In Darkness
A Dark Shadows Fanfiction
Chapter Three
Gerard Stiles studied the faces of the five people waiting for him to speak, and he decided that he only hated two of them.
The previous night when she had left him at the inn, after arranging to pay for his room and for any meals he took there, Julia Hoffman had told him she would set up a meeting for this morning. She said that she had various friends whom she believed should hear his whole story of the events in 1840, to improve their chances of successfully fighting the warlock now. She'd said she would call in the morning to let him know when they were coming by.
She "called," all right, at a little past eight in the morning, but Gerard had not yet adjusted to the fact that "calling" these days meant "calling on the telephone." He was jolted out of an uneasy sleep by a terrible shrilling noise like a cross between a wailing banshee and the squeals of a stuck pig.
It was, of course, stupid of him to be frightened by the telephone. He knew perfectly well what telephones were. He had even heard them ringing from time to time, on various occasions when he had been drifting his amorphous way about the great house of Collinwood.
But this particular telephone, crouched malignantly upon the bedside table no more than twelve inches from his head, was the first that had ever rung so close to him. It was also the first ringing telephone which it was his responsibility to answer.
He managed to grab up the appropriate portion of the mechanism and forestall any further squealing, and he brought it near to his ear and mouth. Then he realized he didn't know the expected forms of speech with which one ought to answer these things. In the end, all he did was blurt out a thoroughly ungracious, "What?"
His caller was, naturally, the doctoress, informing him that she and the others would meet him at the inn at ten o'clock.
This meant he had time left for breakfast—a fact for which, he found, he was absurdly grateful.
Last night, when he had believed that the trip up to Collinwood would end with the warlock once again stealing his body and his life, he'd thought of that dinner at the Blue Whale as the last meal he would ever eat. Now, the simple prospect of being able to eat another meal had him perilously close to tears.
He told himself it should be no surprise that he was in an emotionally parlous state. Probably no more than twelve hours had yet passed since he was so unexpectedly restored to life. In a situation as unnatural as this one, he shouldn't blame himself for being as prone to emotional outbursts as one of Flora Collins' heroines.
In the bright and cheerful café off the main entryway of the Collinsport Inn, he stared at the menu on the wall behind the counter and found himself at a loss for words. The trivial, ordinary task of choosing something to eat seemed overwhelmingly too much for him.
No one was in the café with him besides the bearded hotel proprietor he'd met last night, the man's daughter who was standing at the counter—and the manner in which she leaned forward against that counter revealed a charming glimpse of cleavage—and her husband, seated at one of the tables with his father-in-law, both of them nursing cups of some steaming beverage. Apparently, as the pretty young woman chattily informed him, the early morning crowd of fishermen had already been and gone, and it was still too early in the day for the café's other morning regulars. The three soon introduced themselves as Sam Evans and Joe and Maggie Haskell; then they waited with what appeared to be tolerant amusement as Gerard struggled to focus his mind on selecting something to order.
His thoughts finally lighted upon a means of solving his dilemma. Gerard bowed to Maggie Haskell and suggested, "Why don't you choose something for me, madam? You best know the specialties of your kitchen. What is the breakfast for which you would say your café is most celebrated?"
He knew the three of them were exchanging amused glances again, but just at this moment he truly did not give a damn.
"Madam, eh?" Maggie Haskell grinned. She planted her hands on her hips and surveyed him measuringly. "Okay, I'd say what you need is an extra-tall stack of Maine blueberry pancakes, plus a double side of bacon."
"And a bottomless cup of coffee," her husband added.
"That sounds ideal," Gerard told them, taking a seat at a nearby table. "And I decidedly need that coffee."
Sam Evans and his daughter seemed to be affably garrulous people, despite Evans' efforts to portray himself as a gruff and taciturn character. As for Joe Haskell, he contented himself with periodically interjecting quiet but slyly humorous comments into the conversation.
Thanks to the father and daughter's love of talking, Gerard soon learned that Sam Evans was an artist ("Not that much of anybody's buying my masterworks, these days," Evans parenthetically added) and that Haskell had formerly worked in the Collins Enterprises fishing fleet. A few years ago the three of them had joined forces to purchase the inn, after its previous owner had died. "Of course," Maggie felt compelled to add, "Mrs. Malloy provided the financial backing so we could manage that."
Her father remarked at that, "Like always, the Collinses have their fingers in pretty much every pie around Collinsport. At least with Elizabeth in charge, more of their fingers-in-pies have positive results than not."
Gerard's coffee arrived in an enormous china tankard instead of the delicate little cup that he expected. However, since the coffee was only about a quarter as strong as what he was expecting, he supposed the ridiculous volume of it made sense.
As for the pancakes and bacon, when they had arrived and he started in on them, the sublimity of the experience was enough to again bring tears springing to his eyes. He fought to control himself. All too easily he could imagine that if he actually allowed his tears to fall, Maggie Haskell would in some future conversation be remarking, "I never claimed to be the greatest chef in the world, but that's the first time my cooking ever made a man break down and cry."
He thought, I sincerely hope it will not take me long to bring this weakness under control. Assuming that he survived long enough for it to be an issue, dissolving into tears every time he ate would grow tedious with great rapidity.
Amongst the many conversation topics on which Maggie and her father touched, was the question of Mr. Miller's occupation. Maggie commented, "Pop says you're a colleague of Dr. Hoffman's. Do you work at Windcliff?"
"Ah … no," he said, wondering what the devil he should say next.
Judging from the humorous way the family kept eyeing him, he thought they might not be too surprised to learn that his role in the lady doctor's life was to provide her with intimate attentions. But that, of course, was untrue. And since the lady doctor was currently paying for his room and board, it would hardly be right for him to so wantonly besmirch her reputation.
He decided to settle on something resembling the truth. Gerard said, "I'm a clairvoyant. I work in such fields as astrology, palmistry and numerology. Dr. Hoffman called me in to consult with them on some issues they're facing at Collinwood."
Maggie Haskell eyed him with interest, if a fair degree of skepticism. "So you do the same kind of work as Sebastian Shaw?" she inquired.
"Perhaps," he said. "I'm not aware of what techniques and disciplines Mr. Shaw particularly favors."
"Have you worked with Professor Stokes?" Sam Evans asked.
"Stokes?" echoed Gerard, immediately interested by the name. "I haven't yet had that honor."
"You probably will," Evans remarked. "Talking of people with their fingers in every pie, Prof Stokes has sure got his fingers in every occult pie around Collinsport."
"Well, and it's a good thing, too, Pop," countered Maggie. "You know a lot of us around here might not be alive now if he hadn't been here to help us."
"I'm not complaining," said her father. "Any time I've got an occult pie on my hands, Stokes is the one I plan on calling in to deal with it for me."
"Will you shut up about occult pies!" Evans' daughter cast Gerard a charmingly mischievous smile. "It's a good thing Mr. Miller is in the psychic business, too; otherwise he'd really think we're crazy."
Joe Haskell observed, "If Mr. Miller doesn't want to be around crazy people, he's come to the wrong town."
Business picked up at the Collinsport Inn café as the morning rolled on. Evans and Haskell excused themselves to go tend to other work of the inn, and Gerard settled in to watch the life of the community busily bustling around him.
Two old men who were clearly fixtures of the place came in together and settled down at what was obviously their special table, to drink bottomless coffee and play dominoes with each other. Another young woman whom Maggie addressed as Suzy arrived, put on an apron, and joined Maggie behind the counter. Various children came to the café and laboriously counted out coins from their bulging pockets in order to purchase pastries out of the domed glass dishes on the countertop. At one point when Maggie was refilling Gerard's coffee, he idly inquired of her why these children were not in school.
She cast him a slightly bemused grin and said, "It's Saturday. Buying sweet treats at the café is part of a lot of kids' Saturday ritual—that is, those kids who don't spend their entire Saturday staring at the boob tube."
That explanation made as much sense to him as some arcane incantation, but he decided it was probably an incantation which he didn't need to know about.
In addition to the children and old men, a selection of women of various ages stopped by, purchasing pies to take home with them or just lingering at the counter to sip tea or coffee and gossip with Maggie and Suzy. Gerard was gratified to notice several of those women casting appreciative glances in his direction.
Dr. Hoffman and her cohorts began arriving at a few minutes before 10:00. As they commenced to gather, Maggie Haskell suggested that they meet in the inn's banquet room. She said, "That'll be more comfortable than if all of you have to perch on Mr. Miller's bed. You can only have the banquet room till noon, though. That's when the Fire Department Women's Auxiliary ladies are supposed to get here to start setting up the charity bazaar."
So now here he was, standing before Julia Hoffman and her potential warlock-fighters in the Collinsport Inn's somewhat cramped banquet room, feeling rather as though he were about to address a gathering of some such organization as the Occultists' Club of Collinsport. With a bitter twinge of wistfulness, he wished that he were addressing such a body; that Flora Collins were there instead of Julia Hoffman, and that the rest of his auditors were Flora's fellow ageing society matrons, the class of persons who tended to be most receptive to his charms.
Instead, sitting there expectantly watching him were the doctoress and four men, two of whom he thought he quite probably detested. One of those two, introduced to him as Burke Devlin, had been among the actors in that farcical scene he'd witnessed last night, chasing an ailing girl back and forth across Collinwood's landing.
Speaking of that scene, Dr. Hoffman had mentioned to him when she arrived at the inn that the young woman in question had left for Bangor that morning, accompanied by the other man who had taken part in the scene on the landing. The young woman, Miss Winters, was going to stay at the house of that young man's father, on the theory that her recovery would be more rapid away from the unhealthy influences of Collinwood.
That made perfect sense to Gerard. As far as he was concerned, everyone ought to get the hell away from Collinwood, and ought never even to think about going back.
It also would have suited him to a T if Burke Devlin had accompanied the ailing girl to Bangor, and thus had not been amongst the audience waiting to hear Gerard's story. Gerard had formed the impression that Mr. Burke Devlin was among those men who've been granted such an excessive supply of virility, they tend to view most other men as lesser beings. Devlin's monumental chin seemed carved of granite, and Gerard had the impression that that chin—along with those massive fists—would make a most effective weapon in tavern brawls. In Gerard's experience, men of Devlin's ilk invariably viewed such men as Gerard as sybaritic parlor-dwellers, and dismissed them with the contempt that such bullying louts typically feel for a man who has chosen alternative methods with which to make his living.
Sitting next to Devlin was the grizzled fisherman who had married the current mistress of Collinwood. In Gerard's impressions, he was a neutral figure. He did not appear to have dismissed Gerard out-of-hand, and he seemed likely to prove an effective ally, so long as he believed that Gerard was acting for the good of Collinwood's people.
Next to him sat the other member of the party whom Gerard felt inclined to loathe. This personage was none other than the current Quentin Collins, and Gerard had detested him on sight.
He looked so much like Gerard's own Quentin, it hurt. It felt like a personal insult for this man to so closely resemble his Quentin, and even to bear his name—while Gerard's Quentin was dead, gone, and mostly forgotten.
This Quentin was not made any more prepossessing by the fact that he appeared to be significantly under-the-weather. Looking pale and ill-at-ease, he shifted, fidgeted, kept leaning forward in his chair and then suddenly sitting back up again, and he had a habit of gazing at his hands as though he could not comprehend why they weren't holding a drink.
Disdainfully Gerard thought, If my Quentin were here, he'd be a damned sight more use to us than this sorry specimen.
Dr. Hoffman sat on the other side of this Quentin. She, at least, was an audience-member with whom Gerard felt thoroughly at ease. She was of that group who, in his life before, had provided the majority of his clients—both in clairvoyant matters and in the purveying of more intimate services. Like so many women before her—women who were no longer young but who were in comfortable financial circumstances—hers was the pocketbook that was currently paying for his keep. He would be glad to recompense her by providing what she wanted—in this case, help in turning Collinwood's people away from the road that led to their destruction—so long as he could do so without being destroyed himself.
The final one of Dr. Hoffman's warlock-fighters was Professor Stokes, he who had his fingers in every occult pie.
When the professor arrived at the inn and Dr. Hoffman had introduced him as Professor T. Elliott Stokes, Gerard had asked if he were descended from Ben Stokes. The portly man, dressed more like a gentleman of Gerard's own time than like a man of 1970, had grinned and replied, "Indeed, he was a great-great-grandfather of mine."
This alone made Gerard inclined to feel favorably toward him—which he supposed had its ironic aspects, since Ben Stokes had held plenty of suspicions about Gerard Stiles.
All the same, Gerard had rather liked the old man. He had enjoyed teasing him, and engaging in a battle of wits against him—a battle of wits which involved far more mutual respect than had his battle of wits with the despicable Gabriel Collins.
He had respected Ben Stokes, and he had enjoyed the hope of someday being able to convince old Ben that Gerard Stiles, Esquire was a positive force for the Collins family.
He still wondered if he might, eventually, have convinced him of that—if the warlock had not decided it was necessary for Ben Stokes to rend off his own head.
As those five people gazed at him, Gerard Stiles launched into his story.
"My name is Ivan Miller. I was born in 1813, in Vilnia, Russian Empire."
"In Lithuania?" interjected Professor Stokes.
"Precisely. My grave marker states that I was born in 1811, but that is merely one of the many ways in which people here have been wrong about me."
He was glad at being able to include that little jab. The incorrect date on the stone had annoyed him for nearly one hundred and thirty years.
"I lived in many parts of Europe, but I spent the most time in England, France and Portugal. I worked as a sailor; primarily in the Mediterranean, but I also sailed on two voyages between Portugal and Brazil. On the second of those two, I served as first mate."
So far, so good, he thought. Thus far, none of his auditors seemed much inclined to interrupt or to question his story. But, of course, he was just sailing in towards the more troublesome portions of the tale.
"I first came to Collinsport in April of 1838. Shortly after my arrival here, I was honored to gain the friendship of Quentin Collins." He paused to cast a disdain-filled glance at the current Quentin before adding, "The first one to bear that name. Quentin employed me with Collins Enterprises. I sailed with him as first mate on three voyages, one in 1838 and two in 1839."
Looking skeptical but perhaps not completely hostile, Burke Devlin inquired at this point, "You said your name's Ivan Miller. Where does 'Gerard Stiles' come from?"
"I adopted that name for business purposes in London in 1830." Business purposes, his thoughts added, such as the fact that Ivan Miller was wanted on charges of embezzlement in Paris.
He went on, "In 1840, Quentin's cousin Desmond Collins journeyed on a voyage of pleasure to the Orient, returning to Collinsport early that autumn. It was he who brought the evil into our midst."
The various members of his audience all shifted in their chairs, casting nervous or speculative glances at each other as he reached the real heart of this narrative.
"Quentin Collins," Gerard said, "was an amateur of the occult. He was fascinated by it; he loved to read any book he could find on magic, witchcraft and the supernatural. I remember when we traveled together, he would purchase local magical trinkets at every opportunity. Unfortunately, his cousin Desmond, knowing of this hobby of Quentin's, decided to bring him a perfect souvenir from the East.
"It was at a curio shop in Macao where Desmond encountered this supposed perfect souvenir. At that time, Desmond believed it was merely the carved wooden representation of a severed head."
"Aha," murmured Professor Stokes, his gaze brightening with interest. The remainder of Gerard's audience looked variously surprised, skeptical, or ever-so-slightly disgusted.
"By what Desmond believed to be an odd chain of coincidences, the head was said to have come from this very region of Maine. A sailor from these parts had brought it with him to Macao some years previously, and then that sailor had the ill-fortune to get himself murdered.
"The keeper of the curio shop told Desmond that the head was that of a powerful New England warlock, executed by beheading sometime in the 17th century. The head was reputed to still retain magical powers. And so, of course," snapped Gerard, suddenly losing the ability to tell this tale without letting his emotions into it, "the clodpate Desmond decided that a warlock's head was just the souvenir to bring home for cousin Quentin!"
The modern Quentin snorted with laughter. The fisherman Malloy and Burke Devlin exchanged a humorous glance. Julia Hoffman had a distant look on her face and was slowly rubbing her neck, as though she might be imagining her head getting lopped off. As for Professor Stokes, there was a fascinated gleam in his eyes. He inquired, "Are you able to tell us the name of this warlock?"
"No," Gerard answered flatly, "I am not. You can find it for yourself in Collinsport's records. He was executed in the 1690s; I'm sure Collinsport hasn't all that many decapitated warlocks to its credit. But I am not going to speak his name. And no one else should speak it, either."
Looking deep in thought, Stokes nodded. "Your point is well taken, Mr. Miller," he remarked. "Please, continue."
Gerard grimaced. He decided to pull a chair out from one of the tables and sit down. He was tired of acting like he was addressing the Occultists' Club. In fact, he was tired of telling this story, but he was not certain why.
Was it because it all seemed so hopeless? The more he recounted of how things had gone in 1840, did that make it seem all the more unlikely that the people of Collinwood would fare any better now?
And were those really his own thoughts and feelings? Or were they thoughts and feelings sent to him by the warlock?
Sitting down and sighing, he went on, "I suppose it is probably unfair to blame that idiot Desmond. Almost certainly the warlock directed his actions. How else would it transpire that a man from the very town where the warlock had been executed, should walk into that particular shop in Macao and purchase his head?"
He sighed again, and then suddenly realized that he was staring at his hands in much the same way as he had been mentally mocking the modern Quentin for doing. He clasped his hands tightly instead and stared off into the distance.
"Perhaps the warlock's power grew stronger when he returned to his home. No sooner had Desmond arrived here with his precious souvenir, than the warlock started exerting more power over him. He hid the head, instead of giving it to Quentin. And the warlock began to take control of his mind.
"Desmond had shown the head to a few people when he first arrived here. One of them—the old Collins retainer, Ben Stokes—realized its evil, and tried to induce Desmond to destroy it. Instead, the warlock destroyed him."
He knew that Ben Stokes' great-great-grandson must be intently staring at him, but he did not meet the man's eyes. He couldn't seem to stop himself from staring into the past, staring at the sight of that hideous corpse that lay sprawling in front of him across the path through the woods.
"I was the one who found him, on the night when he had written a note to Desmond telling him the head must be destroyed. I found him in the woods between Collinwood and Rose Cottage. The verdict of the police was that old Ben had committed suicide, since the bloody knife was clutched in his dead hand. But what human being on this earth has ever committed suicide by sawing off his own head?"
Gerard distantly heard Julia Hoffman gasp. He wasn't even certain which one of his other auditors whispered, "My God." He still felt that he was there, staring at Ben's corpse. Then suddenly he realized that old Ben's great-great-grandson—moving in surprising silence for a man of his bulk—had stood up and walked to his side. The professor put one hand on Gerard's shoulder, and Gerard gazed up at him.
Professor Stokes said quietly, "There was always uncertainty in the family as to the cause of Ben Stokes' death. The most commonly repeated story is that he committed suicide in despondency over the infirmities of his old age."
Gerard stood up. He felt almost as though he were announcing a death to someone who had actually known the deceased. "No, sir," Gerard answered. "He did not. I never saw any infirmity in him; he seemed as strong and indomitable as Collinwood itself. And he did not kill himself, for all that the fatal knife may have been in his hand. It was the warlock who killed him."
The professor studied Gerard's face with what felt like a soul-reading gaze. Then Professor Stokes nodded. He said, simply, "Thank you," and held out his hand to Gerard.
They shook hands. To Gerard it felt almost as though Ben Stokes had finally accepted him after all.
Unseen by Gerard, Malloy had left the banquet room and shortly returned, bearing a tray with a pitcher of iced water and a stack of glasses. Gerard did not notice this until the fisherman touched his arm and held out a glass of water to him, saying, "Here."
Gerard blinked and nodded, accepting the glass. "My thanks."
They sat down again, and this time Gerard noticed that Professor Stokes had chosen a different chair, nearer to his. He hoped this meant the professor had also made the decision to be, metaphorically speaking, on Gerard's side.
Gerard took a drink of water and then went on. "I did not know, at the time, any of this story about the warlock or the head. I was told of it by Desmond Collins about a week later.
"It transpired that the warlock's body still existed, and the warlock was seeking to reunite his body and his head."
He heard Burke Devlin mutter, "Are you kidding?" He chose not to visibly notice that remark.
"The body had been concealed, presumably in hopes of preventing the warlock's full resurrection. Under the mental influence of the head, Desmond succeeded in locating an elderly man who knew where the body was hidden. But that man only told Desmond a series of clues before he died of an apoplexy or a failure of the heart, from his fear at seeing the head."
Malloy muttered, "At least he didn't saw his own head off."
"True," agreed Gerard. "But there is much more to come. Desmond deciphered the clues and discovered the warlock's body, in a hidden underground crypt at the Gallow's Hill Cemetery in Bedford."
"Bedford, Massachusetts?" asked Julia Hoffman, looking puzzled.
Gerard felt equally puzzled. "No," he said, "Bedford, Maine. You must all know it. It's Collinsport's neighbor on the south-westerly side."
At the blank looks of the rest of them, Professor Stokes explained. "Mr. Miller is referring to Rockport. It was originally named Bedford. The name was changed to Goose River Village—in 1841, I believe—when the town's more strait-laced inhabitants wished to avoid associations with a series of particularly bloody early 19th-century murders that were dubbed 'the Bedford Atrocities.' Apparently 'Goose River Village' was not a popular choice either, for in 1852 the townsfolk adopted the name of Rockport."
Gerard felt a shudder run through him. "Yes," he said to Professor Stokes, "a series of particularly bloody murders in which the victims all died by decapitation. Decapitations which seemed as though they had been caused by the heads being torn off."
There followed a brief silence, until Professor Stokes said, "Great heavens. Are you saying that the Bedford Atrocities were the work of this warlock's head?"
"Yes," Gerard answered. "That's precisely what I'm saying. The man who told Desmond the clues to the body's location had been a witness to some of those murders. He spent decades locked in a madhouse because of his claim that the murders were the work of a demonic severed head."
"All right," Burke Devlin put in impatiently, "So Desmond Collins discovered the body's location. What happened then?"
"He found the body in a coffin which was held in place by an enormous wooden cross. The cross was too heavy for him to shift alone, so he enlisted the aid of a comrade from the Eagle tavern who was not overly particular as to how he acquired his cash. He should have been more particular. Desmond told Quentin and myself that he left this man in the crypt, working to shift the cross, while he went to fetch a cart he had rented. When he returned, he found the cross fallen and shattered, and the coffin empty. The warlock's body was gone. Desmond did, however, find the body of his drinking companion. He said it looked as though the man's head had been ripped from his shoulders."
Mr. Malloy whispered, "I'll be damned."
The modern Quentin Collins looked dubious. He demanded, "Are you saying the headless body killed him? And then it went strolling off on its own?"
"It wasn't especially capable of strolling," Gerard told him dryly. "'Aimlessly staggering' would be more like it. But, yes, that is essentially correct."
Malloy asked of no one in particular, "Why the hell do these things keep happening around Collinsport?"
"Perhaps," Julia Hoffman observed tensely, "because the Collins family keeps running afoul of witches."
Professor Stokes inquired, "You say that Desmond told all of this to you and to Quentin Collins. Desmond was, then, able to escape from the head's control?"
"That's right; because he lost the head. A houseguest of Desmond's mother Flora, a Miss Leticia Faye, discovered the head and realized it was exerting a malign influence on Desmond. In an attempt to help him, she secretly took the head, meaning to destroy it. Instead, of course, the head began influencing her."
"Leticia," murmured Dr. Hoffman, exchanging a meaningful glance with Professor Stokes. Gerard wondered what the meaning of that glance might be, but he knew he would never finish telling this tale if he went investigating up every side-channel.
"Desmond came to Quentin and me, and told us everything. He confessed that he was responsible for setting the body free, and begged for our help in finding the body—and the head—before they killed again. Unfortunately, we were unsuccessful. While searching the woods for the body, we found instead the old nursemaid of Quentin's son Tad. Her neck was horribly injured, but just before she died, she told us that she had been attacked by a headless man."
Mr. Malloy grumbled, "I think I'm gonna need a score-card to keep track of this. You said this Leticia was now being controlled by the head?"
"She was, yes; unbeknownst to us at that time. While Quentin, Desmond and I were running about like—" he grimaced and admitted, "I was going to say 'like headless chickens,' looking for the body, Leticia, under the head's direction, went to the body and took charge of it. Apparently she led it through the woods, by the hand, like the little child who leads the lion and the lamb. She led it to where the head directed her: to a hidden cave in the cliffs beneath Widows' Hill, that had once been used as a smugglers' refuge. It was also the meeting place of the warlock's coven."
Julia Hoffman looked as though she fully sympathized with Malloy's wish for a score-card. She asked, "The meeting place of the warlock's coven in the 1690s? Or at the time of the Bedford Atrocities?"
"No," said Gerard. "The meeting place of the warlock's coven in 1840."
Burke Devlin protested, "God, don't tell us all of them were immortal, too."
"Not as far as I know. It seems the original coven members maintained their allegiance to their master, and they passed down that allegiance to their sons—and so on, through the generations."
"And are you able to tell us the names of any of these men," inquired Stokes, "although you will not speak the name of their master?"
"I only know the name of one of them. Charles Dawson. I believe he was a lawyer in Collinsport."
The modern Quentin remarked, "I once knew a lawyer who dabbled in the black arts. I wonder if it goes with the territory."
Ignoring that, Stokes said, "Very well. Go on, Mr. Miller."
"As the warlock instructed her, Leticia also took the head to the cavern. So the head and the body were brought together again. She was then allowed to return to Rose Cottage, and freed from his control. The warlock had others who would obey his next commands. He summoned the members of his coven to the cave, and they began a spell to reunite the head and the body and restore their master fully to life."
"But something went wrong for them," put in Mr. Malloy.
"Yes. It did. There had been a witness to Leticia leading the headless body to the cavern: a young woman, the younger sister of Quentin's wife. She watched that entire nightmare scene of Leticia leading the body by the hand, and she followed, until she saw the cave and was certain that she could find her way to it again. Then she ran back to Collinwood to tell us what she had witnessed. She knew that Quentin, Desmond and I were seeking the monster that had murdered Tad's nursemaid, and she risked her own life to track Letitia and the body so she could tell us where the monster was."
As he told this part of the story, he was surprised to realize that he didn't remember Samantha's sister's name. That, he thought, is a shoddy showing on my part, considering that she was very briefly my sister-in-law.
He didn't, in fact, have many vivid memories of her at all. He supposed he had not paid much attention to her, in the midst of so assiduously wooing her elder sister. His clearest memories of her were of her hair: auburn ringlets piled atop her head, those ringlets bouncing as she raced through the door to Collinwood's drawing room, and of her eyes, so bright and gleaming with excitement, as she gasped out her news, "The headless body! I know where it is."
Gerard continued, "The three of us followed her directions to the cave. There we found that the warlock's coven had assembled, and their ritual was already underway. There were six of them, gathered in a circle around a rough stone altar on which the remains of their leader lay. All of them, the warlock as well as his followers, were clad in hooded robes. All of them also wore masks on their faces; metal masks decorated with jewels. The masks of the coven members looked to be formed of copper, but—as I was later to know too well—the warlock's mask was made of gold.
"Quentin, Desmond and I were watching all of this from hiding, behind the rocks at the entrance to the cave. We had no real plan, and they outnumbered us two to one—but we had an over-abundance of confidence. We thought that things could only get worse if we waited and allowed them to bring the warlock back to life. So—we charged into the cavern, shouting and waving Quentin's guns around, trying to make so much noise that they'd think we had a regiment backing us up."
He paused, struck with a feeling of melancholy, as he thought of how young and stupid the three of them had all been.
Professor Stokes observed, "Interruption of a magical ritual frequently leads to dire consequences. Would I be right in thinking that this interruption had dramatic results?"
"Yes," Gerard said uneasily. "Quite dramatic. They had been performing their ritual by candle-light. I don't know if it was from a candle being knocked over, or from the ritual going wrong—but suddenly the robes of the figure on the altar burst into flame. And then, almost immediately, the rocks forming the cave ceiling began to fall.
"The coven members escaped; or at least, I know that one of them did. I wouldn't be surprised if the others escaped as well. There was a tunnel at the back of the cave. They ran into that tunnel as the rocks started to fall. Quentin, Desmond and I barely made it back out to the beach without getting crushed.
"We thought … we thought that was the end of it. We had seen the body burning. We had seen enormous boulders falling on top of him; burying him. We thought the warlock was finally dead."
"But he wasn't dead," Julia Hoffman whispered.
"No," Gerard sighed. "He wasn't dead.
"I was the next one he summoned to aid him. I convinced myself that I went back there because of the mask. I kept thinking that if I could retrieve that golden mask with the jewels, it could be a …useful supplement to my income. Who wouldn't want something like that to fall back on in case of need? That was what I told myself, and I went back. I crawled through the passageway which was all that was left of the cave entrance, I scrambled over the mounds of fallen rocks, and I found … him.
"The body was entirely gone. In amidst the rocks, where the body had been, I found only tiny fragments of rotted fabric and bone. It was as through an ordinary human corpse had been lying there for a century and more, and that century-old skeleton was what the rock-fall had crushed.
"But the golden mask was untouched. There weren't even any rocks on top of it, as if his powers had been able to hold the rocks at bay. And under the mask, when I lifted it off … there was the head, undamaged. As I lifted the mask away, I saw that the head was staring at me. I saw its eyes blink. Then they went back to staring at me like … I don't know. Like nothing I'd ever seen. Like a basilisk, if such a thing were real.
"Sitting there on the ground beside the altar, also untouched by the cave-in, was the small glass display case in which Desmond had carried the head. I placed the head back into its case, and I took the head and the mask back with me to Rose Cottage."
Gerard reached out to the glass on the table next to him, seized it and gulped down the rest of the water from it. His audience were all intently waiting for him to continue, but he hardly even saw them. He was seeing too clearly the memories that lived behind his words.
"It didn't take me long to recognize that the head had me under its power. I began keeping a journal in which I recorded his thoughts, not mine. Desmond had started that journal; its first twenty pages or so were filled with rambling entries about finding his body, reuniting his body and his head, claiming his revenge. Sometimes those entries were in Desmond's handwriting, sometimes in the handwriting of—someone else. The same thing happened to me. I would find myself writing down thoughts that I knew were not mine, but the handwriting was still my own. And then my memory would black out, and when I returned to myself, I saw pages more of words I did not remember writing, in that other handwriting—his handwriting. The last entry I recall spoke of how his body had been destroyed, but he had found another body through which he would live again."
"Another body," Julia Hoffman whispered. "Yours."
"Yes," he whispered back. "Mine. After about a week of this, I knew I could never escape while the head survived. I had to destroy it, or he would destroy me. He would live through me, and I would be … nothing. So I took the head in its case to the top of the Widows' Hill cliff. I raised it above my head, and I threw it, case and all, as forcibly as I could. I saw the case shatter on the rocks far below, then be swallowed up by the next wave.
"I went back to Rose Cottage certain that I was safe; certain I was free. I knew the head was gone, gone forever. That same night, there came a knock at my chamber door. I opened it to find that man I mentioned to you, Charles Dawson. He had a smile like the smile of Mephistopheles in the illustrations of him striking his bargain with Faust. He said he had come to bring me something—and he held up the case. The case I had thrown off Widows' Hill, that I had seen be splintered on the rocks and washed away by the waves. And there inside the case, just the same as ever, sat the head.
"Dawson told me that he was a member of the warlock's coven; that he and his fellows had remained loyal to the allegiance of their forebears, awaiting their master's return. He told me that return was near at hand. He told me I had no chance, no options, no way out. I had no other choice but to place the warlock's golden mask upon my own face.
"I knew when I did so, it would be the end of me. But he was right; I had no choice. I put on the warlock's mask."
Dead silence followed that statement. At last Professor Stokes spoke a quiet question, "And is that the last thing you remember, before you awakened as a ghost?"
"No, Professor," Gerard answered. "I wish it were. I didn't lose consciousness at all. When the warlock's soul took up residence in my body, he placed my soul inside his severed head."
Mr. Malloy stated, "God damn."
Gerard knew he must have a very strange smile on his face, but at least he was neither laughing in hysterics nor sobbing. Not yet, at any rate.
"It was," he went on, "a convenient storage place for me, I suppose. In case he might find he had some use for me, later. But you need to understand … when he was there inside his head, he was able to see and hear. His powers made that possible for him. I didn't have those powers. When I was inside that head, there was only blackness with me. Blackness and silence. I saw nothing; I heard nothing. The only time I heard anything at all was when he spoke to me.
"He would do that sometimes. He enjoyed, at the end of his day, telling me what he had done. He loved gloating to me; telling me whatever he had done that day which brought him that much closer to achieving his full vengeance. He particularly loved telling me of his conquests among the women of Collinwood. He took special pleasure in relating to me every detail of those encounters—encounters he enjoyed through the vessel of my body, while I was trapped in the silence and the dark."
It was Quentin Collins who asked, "What stopped him? Your grave marker says 1841. So what happened? How was the warlock in your body killed?"
"I am getting to that. Unfortunately, I don't know what stopped him—or who. I believe someone killed him, and I have reason to believe that 'someone' was a woman. In the one meeting I had with him after my body was killed, he kept ranting about some 'she.' How 'she' was to blame for ruining all of his plans, when they had been so close to fruition."
Professor Stokes requested, "Will you tell us of that one meeting?"
"The first indication I had that anything had gone wrong for him was when I found myself no longer trapped inside the head. I was in my own form again—briefly—but somehow I understood that I wasn't alive. I'm not certain I can describe for you what that feels like. It is simply somehow different. You have the knowledge that your form exists, but that it is not made from flesh and bone—that it is, instead, a creation of concentrated energy."
The professor murmured, "Most intriguing."
"I did not have long to revel in my new freedom. I soon realized where I was: in the Collins Cemetery. I saw that I was standing beside a grave marker which bore my own name. And then I saw him.
"He came rushing at me like a simoom. He was a spiraling, raging cloud of hatred. Then he took form—the same form as my own. He grabbed me by the throat and hurled me across the cemetery. As I lay there, staring at him, he advanced upon me, ranting about the destruction of his plans. He swore that he would still have his revenge, that he would punish all the Collinses and all of their friends, and his first punishment would be for me. He told me I would never again be able to take the shape he had stolen from me. He said that he enjoyed my form and he would never give it up, and that in punishment for failing him, I would become a formless mass, haunting that graveyard for eternity." Gerard added in a parenthetical remark, "I'm not certain how he felt I had failed him, since he had left me trapped inside his severed head. I'm not certain how he expected me to do anything for him, in there."
With a shrugging movement of his hands, Gerard at last concluded, "And that was that. His curse, or whatever it was that he did to me, took effect. I saw my form fading away from around me; I saw it and felt it as I became something less substantial than mist. Then he vanished from my sight. I have not seen him since."
Unsurprisingly, his audience took some moments to digest his story.
"Revenge," finally murmured the current Quentin Collins. "You keep saying he wanted his revenge. What revenge; revenge for what?"
"When he was beheaded in the 1690s, the judge who condemned him was a Collins. It all comes back to that. What he wanted—what I suppose he still wants—is to destroy the Collins family. In 1840 he tried to wipe out the Collinses and to make himself the master of Collinwood. Maybe he still wants to do that now."
"All right," Mr. Malloy said. "So the question becomes, what do we do now?"
"Daphne," said Quentin Collins, in a strained-sounding voice. "You haven't mentioned anything about her, except for telling Julia she's another ghost who's come back to life. How did she get involved in all of this?"
"She began working as Tad Collins' governess about a week before the warlock stole my body. I barely had a chance to become acquainted with her, to my regret. I think we only encountered each other three or four times. The last time was on the day when my body became possessed. I had asked Daphne out to dine with me that night. I missed that appointment, due to having been stuck inside a bodiless head." Gerard added bitterly, "I don't know whether he kept that appointment for me or not. I suppose probably he did not. If he had done, he would have taken great pleasure in telling me all about it.
"He did take pleasure, later, in telling me in painstaking detail how he had added Daphne to his seraglio of handmaidens. She fell under his control like so many others. I presume his control of her survived after their deaths, and he still can direct her actions now."
"We still don't know what we're doing," said Malloy, standing up and starting to pace around the banquet room. "What's our next step?"
Julia Hoffman, Burke Devlin and Quentin Collins stood up as well, leaving only the professor and Gerard still seated. The doctoress said, "We've gotten the children away from him. Mr. Miller, you told me Sebastian Shaw saw a vision in which a woman and two children at Collinwood were helping your old enemy to destroy you?"
Gerard nodded.
"So at least we've taken one step in delaying his plans. We still ought to find Daphne, so she isn't free to do something else that may help him."
"We don't know that she would help him," Quentin Collins argued. "Daphne may be the 'she' Mr. Miller spoke of. The one who defeated the warlock's plans before, and who may have killed him."
"She may have been," pointed out Gerard. "I can think of a number of other plausible candidates. Quentin's wife Samantha and Gabriel Collins' wife Edith, for a start. He boasted to me about both of them. It's very likely they objected to the ways in which he used them—and even more likely they objected to both of them being members of his harem."
Burke Devlin said, "Well, whoever 'she' was, it makes sense for us track down this Daphne. I'll go look for her at the McGruder place—I mean, Rose Cottage," he amended, with a nod to Gerard.
"I'll come along," said Quentin Collins. "If there's only one of us, she could sneak out the back way while he's going in the front."
Mr. Malloy said, "I ought to stop by the office for a couple of hours. As long as the world hasn't ended yet, Collins Enterprises still has sardines to catch, pack and sell. But I'll give Sarah Johnson a call and ask her to take another tour through Collinwood's hidey-holes. She and I went through most of them last night, looking for the kids, but you never know. Maybe she'll find Daphne in one of them today."
Obviously remembering something, Malloy turned toward Dr. Hoffman and said, "Doc, what about that note you found? The 'Know ye who do not rest' one?"
"Oh," the lady doctor exclaimed, "yes!" She delved into her sizeable leathern handbag until she pulled out a small notebook, and out of that she took an exceedingly battered scrap of paper. This she handed to Gerard. She demanded, "What can you tell us about this?"
It felt so fragile he wondered if it would fall to pieces in his hands. Its corners were dog-eared enough that it looked almost as though they'd deliberately been rounded, and along the lines where it had been folded, the fibers of the paper seemed close to pulling apart.
On it a message was written in smooth, assured handwriting, but in ink now faded to such an extent that it took him some effort to decipher it. Frowning, he read the message to himself, Know ye who do not rest: In the town of Collinsport, in the dead of night, watch for the signal as ever before. The green flag in the window, three times shall it wave, as it did in days of yore. G.
He shook his head and looked up from the note, handing it back to Dr. Hoffman. "I'm sorry," he said. "It doesn't mean anything to me. I'm certain I've never seen it before."
Scowling as she placed it back inside her notebook, she asked, "And you don't recognize the handwriting?"
"No, but you have to understand: It's been over a century since anyone wrote to me. I've no doubt I've forgotten a great many people's handwriting."
Looking at him searchingly, the doctoress went on, "We thought it might have been written by you—or, I suppose, by the warlock. We guessed that the 'G' stood for Gerard."
"I assure you I didn't write it. And there are quite a number of other names which begin with the letter 'G.' Where did you find this?"
"Inside a book that I'm sure was at Collinwood in 1840. Or at least, it was published by then."
"Then in that case, my guess would be that it's one of Quentin's occult souvenirs. It's just the sort of thing that interested him. If he learned about some old legend of Collinsport and someone gave him this note connected with it, he'd be thrilled at being able to add it to his collection."
Professor Stokes remarked, "Your Quentin appears to have been a man after my own heart."
"There's more to this than a note in an old book," put in Malloy. "Tell him about the green flag in the tower."
"Yes," Julia Hoffman sighed. "Soon after I found this note, it disappeared, and I realized David had taken it. That is … yes, I'm sure he was still David then. I'm almost certain his possession wasn't completed yet. I found David in the tower room. He had a small green satin flag, on a pole, and he was starting to wave it at the window. I took the flag and the note away from him, and he wouldn't tell me anything about what he was doing. I believe I was able to stop him before he could wave the flag three times."
Gerard had no notion of what all of this was about, but he felt certain that he did not like the sound of it. "What did you do with the green flag?"
"Took it over to Elliott's house," she answered, casting a smile at the professor.
Stokes smiled back and continued, "Where it is safely under lock and key. So we need have no fear of that particular green flag being waved without our knowledge. Of course, we have no knowledge of whether 'ye who do not rest' are watching for only that particular green flag, or whether any green flag would do."
"All right," Mr. Malloy said with a sigh, "so we don't know anything more about the green flag." He added to Devlin and the modern Quentin Collins, "Let's set forth on our quests."
The three of them departed, leaving Dr. Hoffman, the professor and Gerard. Professor Stokes had his hands steepled together in front of him. He looked deep in thought for a moment. Then he emerged from his contemplation enough to inquire of Gerard, "What became of the head and the golden mask?"
"I don't know. I never heard anything of them again, after—after the warlock and I died. I don't even know if they still exist."
"Then you have no indication that the warlock will be using them in his current campaign?"
"No … No, I think he probably isn't. Maybe they've both been destroyed, or maybe, at least, he's lost them. I think … I think his powers may be weaker now, than they were when he still had the head. That's why he needed the children to perform the spell that brought Daphne back, and he needed the children and Daphne to bring me back to life. And I think that's why he wants me again. If he had the head, like before, he ought to be able to possess anyone he chooses. But without it, perhaps he needs to follow an easier path. I'm the easier path. He possessed me once before, so I'll be simpler for him to take again. It's just a question of following a path that he knows."
The professor nodded. "Your theory makes sense. But I wish we knew what the fates of the head and the mask may have been. It might prove to be knowledge that we could use against him."
The lady doctor suggested, "I can go to the newspaper archive and the court house. I should be able to find records or news articles from 1841 that may give us some clues, now that we know more about what we're looking for. Maybe something will give us a clue to what happened to the head and the mask."
"Yes," said Professor Stokes, getting to his feet. "And I have sources of my own which I should consult. Mr. Miller, will you remain here at the inn, so we may consult with you when the need arises?"
"Certainly," he said. "I'll be here."
That is to say, his thoughts continued, I wouldn't remain here at the inn, if I had the money to pay for my transportation out of town. He hadn't missed noticing the irony of the professor saying that he would consult his sources, and also that he planned to consult with Gerard. He thought, That's me, just another one of Professor Stokes' sources.
But, he reflected, better to be one of the professor's sources than one of the warlock's tools.
Upstairs in his hotel room, he thought again that today's people of Collinwood were keeping him in reserve in this room, much as the warlock had kept him in reserve in the head.
But that, he knew, was allowing his resentful feelings to take him too far.
Sitting in this room was a hell of a lot better option than his sightless, soundless, disembodied imprisonment in someone else's severed head.
He sat in the room's one armchair with his feet propped up on the bed. This felt like a good time to let himself drift into sleep. Thus far, he'd had a physically and emotionally taxing return to life, and he'd not had a very restful night. A little nap would be just right … except that suddenly he was thinking of naps he had taken in 1840 which had not ended well.
There was that nap in which he'd dreamt of the warlock, telling him with that odious smirk, "I am to become you, and you are to become nothing." And then another nap had ended with the knock on the door, and Charles Dawson with his Mephistopheles smile, announcing, "I've come to bring you something."
As if conjured out of his memories, a knock sounded on the door.
Gerard started. With a thump he brought his booted feet down off the bed. Then he leapt up.
"Who's there?" he called, hating the fear in his voice.
The answer returned, "Elliott Stokes."
When he opened the door, the professor swooped in, brandishing a large and much-worn book. To Gerard the book looked as though it probably pre-dated his own time.
Professor Stokes declared, his eyes gleaming with triumph, "I am all-but certain I have identified your warlock in these pages. Since you prudently will not speak his name, will you tell me if I am correct when I point it out to you?"
Gerard realized he felt frightened even by that prospect. But he still said, "Yes."
The professor opened the book to a page he had marked and held it out to Gerard. "Here," he said, pointing to the spot in question. "Is that the name?"
He looked at it, and his innards churned. The two words were the same size as all of the surrounding print, but to him they looked many times as large. They looked as though the edges of the letters were singed; as if they had been branded into the page.
He looked at the page and he read, Judah Zachary.
"Yes," he whispered, suddenly shutting his eyes. "Yes, that's him."
"Good," came the professor's voice. "Then I know what I must do."
When Gerard opened his eyes again, it was to find that Professor Stokes had hastened to the room's small desk and sat down at it. Stokes called, "I trust it is all right if I use some of your room's stationery?" He had already helped himself to a piece of writing paper as he asked the question.
"Yes, of course," Gerard assented. He walked over to the professor and then found himself staring in fascination at the pen Stokes was writing with—like the stationery, a complimentary feature of the hotel room.
He thought, There's ink inside the pen! That's why I didn't find any inkwell, sand or blotting paper on the desk.
He watched, almost mesmerized, as the professor's round, flowing script emerged out of the pen as though by an act of magic.
Professor Stokes swiftly finished his letter and folded it. Standing up, he asked briskly, "Will you be so good as to give that to Julia Hoffman the next time you see her?"
"Certainly," Gerard said. "But what are you going to do?"
The professor pulled the watch from his vest pocket and consulted it. He said, "I should be able to reach Bangor in time to catch the next flight to Boston. From there, I'll be able to choose the flight that will get me to Europe the soonest."
Gerard gaped at him. "Europe?" he repeated. "But … doesn't going to Europe take weeks?"
"Nowadays," said Stokes, with a smile, "it should take me no more than a day."
"But … don't your friends need you here?"
"It is in order to help my friends that I'm going there. Now that you've confirmed the warlock's identity, I realize what I have to do. The man I'm seeking can't be reached by telephone or telegraph, and a letter would take too long. I must go and find him myself. I believe he is the only man alive who is capable of defeating this enemy."
Gerard wasn't certain why, but all the same he felt that this step was profoundly wrong. "Professor," he began. "Professor … I feel that you shouldn't go."
Stokes frowned in thought. For a moment Gerard wondered if he'd succeeded in convincing the man that easily. But, of course, he had not.
"Thank you," Stokes said. "But I feel certain this is what must be done. It may be the only chance we have."
When he was alone again, Gerard found himself wondering, The only chance we have?
Stokes is fooling himself, isn't he? It's not our only chance, because we have no chance. We have no chance at all.
Stop it, you idiot. That's the sort of thought the warlock wants you to think.
Why should he think about all of them being doomed, instead of being grateful for what he suddenly had?
He was alive again. He was neither an amorphous ghost nor a spirit trapped inside a warlock's head.
He went to the window and opened it, gazing out over the familiar rooftops of Collinsport—familiar to him for the most part, although big, blocky modern buildings reared their ugly selves upward here and there. For a while he just stood there appreciating the fact that he could see the blue sky. He could smell the sea air. He could hear the seagulls as they wheeled raucously past.
And he could hear another knock that sounded on his door.
Not again, he thought.
I wonder if I will live long enough to stop thinking that every knock on the door is going to be Charles Dawson?
Again he called, "Who's there?"
"An old friend, love," came a bright and brassy feminine voice from outside the door. "Look 'ere, this bag isn't 'alf 'eavy, you know. Be a darling, Gerard, and let me in."
He thought, It can't be.
He opened the door.
A diminutive, slender young woman stood in the corridor. She had hair like sunlight and wore a pale blue dress that revealed an astonishing amount of her legs. She was clutching to her bosom a big, bulging, colorful cloth bag, and she was grinning up at him.
And he almost recognized her.
"Well?" she challenged. "Are you just going to stand there with a face like a smacked arse? It's Leticia, love; 'oo do you think I am? Ain't you going to give your old friend a kiss?"
