Shadows on the Wall, Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter 58:  The Unmasking

By NancyBe

Voiceover (Jonathan Frid): As night continues its unending reign over

Collinwood, those who dwell within its troubled halls learn that danger hides

behind the most innocent of faces.  And as masks fall away from those faces,

the Collins family may learn that the truth is more dangerous than the lies.

 

“Masquerade! Paper faces on parade... Masquerade! Hide your face so the world

will never find you!

Masquerade! Every face a different shade... Masquerade! Look around- There's

another mask behind you!”

(All excerpts in this chapter are from Masquerade from Phantom of the Opera.

Music: Andrew Lloyd Webber Lyrics: Charles Hart Additional Lyrics: Richard

Stillgoe)

Edward felt the heat before the vicious silver blade could pierce his skin, the

searing heat scorching him through the fabric of his nightclothes.  He bolted

upright in his bed, roaring in pain.

Her intended victim’s sudden movement startled Beth, and she jumped back from

the bed dropping the deadly knife she had held so tightly.  The weapon fell to

the floor with a clatter.  The murderous rage that had burned within her

drained from her veins as if from an open wound, and she stood dumbly staring

at the man she had intended to splay open with one savage, inhuman thrust of a

knife.

Beth watched as the vaguely panicked Edward Collins tried to make sense of what

was happening to him.  His eyes fought to adjust to the dimly fire lit room as

his hands tore open his clothing to inspect the simmering wound on his chest.

His aristocratic nostrils flared at the stench that greeted them from the

burned flesh.  In the midst of his bewildered and painful explorations, he

became aware that he was not alone in his room.  His vision clearing, he looked

up to see Beth (*Why in hell would Beth be standing over his bed?*), her face

shocked and her gaze skittering from him to the floor and back again.  She held

her right hand out at an odd angle, and he was briefly aware that there was

something terribly * wrong * with it.

Disoriented and in pain, the normally sputtering Edward Collins was rendered

momentarily speechless.  He watched Beth’s eyes drift once more to the floor

and followed their direction.  His mouth dropped open as he saw what he had

distantly heard falling to the floor: a long knife with a yellowing bone

handle.  And with a blade that glowed red.

Collins looked back to the paralyzed Beth, searching for an explanation, any

explanation, that made sense of this surreal situation.  And it was then that

he saw just *what* was wrong with the young woman’s hand – the outline of the

knife’s handle was burned into her palm.

An absurd understanding rushed through him: Beth had been trying to stab him,

to kill him!  His mind struggled to wrap itself around that thought.  Was the

woman mad?

Edward had never *scrambled* anywhere in his life, but at this moment, he did

indeed scramble out of his bed.  Throwing back the bedcovers and eschewing his

lifetime credos of propriety, formality and modesty, he stood before Beth in

nothing but his nightclothes and bellowed her name.

“Beth!  My God, woman, what were you trying to do?  Have you lost your mind?”

The dazed woman gave him no answer, and he reached out to shake the truth from

her. But no sooner had he touched her shoulders than he snatched back his hands

because of the intense heat that radiated from her.

Edward’s touch seemed to galvanize her, and focus and animation flowed back

into her features.  Collins watched in horror as the maid’s innocent face

immediately began to *melt*, peeling off like a mask and reminding him of midnight

unmaskings at a masquerade ball.  When the visage behind the mask became clear, the

terrified man stumbled backward, his mind unwilling to process the sight before him.

“You!” he screamed as he tripped and landed hard against the floor.

For beneath the mask was the twisted and infuriated face of the one woman he

had convinced himself was gone forever – his wife.

*~*~*

“Flash of mauve... Splash of puce... Fool and king... Ghoul and goose... Green

and black... Queen and priest... Trace of rouge... Face of beast...”

The creatures of the night trilled and screeched, chirped and howled.  Only

Barnabas Collins, who was one with these creatures of the night, seemed to be

silent as he glided through the dark woods on feet that did not even whisper of

his passage.

He had no specific destination; he walked the night in an effort to think, to

not give in to his growing panic.  There were so many threats and problems

facing the current Collins family – it seemed such was ever so - and he was

unsure what to do to save his family in the future.  He and Victoria, strong

allies though they were, had been unable to solve the puzzle of the past, and

his frustration and fear were rapidly mounting.

Attempting to swallow his anxiety, Barnabas tried to concentrate on strategies

that had helped calm and focus him in the past.  And it was then that he truly

realized that the only thing, the only *one*, who had ever been able to calm

and soothe him in these situations was Julia.  She had always been the voice of

reason for him.  She had always been there to save him from others – and

sometimes from himself.  He had lived long enough (and been reminded by Julia

often enough) to realize that he had a tendency to act rashly and to make poor

decisions during times of stress.  But Julia had not survived to make this trip

to the past with him, and consequently, he felt lost.

He stopped and lowered his weary head, cradling his forehead in one large hand.

How he missed Julia now and her wise words of advice and guidance.  How he

missed the reassuring touch of her strong, slender hand on his arm.  How he

missed –

“Barnabas.”

-the sound of her husky voice.

“Barnabas.”

The voice was real.  But all the other sounds of the night had gone silent.

He raised his head, startled that someone had found and recognized him out here

at this hour of the night.  But instead of a living being, his surprised eyes

were met by a circle of white light in the clearing before him.  The brightness

of the vision dimmed to a milky glow as it swirled and coalesced until it

formed itself into the figure of a woman.  She was very faint, but he had no

doubt that she was also very real.

“Julia?  Julia, is it really you?” Barnabas called out excitedly.

“Yes, Barnabas, I am here.  You were thinking of me.”

“Oh, Julia,” he exclaimed, moving toward her.  “I am lost here without you.  I

need your help!  Victoria and I have not found the means to save the family….”

“I know that, Barnabas.  I tried before to warn you.  It has taken…much for me

to come to you again.  You must listen carefully.  I can only tell you so

much.” Her voice was calm, as he needed it to be, but it also held a note of

urgency that could not help but alarm him.

“What do you know, Julia?  I am desperate.”

“The threat to your family, the great evil, has arrived, Barnabas.  But he is

not who he says he is.  The evil one wears a mask, the mask of a friend.”

The vampire's icy blood ran even colder through his veins at her words.

“Julia, can you tell me who it is?  I must know!”

“You must unmask him, Barnabas.  Expose him for who and what he really is.”

“But Julia, how will I know who he is?”

“Go to the gypsy, Barnabas.  She can tell you.  She knows the one of whom I

speak.”

Julia’s image faded for a moment like a candle flickering out in a wind, and

Barnabas wanted to rush forward and hold her there with him.  He had been

right; just her presence and her calm had eased his mind.  But before even his

inhuman reflexes could react, she had reappeared.  She seemed much brighter for

a moment, but he could tell from her voice and her facial expression that the

effort to return to him was a struggle for her.

“He must not be allowed to go forward, Barnabas.  If you do not stop him, there

is no hope for your family.  * No hope.* I must go now….”

A hole seemed to open where Julia stood, and her vision was abruptly swallowed

as the hole closed in on itself with a tiny *pop*.  He was once again alone,

one of the creatures of the night.  But his close friend had provided him with

an important clue and with an avenue from which to start: the gypsy Magda.  And

somehow, Barnabas Collins instinctively knew that if he failed to unmask this

“evil one”, if this evil was allowed to go forward, his friend would never

appear to him again.  He would never see Julia Hoffman again.

Barnabas quickly turned in the direction of the Old House, his nocturnal

companions once more resuming their symphony in the night.

*~*~*

“Faces ... Take your turn, take a ride On the merry-go-round... In an inhuman

race... Eye of gold... Thigh of blue... True is false... Who is who? Curl of

lip... Swirl of gown... Ace of hearts... Face of clown...”

Barnabas Collins burst into the home he had known in the 18th century, then in

the 20th century and now in the 19th century as well.

“Magda!” The name reverberated off the thick walls of the mansion.  In reply,

he heard a crash and a half-sob, half-whimper emanate from the drawing room.

He rounded the corner and found the shaken and trembling gypsy woman staring

down at a table covered with colorful cards.  Barnabas recognized the Tarot but

noted that instead of being laid out in neat rows, the cards were askew with

several having fallen to the floor.  A chair lay on its side next to the table,

and he deduced that Magda had knocked it over herself in her panic to distance

herself from the cards and from whatever news they had revealed to her.

She looked over at him, and he was shocked that her copper complexion had faded

to a pale gray.  She held out one shaking finger and pointed to the cards.  Her

dark eyes reflected the candlelight making her look even more exotic, and they

looked wildly from his face to the table and back again.  It seemed an eternity

before her breathing calmed enough for her to find her voice again.

“*He* is here!  He is cloaked as a friend, but he wants Collinwood bathed in

the blood of your family!” she screamed at him hysterically, and her words, so

similar to those of Julia’s, chilled him.

“Magda, what are you talking about?  *Who* are you talking about?  What has

happened here tonight?”

The gypsy made a visible effort to compose herself before continuing.  “I had a

nightmare that *he* was coming, that he was coming to find the Hand!  I tried

to tell him that I don’t know where that thing is, but he don’t believe me.  He

*touched* me,” she stopped and shivered in revulsion.  “It was horrible….”

“Magda, I don’t understand.  Who is this man?  And what does he want?”

“I’m tryin’ to tell you,” she spat impatiently, sounding more like herself.

“After, the dream, I couldn’t sleep no more so I come down here to see what the

cards tell me.  And *this* is what I found.” She pointed to the table again,

but Barnabas could only look at her in confusion.

“Stupid gadje,” she muttered under her breath.  “The Moon!  And it is next to

the King!” She looked at him expectantly, but he continued to stare at her

blankly.  She swore a few more choice words in her own language and explained

it to him as if he was a child.  “The Moon – it means hidden danger, deception,

bad luck.  It fell next to the King – an older man.  It means he is here,

Barnabas!  He hides behind a mask, but he is an imposter.  He has come to

reclaim the Hand, and if he finds it, all is lost!”

Julia’s words.  Julia’s words coming from this gypsy who often reminded him of

his doctor friend.  (That is, if Julia had donned a black wig and garish

clothes, and spoke in a thick accent with poor grammar.) Julia had been right:

Magda * did * know the one he needed to unmask, the one who must not *go

forward*.  And now, finally, Barnabas Collins would know this man’s name.

“Who is he, Magda?” he demanded.  “Who wants to destroy my family?”

“Have you no brain, Barnabas Collins?” she scoffed.  “Do you not know who seeks

the Hand?  I do not know what he calls himself now, but the one you seek, the

one who has come, is Count Petofi!”

*~*~*

“Faces... Drink it in, drink it up, 'Til you've drowned In the light, In the

sound... But who can name the face?

Masquerade! Grinning yellows, Spinning reds... Masquerade! Take your fill ... Let

the spectacle astound you!”

Edith Collins would have stamped her feet if she had had feet.  She would have

screamed at the top of her lungs if she had had a mouth.  She would have thrown

heavy objects across the room if she had had arms.

But she no longer had any of these things – not her own nor the use of anyone

else’s. She no longer wore anyone’s mask.  Edith Collins was physically

non-existent; she was spatially nowhere.  She was nothing more than her

thoughts, her will, and this frightened her.  Badly.  And she hated to be

frightened; it infuriated her.

Oh, how she wished she could at least scream!

How had her plans gone so awry?  She had thought that inhabiting Shaw’s body

would be so liberating; it was ostensibly a man’s world after all.  She had

thought she was so clever.  There was no way she could have known about that

bitch Miranda or that idiot Charity Trask or that the male body she had coveted

would become a loathsome slave drained of blood.  There was no way she could

have known that once that twit of a governess succeeded in making Shaw one of

the Undead that she, the powerful Edith Collins, would become, well, * homeless

*.

She could see that she was still in the decrepit room where Tim Shaw had died a

most ignominious death.  And there was now a rough hewn coffin in the center of

the room, stuffed to overflowing with Charity and her soon-to-be vampire lover

whom she had pulled on top of her when dawn came in a parody of the human sex

act.  Edith could sense that the two of them would rise soon, all fangs and

bloodlust, all snarling and growling.  If she had had a nose, she would have

crinkled it in disdain: the nouveau Undead were just as distasteful as the

nouveau riche.

She ached to butcher them much as she ached to savor the aroma of Miranda’s

skin burning and bubbling like bacon in a fry pan.  The only problem was, she

had no idea how to leave this foul room.  She had no idea how to regain the use

of a body.  She was as trapped as any silly fly enticed into a devious spider’s

sticky parlor.

She briefly considered the fact that she might actually be dead.  If so, was

this Heaven? She would have cackled at that thought had she been able.  She had

known long ago that there would be no Pearly Gates in *her* destiny.

Could this perhaps be Hell?  If Hell meant frustration, powerlessness and rage,

that was indeed where she found herself.  But she was determined not to

languish in *this* Hell alone.  She was determined that Miranda was going to

join her in Hell.  No one got the better of Edith Collins.

She would find a way.  She always did.  No matter the cost.

“Masquerade! Seething shadows, Breathing lies... Masquerade! You can fool any

friend Who ever knew you!

Masquerade! Leering satyrs, peering eyes... Masquerade! Run and hide- But a

face will still pursue you!” 

 

To Be Continued ...