Disclaimer: Dark Shadows is a Dan Curtis Production and not mine
The Night of the Silvery Moon
Engines of fighting warplanes roared through the night in the French countryside with a small stream nearby. The once peaceful quiet château had certainly seen better days, but for Quentin Collins, the abandoned home served for him to indulge in a private little soiree.
A fire burned in the stone fireplace in the main room. The room was dark and gothic, especially in the orange glow of the fire. Stretching shadows leaped up sinisterly on the high walls and ceilings. The walls were covered in panels and some tapestries as well as crown moldings. It sort of reminded Quentin of the drawing room and several other rooms at Collinwood.
In fact, the entire château reminded Quentin of Collinwood.
The outside certainly bears some similarities; same wide three-story structural design with various thin European windows with turrets and several stone chimneys lined up on the high pitched rooftop. Quentin also swore it even had its own tower room.
Quentin couldn't help but snort at the fact that no matter how far away he was Collinwood would always find devious ways to catch up with him.
Tipsily stumbling around the room with a half empty bottle of champagne in hand, Quentin heard some loud bombs going off pretty close from outside. The booming impact shook the walls and floors as well as the bronze chandelier hung high on the ceiling.
Maneuvering through the disarray furniture Quentin collapsed by the fire with the champagne bottle still firmly within his clutches. Champagne was not his preferred beverage, unless he had a lady to keep him company.
Unfortunately, Quentin didn't have any of those at the moment.
He had a much higher taste for brandy and occasionally sherry and wine. But the château only offered champagne and Quentin could only take what was offered to him.
He absentmindedly clutched the side of his rib cage and reminded himself he'd been mortally wounded recently.
Days ago, he was traveling by a small French village where he reflectively took a bullet to save a little girl from a German soldier. The image of the little girl haunted Quentin. She was a pale little thing with soft brown eyes, curly red hair, and freckles on her face. The girl managed to escape the Germans, but Quentin got captured.
This was hardly any concern for Quentin. He was already a cursed man. No one could possibly kill him, not as long as Charles Delaware Tate's portrait still exists.
Considering the gun wound hadn't scarred him, let alone killed him, Quentin assumed it was safe to say the portrait was safe and sound. But wherever it was, Quentin mused the portrait must look like hell at the moment.
Not only would his prim and proper counterpart be oozing alarming amounts of blood from the side, he would also be a ferocious werewolf.
Tonight was the full moon. Even though Quentin could no longer transformed into that vicious uncontrollable beast due to that damn portrait concealing his gypsy curse, (and turning him into an indestructible immortal in the process) he could still feel when the full moon was near. He needn't to consult a calendar to know when it will come.
Tonight's moon illuminated in a brilliant silver. It penetrated the windows of the château. Quentin decided to ignore the moon. It was no longer his greatest tormentor.
His mind wandered back to the little girl. The cursed man sincerely hoped she was all right.
Despite his many flaws as a human being, Quentin always harbored a soft spot for children. The girl's red hair and freckles greatly reminded him of his niece Nora. Although Quentin wasn't as close with her as he was with her brother Jamison, Quentin had bonded with her, particularly before he consciously exiled himself from Collinsport.
At that, he savagely thought of the warlock Count Petofi and the damage he had done.
But the image of the little girl he saved instantly melted all of Quentin's anger away as quickly as it started. In addition to Nora, the little girl also reminded Quentin of his daughter. A daughter he was forbidden to raise. A daughter who once had a twin brother who died tragically from the same gypsy curse that gave Quentin his lycanthropy.
Lenore...
His daughter's name echoed sweetly in his mind. Ever loyally, Quentin then thought of Jamison.
It was likely he'd grown up by now. If the Americans decided to take part in this war, would Jamison enlist?
The mortals deeply hope this would be the war to end all wars, and they certainly upgraded their arsenal to carry out into the battlefield. Instead of muskets there were machine guns. There were bombs being dropped from the sky by the aforementioned warplanes. And then there were these armored vehicles called tanks that could trample and kill massively. (Quentin torched two of them when he made his daring escape from the Germans.) This was indeed a rather mechanical war, but Quentin's very human guilt and torment remained to be his own personal hell, considering this war wouldn't kill his curse.
He missed his own children and his niece and nephew. His heart ache that Jamison had grown to hate him for breaking the heart of Beth Chavez. He wondered what kind of lovely woman Nora had grown into, and he also wondered what his daughter look like. Does she have red hair like her mother Jenny? Perhaps someone who doesn't look all that different from Nora and that little girl he saved?
Tears streaked out of his blurry eyes and Quentin took a gulp of his fizzy champagne.
A hand brushed against his own on the bottle sending a jolt down his spine.
Quentin nearly choked and started, spilling and spitting out champagne on the cold stone floor. That touch was very icy and unnatural, but Quentin knew there was a presence.
Turning his head, Quentin gazed upon the ghost of Beth Chavez. She sat beside him on the cold stone floor with her long legs curled up. But she didn't look like a ghost. She wasn't transparent and unreal and looked every bit as corporeal as Quentin.
She looked the same as he knew her, tall, slender figure, long blonde curls pulled up into a bun, and deep blue eyes concealing secrets and sadness.
Quentin and Beth both hadn't aged since they last saw each other years ago. The only major difference was Beth no longer wore her maidservant uniform. She now wore a long flowing gown, a gown that seemed rather ghost-like.
Because of that, Quentin knew Beth truly was a ghost, or at least a figment of his drunken imagination.
He remembered vividly the night of her death. He betrayed her so many times and played her feelings for him it drove her to Petofi. That in turn drove her into more despair, and she plunged down Widows Hill in front of Quentin's very eyes. Another life he'd destroyed and lost.
But Beth's ghost came to him shortly after that with tearful words of forgiveness. A forgiveness Quentin felt he was completely undeserving of.
"I don't understand!... I don't forgive myself!... For what I did to you!..." Quentin screamed out those words that night.
He remembered how her ghost played his gramophone for him, permanently playing his favorite song. A dreary somber melody Quentin honestly felt was written just for him.
He missed that gramophone. He had a great need to listen to the song he once bluntly described to Reverend Gregory Trask of being his own personal hymn.
"Hello, Quentin." Beth's voice echoed the walls of the château.
Quentin wryly thought that was very ghostly of her.
"I haven't heard your voice in so long..." He looked deep into her blue eyes, and Beth gazed into the sadness of his own.
A look of regret haunted in them, as well as the light of the silver moon, no doubt a memento from his gypsy curse.
"I've meant what I said that night, Quentin," Beth told him gently, tenderly caressing his cheek with cold unearthly fingers. A cheek that was now smooth and clean shaven but dirty. Quentin had shaven off his long pointy sideburns. Judging by the loose changing style of his suit Beth observed that some fashions have changed since her demise.
"I do forgive you."
Quentin shoved dismissively at her words.
"Yeah, well, this is not how a lady such as yourself should see the French countryside," Quentin told her drunkenly. "There should be music and laughter and dancing..."
Quentin dropped his gaze on his bottle and lifted it up for Beth to see.
"But at least we have champagne."
"Don't do this to yourself Quentin," Beth pleaded.
"You were at peace," Quentin mumbled. "Why are you here in this wretched hell?"
"I would like to think that out of all the women in your life, I was the one who truly understood you," Beth said to him. "But I know you never really showed yourself to anybody."
"You were completely understanding over my lycanthropy curse," Quentin conceded lightly. "Realistically, a lot of women wouldn't be. I can't say I possibly blame them."
"It wasn't just you," insisted Beth with a shake of her head. "I haven't always been honest with you, Quentin. I have wronged you. It was beyond my control, but I like to rectify that, even if it is only for a moment."
Quentin looked at her puzzled.
"What do you mean?"
Beth regarded him quietly, and said urgently, "I need to do this quickly. I haven't much time. Please look inside the basket."
Quentin cocked his head.
"What basket?" he frowned.
Beth gestured toward a wicker basket sitting directly in front of him on the floor. A wicker basket that wasn't there seconds ago. It took Quentin off guard. The basket was covered with a small white blanket.
"Please look inside," Beth urged him softly.
But Quentin was wary. He had been tricked by ghosts before. He had never forgotten the torment by the ghost of his grandmother when she haunted him. And by personal experiences, Quentin feared he might encounter something obscene and grotesque inside. A bloody beating heart perhaps?
"Please look inside." Beth gave him a gentle imploring look. A look Quentin had forgotten for so long. It was a look he once knew very well. It convinced him to drop his guard, at least slightly, and turned his gaze on the basket. Slowly his hand grabbed hold of the blanket and he quickly yanked it off.
What he found was a far cry from a bloody beating heart.
A little baby laid in the basket. A rather unusual baby. The baby was transparent and shrouded in a pure white glow.
Quentin gaped at the ghost of his former lover.
"He is your son," Beth told him emotionally.
"My son?" Quentin returned his gaze back to the infant.
Was this really his and Jenny's son? The son he lost to that damn gypsy curse before he even knew he had children?
The transparent baby stared up at Quentin and cooed softly.
"I want you to see him... just once." Beth's voice crack as she fought back tears.
Unknowingly to Quentin, tears streamed down his own face as he extended his hand down to the baby.
"My son..."
Quentin fluttered open his eyes and found himself lying drunkenly on the cold stone floors in the main room of the château. It was like he never even left this room, but yet somehow shifted.
But the room was completely dark... and cold. The fire in the fireplace somehow got extinguished, leaving the light from the silver full moon to sharply stream through the windows as loud bombs exploded into the night.
Quentin stared around dazed and confused as he sat up on the floor. The champagne bottle had been tipped over and the remainder of its contents were now puddles on the floor.
"Beth?" Quentin's voice echoed through the shadows of the house.
With a broken heart, Quentin dropped his gaze to the stone floor and hung his head.
He would like to think he hadn't dreamed that. He would like to believe that even in death Beth Chavez was the one to continue to understand him and know what he needed.