Shadows on the Wall Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter 68:  Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered

by Nancybe

“I'm wild again, beguiled again A simpering, whimpering child again Bewitched,

bothered and bewildered - am I”

(Lyrics by Lorenz Hart, music by Richard Rodgers)

Voiceover (Thayer David): As always, Collinwood is an estate on which nothing

is what it seems to be.  Those who dwell here are finding that they and the

ones they love are either bewitched or bewildered by the seemingly

uncontrollable forces that rule their lives. 

 

No one had heard him lumber up the stairs or call out their names or break into

a trot as the panic set in.  But Quentin Collins had heard *them*.  Oh yes, he

had heard them: Carolyn’s nails-on-chalkboard screams, Julia’s hoarse shouts,

Roger’s rumbling moans, “Dear God, DEAR GOD,” over and over and over again. 

But it was the roar that had issued from his beloved’s mouth that had given

flight to his feet, that had resulted in his skidded stop before his blonde

cousin’s bedroom door.  He had immediately recognized *her* voice on some

primal level although how that …sound… could have been made by Vicki, he did

not know.  It had sounded as if Niagara Falls had suddenly begun to flow

through the second floor of Collinwood.  It was the most unique – and

terrifying – thing he had ever heard.  For not only did it embody such inhuman

fury and rage, it seemed to conjure an actual image in his head as well, an

image of polished ebony, of corridor after corridor of smooth shiny black walls

that led to a shadowed room that both absorbed and echoed the sound. 

And it was a sound with an odor, the smell of sulfur - rank, nauseating sulfur

that made his stomach quiver in disgust.  And didn’t it have a taste as well?

A bitterness that burned on the back of his tongue as if he had chewed on the

bark of a fallen tree that lay rotting malevolently on the floor of

Collinwood’s ancient woods? 

A sound that had a look, a smell and a taste?  *I must be losing my mind.  But

if this is all my imagination, why am I so afraid to see what’s behind Door

Number Three?*

Deciding to forego rational thought, Quentin reached out and wrenched open the

bedroom door.  A wave of tremendous heat that stunk of human vomit and burning

electrical wires pushed out at him like a pulsating wall, and he found himself

holding his breath against the stench.  Suddenly unwilling to cross the

threshold, he surveyed the room from where he stood, but the scene made little

sense:

Julia was hovering over Carolyn who lay curled in a fetal position on the bed.

The doctor was cooing to her as she adeptly slipped a needle into an arm with

skin as pale as cream. 

Roger stood hunched and quivering in a corner like a whimpering child, his eyes

shut tightly against the world. 

And then there was Victoria, Victoria who stood with her back to him in a

ramrod posture that would have made Henry Higgins proud. 

No one noticed Quentin until he finally found his voice and began to stammer

her name, “Uhh…Vi…Vicki?”

She turned to face him slowly, slowly, and for a split second, he would have

sworn that her eyes were the same shiny black he had “seen” when he had heard

that “sound” come from her.  But when he looked again, all he saw were

*Vicki’s* eyes, the wide, soft chocolate eyes that he loved to lose himself in.

A wisp of smoke curled around her hand for a moment before dissipating (*But

no one in here has a cigarette,* wandered vaguely through Quentin’s mind), and

she finally spoke. 

“Quentin?” She exhaled slowly like a balloon losing air before beginning to

collapse.  Only Quentin’s long strides and long arms kept her from crashing to

the floor. 

“What the hell happened in here?” he demanded as he held her against him. 

Julia, the only other person in the room currently capable of speech, looked

over her shoulder at him and answered in the calm monotone that only a

Collinwood veteran would be able to muster.  “Carolyn was possessed.  She was

about to kill Roger.  Vicki had to use her…powers…to drive the spirit out.

She’s exhausted.  Why don’t you take her down to the drawing room and get her a

drink.  In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a little busy with Carolyn at the

moment, and then I have to see to Roger,” she finished, with an incline of her

head toward the nearly catatonic man in the corner. 

His sarcastic, “Yes, m’am,” in response to her commanding tone earned him a

scowl from the doctor before she turned back to her patient. 

*~*

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked gently as he handed her a snifter

filled with a generous amount of brandy. 

Vicki shook her head before downing a healthy gulp of the liquor, an action

that made Quentin widen his blue eyes in surprise.  Vicki didn’t notice. 

“There isn’t much to tell.”

He sat next to her on the divan and gently took possession of her hand.  He had

expected it to be cold, even clammy, but it was surprisingly warm.  “Uh, from

what I saw – and heard - up there, well, it sounded like a hell of a lot

happened.”

“Not really.  When I walked into Carolyn’s room, she – Danielle, that is – was

about to turn Roger into shish kebob,” she answered with a sickly grin.  “Well,

I didn’t really have a choice.  I had to …stop her.”

“But…how *exactly* did you *do* that?”

“I just kind of ordered Danielle to leave.  You know, like when Jesus would

cast the demons out of people in the Bible?” She stopped and gave him a

sheepish look.  “I’m sorry, Quentin, I didn’t mean to compare myself to a

deity.” *Or did I?*

Her description of what she had done to Danielle was pure fabrication, but she

couldn’t tell him what had really happened; he would think she was a monster.

She wasn’t so sure she *wasn’t* a monster.  No, she couldn’t tell.  And she

didn’t even *want* to tell him, to share it with him. 

In truth, she wanted to hug it to herself like a child would hug a favorite

blanket in the night.  She wanted to replay it in her own mind like a special

memory, a first kiss perhaps.  Or a first kill…. 

She hadn’t planned what she would do to Danielle; she hadn’t even had time to

think about it.  But when confronted with the body snatcher, an instinct that

she hadn’t even known she possessed had kicked in.  All she had had to do was *

push *. 

She had pushed Danielle with her mind, and she didn’t even have to push hard.

The Roget creature had proven to be nothing but a puling weakling, a

disappointingly feeble opponent.  Vicki had just given her a shove, and

Danielle’s essence had careened backward, backward through a series of black

corridors before landing in a dark pit in a far, far away place.  A pit with

smooth ebony walls.  A pit that stank of evil.  A pit to where the murderess

had been banished forever. 

And…she was not alone. 

Vicki could even now hear Danielle’s agonized screams as her companion in the

pit nibbled viciously on her.  And each time Danielle tried to get away, to

crawl up and out of the pit, she just slid back down those shiny walls, her

fingernails scratching in vain against the slippery surface.  A veritable

Prometheus to be eternally snacked on by something that was much worse than the

eagle that pecked out Prometheus’ liver for perpetuity.  Victoria Winters had

to suppress a smile as Roget’s wails echoed in her head; they made her feel so

*alive*…. 

“Vicki?  Vicki?”

Quentin’s concerned face swam back into focus a moment before he crushed her to

him.  “You drifted away from me.  My poor darling, you must be completely

exhausted, totally drained,” he soothed, rocking her back and forth as if she

were a small child. 

“Yes.  Yes, Quentin, I am.  It was…awful,” she managed to whimper against his

shoulder. 

Except that it hadn’t been.  It hadn’t been awful at all.  It had been

*wonderful*.  The power that had surged through her, the exhilaration she had

felt…all of her nerve endings had been stimulated in a way that was more

powerful than any orgasm she could have ever imagined.  She had felt

invigorated, aware of every beat of her heart, of the blood flowing through her

veins, of her lungs exchanging oxygen for carbon dioxide.  She had felt more

alive than she could ever remember feeling; she had felt “one” with the black

garden she had found herself in as if *she* controlled all that grew and

flourished there.  It was her own starless Garden of Eden, and she was the

Creator, commanding all that grew and lived there – even, in this case, the

snakes. 

Quentin drew back from her and cradled her face in his large hands.  “My poor

darling,” he repeated, placing a soft kiss on her lips.  “Are you going to be

all right?”

She nodded slowly, trying to appear sincere.  “Yes, I’m tired but I’m fine,

Quentin, just fine.  Really,” she lied, giving him a shadow of the smile that

always beguiled him so.  “I just need to rest here a moment in your arms.”

He settled her back against him and tightened his hold on her.  He tried to

concentrate only on the feel of her, the scent of her, but his uncooperative

mind kept returning to a conversation they had recently had by the sea:

* "I can feel myself being pulled toward a deep, dark place," she had said,

"and it never stops." *

What if…what if that’s what had happened upstairs?  What if she had been

dragged into the darkness, exposed to something evil?  No.  No, she had told

him nothing much had happened and that she was fine.  Vicki wouldn’t lie to

him. 

Would she? 

He looked down at her head resting against his chest - and for the first time

noticed a lock of gleaming silver that now twisted its way, like a twining

serpent, through her fall of thick, dark hair. 

*~*

Julia Hoffman pulled the blanket up over Carolyn Stoddard and stepped back from

the bed.  She hoped that the young woman would now be able to enjoy a dreamless

sleep, but she wasn’t entirely optimistic about the prospect. 

With a sigh, she turned to her next responsibility.  Roger Collins had his

hands clamped over his ears and had traded his catatonia for a series of moans

that kept ending in chants of “No, please, leave me alone.  I did what you

wanted.  Just leave me ALONE!”

Frankly, she preferred the catatonia. 

“Roger?  Roger!”

“Oh, Julia, can’t you make them stop?  How do you stand it?” he wailed. 

“Roger,” she said firmly, holding out her hand to him.  “We need to leave

Carolyn alone to rest.  And you’ve been through an ordeal, too.  Let me take

you downstairs.  We could both use a drink, and I need to check on Vicki.”

A drink.  Yes, that was just what he needed to shut them up.  He tore his hands

from his ears and accepted Julia’s hand. 

“But truly, Julia, how do you stand them in your head all the time?” he

repeated to her as they walked slowly down the hall. 

“Roger, what are talking about?”

“Oh come now, Doctor, Vicki “healed” you the same as she did me.  And ever

since then, *they’ve* not let me alone.  They’re at me all the time!  I *know*

you know what I’m talking about.”

She gave him a sidelong glance and slowed her gait a little.  “No…no, Roger.  I

* don’t * know what you are talking about.”

He stopped and faced her, his face a mask of fury at her denials.  “Julia, why

are you lying?” he shouted at her.  “I’ve seen you; I’ve seen the look on your

face sometimes when they are talking to you, talking *at * you.  You hear them,

too.  Admit it!  Admit it!”

“Roger, you really must calm down.” Her voice was calm, but he noticed the sly

look she gave him.  “These voices you are hearing are just in your imagination.

Now, I can give you something-”

He glared at her, willing her to tell him the truth, but the physician refused

to back down.  “Oh, never mind!  Don’t bother yourself about me!  I don’t want

any of your drugs or your mumbo-jumbo.  I just want a drink!” And turning from

her, he stomped off down the stairs. 

Julia Hoffman paused on the landing and watched the agitated man enter the

drawing room with savage purpose.  She didn’t know what he had been talking

about.  There was no one *at* her.  Well, she *had* thought she had heard a

voice or two (or maybe three or four) in her head, but she had just been tired

when it had happened.  Why, if she had heard voices telling her what to do,

well, that would make her schizophrenic, and she surely was not that. 

No, she had just been tired.  And besides, what she had *thought* she had heard

were voices encouraging her to push Vicki into helping Eliot and then Carolyn.

Those were things she herself had wanted Vicki to do, had needed Vicki to do.

So, she had essentially just been talking to herself.  Yes, that must have been

it. 

But…hadn’t she wrestled with whether these “healings” or whatever they were,

were good for Vicki?  Hadn’t she taken to heart Vicki’s fear of her own powers,

her fear of the darkness and being sucked into it?  And hadn’t these * voices *

pressed her into pressuring Vicki to go ahead and use her powers anyway?

Hadn’t they niggled at her until her head ached, and she couldn’t take it

anymore? 

Julia narrowed her eyes and thrust out her chin as she shook her head.  No,

there were no voices.  She had just been talking to herself.  Yes, that must

have been it. 

*~*

Angelique’s perfectly manicured hand was poised to turn the crystal doorknob

when the voice that she heard inside her drawing room made her hand freeze in

mid-air. 

No, it couldn’t be.  How could he have found her?  She had encouraged Sky to

find a place for them to live that was as remote as possible.  She hadn’t

wanted to run into any of her old “acquaintances” ever, ever again.  She only

wanted to be Mrs.  Schuyler Rumson, a devoted and very human wife.  Much like

that silly Samantha Stephens pretended to be on that ridiculous television

show.  (It was funny how much Sky enjoyed that show, funny how he laughed

hysterically at Sam and her witchy relatives.  More than funny, really; it was

damned peculiar.)

Dropping her hand, she moved her ear closer to the door.  She must have been

mistaken; it just couldn’t be him.  But the rich, booming laugh that filled her

horrified ears left no doubt: Nicholas Blair had found her.  And now he was

closeted in her own drawing room with her husband and he was going to tell Sky

the truth about her and Sky would hate her and her whole world was going to

come crashing down around her pretty ears (again) and he would throw her out

and …. 

“Nicholas, what are you *doing* here?” she heard her husband ask. 

*Nicholas?* Sky knew Nicholas?  What?  How? 

“Why, Sky,” Angelique heard her “brother” say in mock hurt, “is that any way to

talk to an old friend?”

Old friend?  What was Nicholas talking about?  She felt an invisible hand reach

into her chest and squeeze her heart until it hurt to breathe.  How in the

world could her wonderful Sky and Nicholas Blair be old friends?  She didn’t

understand any of this. 

“Look, Nicholas, it’s not that I’m not glad to see you, but there’s something

you need to know-”

“No,” Blair interrupted in a steely tone.  “There’s something *you* need to

know, Sky.  I need a favor.  You owe me, and I need a favor.  I’m calling in my

marker, my friend.”

“But-”

“Listen …to…me,” Nicholas said slowly, and although Angelique could not see

him, she could hear the menace in his voice and picture the deadly sneer on his

face.  She had been on the other end of his wrath often enough to recognize it

when she heard it. 

“Although we haven’t seen each other in some time, you are still the most

powerful and deadly warlock I have ever known - in addition to myself, of

course.  I will never forget that little display you put on in that coven in

Montana – you had those people afraid to blow their own noses without asking

you for permission first!  Why, the way you vaporized that college student with

just the twitch of an eyebrow, and just because he pronounced your name wrong,

well, I think his shadow is still stamped on that sidewalk - just like when the

bomb was dropped on Hiroshima!  Truly, Sky, you are the most inventive,

depraved and evil creature I have ever had the pleasure to have worked with.

And now I need your help.”

She had to clamp her pretty hand to her pretty mouth to hold in the not so

pretty scream that was building there.  Depraved?  Evil?  Her Sky was a

warlock?  And best buddies with Nicholas?  And here she had been so worried

that he would find out about *her*.  How many nights had she lain awake in his

arms imagining how disgusted he would be if he knew the truth?  When all along,

he was one of her own kind.  All she had wanted was a normal life with a normal

husband, another chance…. 

Tears mixed with mascara until a river of black goo ran down her face.  Nearly

blinded by fear and rage, she grabbed the purse that lay on the front hall

table and silently ran out of the house.  Where should she go?  Where *could*

she go? 

To the only place she had ever felt she truly belonged. 

Angelique Rumson started her car and pointed it in the direction of

Collinsport, in the direction of the Great Estate of Collinwood – toward a

dwelling better known as the Old House. 

*~*

If she had remained eavesdropping in her home for just two more minutes,

Angelique would have learned the answer to some of her questions - for Schuyler

Rumson was explaining to his “old friend” just why he wasn’t able to do

Nicholas the kind of favor the warlock had in mind. 

“Yeah, those were great times, Nicholas, and I appreciate the flattery.  But

things have changed.  *I’ve* changed.  I’m not a warlock anymore, Nicholas.”

Blair gapped at him for a moment as if the man had just declared that he had

converted to Christianity.  Then he slapped Rumson on the back and began to

laugh uproariously. 

“Oh, that’s a good one, Sky!  You always were a kidder.  You had me going there

for a moment, boy.”

“I’m not kidding, Nicholas.  This isn’t a joke.” Rumson’s face was wooden, his

voice a straight monotone. 

Blair’s barracuda grin faded slowly, much like that of the Cheshire Cat’s.

“But you *must* be kidding,” he insisted.  “How could you have lost all of

those marvelously wicked powers?”

“I didn’t say I had.  I only said that I’m not a warlock anymore.”

“Ahhh,” Nicholas said, as the truth dawned on him.  “You mean you’re not a

*practicing* warlock, is that it?  But you still have all of your powers?”

Sky nodded his acquiescence. 

“But…why?” Blair asked, throwing his lavender-gloved hands in the air in

disbelief.  “Why would you…” he searched for a word, “*reform *, Sky?  Why?”

“Nicholas, I don’t expect you to understand, only to accept my choice not to

use my powers.  But if you must know, my decision was made because of my wife.”

“Your wife?  You did this because of a woman?  Are you mad?”

“As I told you, I don’t expect you to understand.  I wish you could meet her,

Nicholas; she’s the most wonderful, sweet, loving woman I have ever known.  The

minute I met her, she completely bewitched me, if you’ll pardon the

expression.” He decided to ignore the pained look on Blair’s face.  “She’s just

a good person, and she made me want to be a good person, too.  And so I am.

That’s all there is to it.  I wish I could help you; we’ve been friends for a

long time.  But I just can’t.  I’m sorry, Nicholas.”

The little speech signaled his dismissal, and Blair knew it.  The two men had

nothing left to say to each other, nothing in common any longer.  They were now

opposite ends of a coin, each reveling in his own definition of himself.  And

since those definitions translated into “good” and “evil”, there was no common

ground on which they could meet. 

Rarely left speechless, Nicholas glared at his old friend and stalked out of

the room, out of the house, and off the island. 

* Now * how the hell was he going to deal with Julia Hoffman? 

*~*

Eliot Stokes sat ensconced in his favorite (if tattered) chair and reflected on

how good it was to be home.  He’d had enough of hospitals for a lifetime.

Nurses who interrupted you at every hour of the night, hospital gowns that left

you open to cold breezes and without a modicum of dignity, doctors with their

damn condescending attitudes and God complexes…. 

* Why, I’m the only one in this town who has a right to a condescending

attitude and a God complex,* he chuckled to himself as he picked up the

telephone.  It was time to have that long overdue conversation with Julia.  He

needed to learn all that had happened in his “absence”, and there were many

things that she needed to know from him as well.  A noxious cloud had descended

over Collinwood, over all of Collinsport, and they all had to work together if

they were going to fight it. 

He inserted one pudgy finger into the dial but stopped abruptly when a sharp

pain exploded in his head.  His free hand flew to his temple as if that motion

could stop the scythe that now seemed to be cutting a swath through his brain.

The pain was accompanied by a sibilant hiss that built into a crescendo until

he thought a nest of serpents might have taken up residence inside of him. 

*Migraine,* was the only coherent thought that came to him although he had

never had a migraine in his life.  And since when did migraines *talk* to you?

For there was definitely something speaking to him, commanding him.  He tried

to resist, to order them away, but a buzz saw suddenly revved up in his head

until he could do nothing but scream and flail his arms.  

The telephone crashed from his lap onto the floor with a sharp jangle before

falling silent.  But the hissing in his head went on and on. 

*~*

The smell of his house usually had a calming effect on her.  The scent of

melted candle wax and burning logs reminded her of Barnabas and of their

friendship, and somehow made her feel at home.  She * liked * to think of the

Old House as home; she harbored a secret hope that perhaps one day it * would *

be her home.  But tonight when she walked into the drawing room, all but a few

of the candles were unlit and the hearth was dark and cold.  The smell that

greeted her was stale and musty, and she could find no comfort in the scent at

all. 

“Barnabas?” she asked softly, squinting as her eyes tried to adjust to the

gloom. 

“I am here, Julia,” his deep voice answered with disinterest. 

Following the sound, she could now see that he was hunched in one of the

wingback chairs in front of the dead fireplace.  As she drew closer to him, she

gasped in dismay. 

“What is it, my dear doctor?” he asked mockingly.  “Are you so shocked by my

appearance?  You shouldn’t be.”

She knelt down in front of his chair for a closer visual exam.  His skin was

nearly translucent; his eyes were huge and looked like dark, bottomless pools

in which nothing human could ever survive.  His expensive clothes, which always

fit his trim frame so impeccably, now hung on him as if he were but a

scarecrow.  She shuddered when it occurred to her that he resembled photos she

had seen of starving concentration camp survivors. 

Julia reached out and took hold of his hand to check his pulse, and Barnabas

looked down at her touch in disgust as if a swarm of spiders had just crawled

over him. 

“You can do nothing to help me, Doctor.”

His voice- how could *that* be his voice?  Its cold and raspy quality was so

far removed from the rich, honey-coated tone that had first captured her

attention that day on the stairs at Collinwood. 

“Barnabas, I don’t understand.  What has happened to you?  I had a dosage all

prepared, but when I turned around, you had disappeared.  I assumed you went

to…that you needed more…”

“Yes, Julia, I needed more blood,” he said flatly, expressing what she hadn’t

wanted to articulate.  “I needed to feed because I am a vampire, yet again.

And this time, I seem to have an unquenchable thirst.  Now do you understand?”

Julia Hoffman instinctively crossed her arms over her chest and hugged herself,

hugged herself for warmth, for comfort, for strength and for courage.  She

searched the face of the man she loved, but she no longer could see *her*

Barnabas - not in this man’s cold eyes, or in his sneer of a mouth or in his

wintry voice.  But she couldn’t, wouldn’t give up on him.  Not now.  Not ever.

“Barnabas, Barnabas, we’ll start the treatments right now.  I told you, I’ve

perfected it.  If we start right away-”

“And I’m telling *you*, Doctor, that I am through with your attempts to cure

me.  It cannot be done.  This time, nothing can help me, and I will not waste

my time and energy only to have my hopes dashed once again by your

incompetence.”

“Barnabas!  Why are you acting this way?  Why are you treating me like this?”

Fear and hurt seemed to coagulate in the back of her throat, and she struggled

to control her voice.  His sudden animosity totally bewildered her. 

“Surely you are intelligent enough, Doctor, to recognize that I am badly in

need of blood.  Unfortunately, I find myself so weak that I am unable to obtain

the …sustenance I so badly require.  So please forgive my bad manners and rude

behavior.” His sarcasm was sharper than any scalpel she had ever used to slice

through tissue and bone, and it cut her to her very core. 

“Barnabas, you know that we can start by solving that problem.  I’ll give you a

transfusion, and then-” She had started to get up but found herself suddenly

caught in his frosty grip. 

“No transfusion can help me now,” he growled.  “ I need to FEED, Julia.

Immediately.  I need to feed on warm, human blood, lots of it, through my

FANGS.  I need to hold someone tightly and puncture their neck and feed and

feed….”

His hand was grinding the bones in her arm together, and she could already feel

the bruise that would bloom there on her sensitive, freckled skin.  “Then I can

still solve your problem, Barnabas,” she said quietly. 

“What are you talking about?”

“You need blood.  Take mine.” Her voice was calm and firm.  This was an offer

she had longed to make to him since she had first discovered what he was.  Her

own secret (shameful) fantasy – for him to hold her to him, graze her neck with

his sharp teeth, suck her lifeblood into his body….  Maybe, once he had access

to her mind, to her emotions, he would realize how much she truly loved him,

how much she had to offer him, and then, perhaps, he would be able to finally

return her feelings, and the Old House truly would become her home and…. 

“*Your * blood?  Take *your* blood?  Why would I do *that*?”

His tone was so contemptuous, so incredulous, that Julia wrenched her arm from

his iron grip and stood up, backing away from him in a stumble.  She turned her

face away, knowing that his vision in the darkness was still sharp, not wanting

him to see how badly his words had seared her heart. 

She gulped down air and bit her lip until it bled, thinking it ironic that she,

not Barnabas, was now drinking her blood.  “Yes, why would you do that?” she

asked in a shaky voice.  She took a step forward, determined to leave this

house with her dignity intact, determined not to look at him before she left.

But her foot caught on a loose floorboard (*Damn that Willie.*), forcing her to

grab onto his chair to catch her balance.  As she did so, she inadvertently

glanced at his face, and she could not stop herself from shrieking his name at

what she now saw. 

“What are you screaming about, Doctor?” he demanded. 

She only continued to stare at him, her wide eyes glowing like emeralds in a

darkened mine.  His hand snaked out again to capture hers and force her to

answer him.  But she remained mute, her eyes shifting in horror to where he

held onto her until he himself felt compelled to follow her gaze. 

Somehow, the arm and hand of a withered old man now extended from his clothing.

The skin was mottled and dried out, like a bouquet of long dead flowers left

to rot on a settling grave.  He let go of Julia’s hand and brought both of his

own up before his face to stare at them in disbelief. 

The tortured sound that he uttered next made the bats in the Old House chimney

rise up and out into a black cloud that blanketed the velvety night sky:

“OH NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” 

TO BE CONTINUED ...