Tuesday, September 4, 2012

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 ...

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