from the dread that

lay like a rock in the pit of her stomach, Beth felt that storms were going to

extend beyond just the weather. She had a bad feeling about this day as she

watched the dawn deepen into hues of fuchsia and crimson, the horizon now a

cascade of vermilion.

Beth dressed quickly in the damp and chilly cubicle that passed for her bedroom

and headed to Quentin’s room. She was drawn there as a moth to a flame. Perhaps

she could find a clue as to his whereabouts. And if nothing else, she felt

closer to him there.

Her heart leapt as she noticed that the door to his room was slightly ajar. She

tentatively pushed it open, softly calling out his name.

“Quentin?”

No answer.

The light inside was dim, but the now scarlet sunrise bathed the room in a red

glow almost as if a thin sheen of blood covered everything. The first thing

that hit Beth was the smell – an animal smell, wild and untamed and dirty like

a wet dog. And there was also another underlying smell, something thick and

fetid and heavy as if the red dawn had not only painted the room in blood but

had also given off the * scent * of blood.

Her eyes began to adjust to the gloom, and Beth finally understood that the

room was in complete disarray. It looked like a wild animal had been let loose

in there. The bedding was ripped and torn from the bed, strewn about other

furnishings. Curtains hung in strips on their rods, tables had been tipped

over, and lamps lay in jagged pieces on the floor.

The floor.

Huddled on the floor was a shape, somehow human and inhuman at the same time.

Beth moved closer to it, slowly marking each step.

“Quentin?” she asked again.

The figure on the floor answered her question, but not in the way she had

expected. For instead of a word or even a moan, Beth heard a *whine*.

A whine. Like the noise an animal might make.

The lady’s maid felt the hair at the base of her neck prickle and a queer

sensation almost like that of an electrical shock travel through her body. She

was nearly paralyzed with fear, and she realized after a moment that she had

been tightly holding her breath. Summoning all of her courage, she moved

another step closer to the figure (animal) on the floor.

What she saw caused her to jam two white-knuckled fists into her gaping mouth.

A scream rose and then died in her throat. For what lay on Quentin’s floor was

a * beast *.

A beast whose thick animal smell filled her nose and throat and made her

stomach roil. A beast whose long snout and coarse hair was matted with streaks

and clumps of drying blood, the color of which was deepened by the reddish glow

in the room. A beast that wore the torn remains of human clothing. And Beth

thought she recognized the ripped and tattered shirt from which huge hairy paws

emerged.

For a quick moment, she was convinced that this animal had devoured Quentin.

And in a way, she was right.

Her first instinct was flight, pure instinctive, self-preserving flight. But

she had to know for sure if this…this creature (animal, beast…wolf?) had killed

Quentin. As deadly as it obviously was, it also looked hurt, and Beth dared to

move even closer to it although her shoes now seemed to be made of lead. What

she now saw made her blink her eyes once, twice, three times – for where there

had been paws just a moment before (she would have sworn that on a thousand

Bibles) there were now hands. And the matted fur was now fading, slowly,

slowly, more, more, leaving human skin in its stead. The clothing, though still

ripped to shreds, no longer strained to contain a body too big and too thick

for its size.

Beth’s amazed eyes swept the *beast* from head to toe.

And the beast was now Quentin Collins.

*******

Barnabas closed the heavy coffin lid over his head with a sigh. He had delayed

his “rest” as long as possible, and the image of the first red light of dawn

was still imprinted on his eyes.

“Storms,” the sailor in him thought absentmindedly. “The day will bring

storms.”

He let himself drift off, but he had so much on his mind that he began to dream

immediately. Visions began to float through his subconscious – images of

Elizabeth/Judith, Roger/Edward, Carolyn/Charity, David/Jamison. Quentin. And of

course, Victoria. His family in this century; his family in the century to

come.

The images whirled and merged until one face emerged from the swirling mist:

Julia.

The twentieth century woman stepped forward, and now he could see her clearly.

“Barnabas, you must listen to me.”

He hadn’t seen her since that day at Stokes’ cottage. It seemed a century ago

when in reality, it was still almost a century in the future. His memory of her

had begun to dim a little, and he assumed that was because, in truth, she had

not even been born yet. But his memory of their strong bond had not faltered,

and her appearance, even if only in his dreams, was a comfort to him. That was

until he saw the very grave expression on her face. It was Julia’s “all

business” face, and it sent ripples of alarm through his mind.

“What is it, Julia? What’s wrong?” The questions resonated in his head. Hadn’t

he asked her these same things before? More than once?

“There is a great evil coming, Barnabas, a great evil that will result in

terror for your family. There will be much blood, so much blood. You must stand

watch and be ready for it to appear. And you must fight.”

Barnabas’ heart would have stilled in his chest had it been a living, beating

organ. “Julia, you must tell me more!” he demanded desperately.

But the redheaded doctor’s image had already begun to be swallowed in the

thickening gray haze. Her voice, fainter now, only repeated her doomsday

message. “So much blood. Stand watch, Barnabas. Stand watch.”

“Julia!” he bellowed uselessly. His dear friend was already gone, replaced once

again by the faces of his family – faces that were now tinted red.

His family in this century; his family in the century to come. His family –

always poised at the dawn of a new century, always covered in a veil of blood.

It seemed that the day would indeed bring storms.

“Red in the morning,” he thought he heard a woman say.

*******

“Ow!” Quentin Collins yelped, batting away the hand that dabbed cool water on

his face. He now lay sprawled in a chair in his room, his long legs splayed out

in front of him.

“Quentin, I’m sorry,” Beth said in a tremulous voice. “Your face is scratched;

I need to clean up the blood.” But it was all too clear to Beth Chavez that

most of the blood on Quentin’s face was not his own. She repressed a shudder

and pushed the thought quickly away.

“And you know *why* I’m covered in blood!” he shouted, jumping violently to his

feet and turning his back to her. “You saw what I was, Beth – the monster I

changed into last night! I don’t even know what happened to me, where I went,

what I did-”

“Quentin, I’m sure you didn’t do anything-”

He whirled back to face her, throwing off the gentle hand she had laid on his

shoulder. “You don’t know that! And you don’t know …the things I see in my

head… the memories of last night.” His eyes blazed at her, wild with fear but

full of incredible sadness as well. “Beth, oh *God*, Beth,” he moaned, sinking

back heavily into the chair. “The things I see…the moon burning red above the

trees, the howl of dogs...a girl torn apart, an arm here, a leg there, her body

nothing but a pile of rags. And blood, I smell blood, Beth, and it’s on *me*.”

He buried his dark head in shaking hands and sobbed pitifully and utterly

without hope. The sound made Beth’s blood run cold with fear.

“Quentin.” Her voice was tender as she fell to her knees in front of him and

pulled his hands from his tear-stained face. “It was all just a dream. I’m sure

it was.”

“How can you say that?” he shrieked at her. “ You *saw* me. I was…I don’t know

what…a beast, an animal. It was Magda. *She* did it to me.” He paused and added

in a miserable voice, “No, *I* did it to me.”

“What are you talking about? What did Magda do to you?”

Quentin once more rose from the chair and began pacing the disheveled room.

“What happened to me after Jenny ki-… stabbed me is a long story. But once I

was back here, that crazy gypsy came to me, determined to avenge Jenny’s death.

She put a * curse * on me, Beth!”

Beth Chavez had spent enough time caring for a young gypsy woman to be alarmed

when the word “curse” was spoken. She hurried to Quentin and squeezed his arms

forcefully enough to elicit a wince from him. “A curse? Quentin, exactly what

did she say? Can you remember?” she demanded as she anxiously looked up into

his intensely blue eyes.

“Her words are seared into my brain, Beth. I will never forget them. ‘The demon

inside of you I have brought to the surface; the demon inside of you I have

given form and substance; the demon inside of you will infect them all, all

your first born sons. As I will it, so shall it be. For all eternity.’ Quite a

fate, isn’t it?” he laughed, but there no humor in the sound. “Well, at least

I’ve robbed the old witch of some satisfaction. I *have* no sons to *infect*.

And I'll see to it that I never do-”

He broke off when he saw the look on Beth’s face. Her skin had gone beyond pale

and with her hand at her throat, she was a parody of a woman gasping for air.

“Beth?” Quentin yelled at her in alarm. “Beth, what in hell is wrong?!”

“Quentin,” she finally managed to utter with a trembling sob. “Oh, God, Quentin

– you do…Miss Judith took them from her…She’d gone mad by then, and you were

gone and-”

The handsome Collins grabbed hold of the nearly hysterical woman and shook her,

a horrified understanding beginning to dawn on his battered face. He remembered

Beth saying something to Jenny that he hadn’t understood at the time: *They’re

crying, Jenny. They need you.*

“Beth, what are you saying? Judith took who?” He shook her until her teeth

rattled in her head. “Judith took *who*?”

“Oh, Quentin, Jenny had twins while you were away! And one of them was a * boy

*!”

Quentin Collins, the man with the beast within, collapsed to the littered

floor, tearing at his thick hair and howling his grief. His tortured cries,

however, were almost drowned out by the sheets of driving rain that now began

to beat against the weathered walls of Collinwood. The storm had begun.

Red in the morning. 

TO BE CONTINUED ...