Disclaimer: Dark Shadows is a Dan Curtis Production and not mine
CHAPTER 12: A SECRET IN THE WEST WING
As Julia hovered over Cassandra's unconscious form, inspecting her pulse, Maggie closely investigated the grotesquely altered painting displayed in its frame on its easel. "What happened to her portrait?"
"An old dear friend generously made some detailed alterations for me," Barnabas explained to her elegantly.
"Does your friend have some kind of supernatural power?" Maggie inquired curiously. "Willie told me you actually burned it after he stole it for you, but that clearly didn't destroy it."
"The ghost of my former servant Ben Stokes has kindly altered this portrait," exclaimed Barnabas.
Maggie nodded at this. She and Willie met Ben Stokes' ghost when they ventured back to the Old House on the night Barnabas creeped right back into their lives. Ben was the one who'd reluctantly welcomed them into the haunted manor. Willie also told Maggie that Ben was the one who brought his minimal belongings to the Evans cottage sometime after Josette freed them from the Old House.
"Barnabas, look." Julia removed Cassandra's black veil.
The former vampire and the maid stepped up to the unconscious witch. Her entire face was sagging, beyond wrinkling, very much like melted skin. She was completely unrecognizable from the woman she was. Her hair was a greasy white matted mess. She looked exactly like the old woman in the mystically aged portrait.
Maggie softly gasped, her eyes widened over the startling comparison to this unconscious woman in the doctored portrait.
Barnabas' dark eyes held no emotion.
"Has Ben's alterations to her portrait weakened her supernatural powers?" Julia queried Barnabas with a knitted brow.
"It must have," her subject answered. "Otherwise, she would not have required a pistol to harm me."
"The ambulance is on its way, Barnabas." Willie quietly creaked up to the open bedroom doorway and leaned lazily against the doorframe. He spotted the doctored portrait and the unrecognizable ancient hag lying unconscious on the floor. "Who's she?"
"She is the witch, Willie," Barnabas told him importantly.
"Ben Stokes' ghost aged her portrait to make her old," Maggie added helpfully.
"Does this mean she'll leave the people here alone?" Willie's tone was incredulous but very hopeful. "And Barnabas?"
"I'm going to take care of her," Julia said steadily.
"Loomis, you're not seriously cutting out on a job, are you?" At the sound of Burke's approaching voice, Julia quickly collected the pistol while covering the witch's withered face with her veil. She hid the pistol in the pocket of her sweater.
Burke rushed over to Willie at the open doorway. His gaze caught sight of the veiled individual lying unconscious on the floor.
"I truly apologize for intercepting Willie, Mr. Devlin," Barnabas smoothly condescended before Burke could properly react to what he was seeing. Barnabas stiffly stood directly in front of the portrait to hide it from Burke. "But I am afraid there has been an unfortunate accident here."
"Mrs. Collins suffered a nervous breakdown," Julia cunningly invented. "I had Willie call for an ambulance. I must get her to Windcliff."
"It's that serious?" Burke creased a skeptical brow then crossed his arms over his broad chest. "Can't our humble little hospital in town help her?"
"I'm afraid not," persisted Julia, "she needs a special kind of psychological treatment and care."
"Does Roger know?" asked Burke.
"No, not yet," answered Barnabas.
"Dr. Woodard is here evaluating David," Julia told Burke. "Could you inform him about the accident?"
"Yeah." Burke eyed Barnabas and Julia narrowly. He faced Willie. "You might as well wait for the ambulance to arrive."
"I-I can get g-goin' to t-the West Wing," Willie insisted nervously. "I-I wasn't cuttin' off from the job, D-Devlin. I-I swear to ya."
"I know that, Willie," Burke assured him wearily. "But since you were the one to call the ambulance, it seems sensible for you to wait for them to arrive."
"You should inform Dr. Woodard of Mrs. Collins' condition," Barnabas pressed Burke silkily.
"Yes, of course." Burke cast Barnabas another narrow look and journeyed back into the dreary corridor.
Once he left, Maggie wordlessly marveled at how natural Barnabas and Julia were together when it came to lying. Very strong teamwork. Very much like herself and Willie in concealing Barnabas' secret, especially from the Collins family.
Maggie watched Julia carefully wipe away any fingerprints from the pistol before she deposited it back into the dresser drawer.
"Wha-Wha does this mean, Barnabas?" Willie stammered from the doorway. "Is ya curse finally gone?"
Barnabas turned to the hideous portrait. He stared deeply into the ancient blue eyes hopelessly staring back at him.
"I hope so, Willie." He peeled the portrait from its frame and stuffed it inside his suit jacket.
David laid under the warm covers of his bed, still miserably sick with the illness his wicked stepmother discretionally inflicted on him. His misery was unfortunately intensified while Dr. Woodard sat beside his bed, poking him into oblivion. His aunt Elizabeth stood concernedly by the foot of the bed, her lips set in a firm straight line. David felt the comforting and cold presence of the unseen Sarah lying close beside him on the bed.
"The doctor cannot help you, David," the ghost girl whispered in his ear, her voice very disheartened. "Only the witch can lift her horrible spell off of you."
David groaned as Dr. Woodard took his blood pressure.
Vicki creaked open the bedroom door. "I saw your car from out the window, Dr. Woodard." The governess joined the matriarch at the foot of the bed, leaving the door open. "Will David be alright?"
"As far as I can tell, he has the flu." Dr. Woodard finished taking the boy's blood pressure.
"Has it gotten worse?" Vicki questioned worryingly. "He takes all of his vitamins and medicine. He drinks his juice, and hardly leaves this bed."
"There is a medication I'd like to prescribe," exclaimed Dr. Woodard.
"I-I don't have the flu," David wheezed out.
Elizabeth and Vicki gaped at the boy.
Dr. Woodard frowned. "What was that, David?"
"It's my Stepmother," David's raspy voice managed. "S-She's a w-witch. She c-cast a s-spell on me."
"Roger's wife is a witch?" Dr. Woodard already knew this, but found it intriguing that David found out about it. But given David's fantastic tales about his friendships with his family's ancestral ghosts, it wasn't that farfetched for him to stumble upon the truth about Cassandra.
But what was really troubling was that Cassandra supernaturally made David sick. How could the doctor possibly cure the boy from something as impossible as witchcraft? Should Julia be assigned to his treatment, considering she successfully cured a man of vampirism?
"T-The witch has to lift her spell off me," David whispered gloomily, his voice still weak. "Sarah says so."
"David," Vicki murmured softly.
"She really has hurt you, hasn't she, David?" Elizabeth said soberly.
David nodded, his head gently resting on his soft pillow.
"I should've thrown her out the moment Roger brought her into this house," Elizabeth said with shaky emotion, her eyes heavy with regret.
"Do you really think Mrs. Collins is a witch?" Dr. Woodard inquired in a fascinated tone. He deeply wondered if the matriarch suspected that there was something amiss with her cousin from England yet.
"She has brought nothing but ill will to my family," Elizabeth stated heatedly, rubbing the rough contours of her brow.
"I don't like the effect she has on Roger," Vicki exclaimed to her.
Before Dr. Woodard could throw in a word edgewise, Burke appeared at the open bedroom door.
"Dave," he said informally from the doorway, "there's been an accident in Roger's room. You are badly needed."
"What happened?" asked Dr. Woodard.
"Well, it seems that the new Mrs. Collins suffered some kind of bizarre nervous breakdown," Burke filled in. "She's lying unconscious on her bedroom floor. Willie called for an ambulance."
"What!" Dr. Woodard was flabbergasted.
"Dr. Hoffman insists that she be taken out of town to Windcliff," Burke exclaimed.
"Is it really that serious?" Vicki looked at her fiancé stunned.
"She's lying unconscious on the floor," Burke said to her. "She's clearly not well."
"I better see what this is all about." Dr. Woodard returned his supplies back into his medical bag. "David, there is a medicine I'd like to prescribe for you. It should help you feel better."
The boy didn't try to utter anything. He stared up at the doctor blankly with unsettling dark eyes, his head still resting on his pillow.
Dr. Woodard got up to his feet, bag in hand, and joined Burke at the doorway. "Can you show me to Roger's room?"
"Right this way."
The doctor followed the businessman out into the corridor, with the anxious Vicki gaining up the rear. The equally anxious Elizabeth wanted to join the group, but a weak sickly voice halted her.
"Aunt Elizabeth."
The matriarch turned her gaze to her small, pale nephew resting in his bed. "Yes, David. Is there anything you need?"
"Aunt Elizabeth," the boy lowly murmured. "Do we have a relative named Quentin Collins?"
"A living relative?" Elizabeth furrowed her brow in deep contemplation. "Not that I know of. But we did have many ancestors through the generations that went by that name."
"I know." David looked at her plainly. There was something haunting about his small scratchy voice.
But Elizabeth wasn't really surprised that David knew about the various Quentins. Often times, he'd rather select the family's dusty history volumes over his own children's books for story time.
"The last Quentin was from the turn-of-the-century," David uttered matter-of-factly.
"Yes, he was your Grandpa Jamison's uncle," Elizabeth recalled.
"Have you ever met him?" David coughed violently into his fist.
"No." Elizabeth shook her head, gravely concerned for him.
"Did Grandpa ever talk about him?" David whispered in a gagging tone.
"Not that I recall," Elizabeth said thoughtfully. "But I know your Grandpa knew him when he was a boy."
"Do you know what happened to Quentin?" queried David.
"He went off to Paris according to the family records," supplied Elizabeth casually. "He must be dead by now."
David darted his cloudy gaze to the antique candlestick telephone sitting on his desk.
Sarah's disembodied whisper creeped right back into his ear. "Oh, David. Why won't you throw away that terrible telephone!"
The past hour and a half was a convoluted jaw dropper for Dr. Woodard. He examined the unconscious witch on Roger's bedroom floor in the presence of Barnabas and Julia.
The crafty Dr. Hoffman managed to shut Elizabeth, Vicki, and Burke out in the corridor, greatly stressing that the new Mrs. Collins needed some room to breathe without a cluttered audience.
When Dr. Woodard removed the lacy black veil from the witch's face, his glasses nearly slid gracelessly down the bridge of his nose very much like a comedy sketch.
The woman's face was beyond ancient, her skin as rough and dry as sandpaper. Her hair was white, greasy, and matted. This was clearly not the young hot number Roger married a very short time ago.
"Are you trying to fool me, Julia?!" The doctor's eyes bulged dangerously. "Who is this?"
"I can honestly assure you that this is the witch, Dr. Woodard," Barnabas explained coolly. "Her appearance has been altered. Truthfully, this is her correct age. She really isn't young."
"How was her appearance altered?" Dr. Woodard questioned interestedly.
"The ghost of my servant Ben Stokes sabotaged her portrait by aging it," explained Barnabas drolly.
"The ghost of your servant?" Dr. Woodard spluttered. "He magically aged this portrait and thus her in the process?"
"It's really not that farfetched, Dave," Julia cut in rationally. "This woman is a witch after all, and what better way to fight her but with supernatural powers."
Dr. Woodard couldn't believe those words actually spilled out of Julia's mouth with such natural ease. But it was pointless to deny it; the world was clearly not a boring and mundane place. It was filled with fantastic dark secrets.
Dr. Woodard rubbed his irritable brow.
Oh, the world made much more sense before Barnabas arrived here, he thought.
"Her condition is not of great importance," Barnabas imperiously argued. "Getting her to the asylum is, and we must conceal her face. The family mustn't see it."
"You should look after her, Julia," Dr. Woodard suggested. "You're a natural at dealing with monstrous patients. I'll prescribe some medication for David, and wait for the ambulance to arrive."
"Very well, Dave," Julia agreed.
"But if this is really the end of the witch, then hopefully David won't need this prescription," said Dr. Woodard. "He seems to think that she's responsible for his illness."
"She is," Barnabas confirmed solemnly.
After prescribing David's medicine to Elizabeth, who was busy tending to the sick boy back in his bedroom, Dr. Woodard moved downstairs where Burke and Vicki nervously awaited the ambulance's arrival in the foyer.
As Vicki paced with fidgety fingers, Burke tenderly tried to ease her stressed nerves. Dr. Woodard spotted Willie and Maggie seated on the couch in the drawing room. After exchanging friendly and brief pleasantries with the engaged couple, the doctor crossed to the drawing room and closed its doors behind him.
"Is she still knocked out?" Willie asked the doctor tentatively.
"Yes, Willie." The doctor approached the couple on the couch, his medical bag still in hand.
"She's really going to Windcliff?" Maggie queried in a small voice.
"It looks like." Dr. Woodard sighed. "She'll be in Julia's capable hands."
"What's going to happen to her?" asked Maggie.
"I honestly have no idea," Dr. Woodard hesitantly admitted. "Windcliff does contain some criminal psychopaths, but I don't know if it could possibly slow down an evil witch that can cast all of these hocus-pocus spells."
Willie and Maggie didn't crack a smile at the doctor's wisecrack. Noting the dark haunted look sparking within the couple's eyes, Dr. Woodard took pity on them. "I've been wondering how you two have been holding up lately."
"Oh, we're fine." Maggie smiled faintly.
"How do you like working in this big house?" persisted Dr. Woodard.
"Devlin and Mrs. Stoddard don't beat me," Willie muttered.
"But Roger Collins locked us in the tower room," Maggie informed him. "He's under the witch's spell, and he tried to freeze us to death."
"Oh, yes, Sam told me all about that." Dr. Woodard rubbed his chin. "Is it true that ghosts roam the halls of this house, just as Josette haunts the Old House?"
"Yeah, but the ghost lady we saw in the tower room is crazy," Willie hotly supplied.
"If you ask me, she's the one that needs to be locked up at Windcliff," Maggie insisted lightly.
"Now, Maggie, Windcliff does not permit ghosts," Dr. Woodard chided kiddingly.
"No, just evil witches," Maggie joked.
"Yes, it seems," Dr. Woodard conceded. "I was wondering if I may be allowed to check on your bite marks."
"What for?" Willie looked as if the doctor punched him in the jaw.
"I just want to see how you two are coping physically," Dr. Woodard insisted professionally.
"All right," Maggie allowed reluctantly.
She tucked her auburn hair behind her ear, enabling the doctor to inspect her bare neck. Once he was done, the doctor shifted his focus to Willie.
"All right, Willie. Your turn."
Willie looked at him horrorstruck. It reminded Dr. Woodard of the night he went over to the Old House to take a sample of his blood. Barnabas' servant was just as shaky and timid then as he was now.
"Come on, Willie," Dr. Woodard persuaded patiently. "I'm not going to hurt you, and you know that."
Rather reluctantly, Willie lifted the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Dr. Woodard closely examined his wrist, and then his neck.
"I always knew you two were connected by those bite marks," stated the doctor.
"Yeah, me and Maggie told ya that," uttered Willie.
"Yes, but Barnabas switched your blood sample," Dr. Woodard reminded him with a little bitterness in his voice. "And stole Maggie's out from under me. I never actually saw it for myself - until now."
"What do you mean?" Maggie's brow furrowed.
Dr. Woodard finished examining Willie, and exclaimed, "The scarring is gone. No tissue or inflammation remain."
"What?" Maggie gawked at the doctor.
"It looks as though you two were never bitten at all," said Dr. Woodard.
Maggie tenderly grasped Willie's wrist to examined it for herself. His old bite marks were nonexistent, his skin completely smooth. Maggie gently lined her fingers up and down his wrist, feeling his pulse within the vein. A titillating sensation swooped up the former vampire slave's arm.
"Julia's cure might have something to do with the disappearance of those scars," Dr. Woodard speculated.
"Barnabas ain't a vampire no more," Willie muttered, enjoying the tingling sensation Maggie sent up his arm.
"Do you two still feel connected to him?" Dr. Woodard questioned. "Physically or supernaturally?"
"I really don't know," murmured Maggie. "We both went through a traumatic ordeal with him."
"I understand," Dr. Woodard said sympathetically. "If you two are now completely released from his supernatural hold, then you should really take control of your lives again. Make plans for the future."
Maggie slid her fingers down to Willie's hand, where their fingers warmly and naturally entwined.
"We're already doin' that, doc," Willie exclaimed.
"Good." Dr. Woodard grinned.
The doors flung wide open, Burke stood in the entryway. "Is there something the matter in here?"
"No, everything is just fine." Dr. Woodard continued to grin at the cozy looking young couple sitting on the couch.
"Good. Me and Vicki think we heard the ambulance arriving outside," Burke reported.
With his medical bag still grasped in his hand, Dr. Woodard hurried out into the foyer, where Vicki still waited.
A loud knock sounded off at the front doors, and Vicki instantly answered. A group of paramedics hurried in carrying a gurney.
"Thank goodness you're here," Vicki said relieved.
"This is Willie," Dr. Woodard gestured toward the young man who came out of the drawing room, along with his best girl. "He's the one who called for you."
After the paramedics acknowledged Willie, Dr. Woodard instructed authoritatively, "Follow me upstairs."
Not long after the paramedics crossed the threshold, Roger stepped up to the entrance from the freezing gray outdoors, garbed in his checkered coat, fedora, and leather gloves. He wore the most bewildered look on his characteristically stuffy face when he encountered the paramedics.
"What is this?" he demanded shortly. "Has there been some sort of accident?"
"It's your wife, Rog," Burke filled in bluntly. "She had some sort of fit and was knocked unconscious."
"What?" Roger gasped.
"Dr. Hoffman is going to keep her under her care at Windcliff," Dr. Woodard explained calmly.
"What?" Roger was even more unnerved than he was a short moment ago. He abruptly raced up the staircase, trailing along some snow on the flagstone floor of the foyer.
The paramedics obediently followed Dr. Woodard up the staircase with the gurney.
Ten minutes later, the team carried out a veiled woman strapped to the gurney, and carefully treaded their way down the stairs.
Burke, Vicki, Willie, and Maggie watched from below.
Up the landing, a group consisting of Barnabas, Julia, Roger, Elizabeth, and Dr. Woodard filed out of the top door.
Barnabas and Julia carefully followed the paramedics down the stairs, along with Dr. Woodard. Elizabeth and Roger remained on the top landing, leaning over the banister.
Vicki gazed up at Roger's face, and was put off by how blank his eyes were as he watched his helpless wife get carried away. Roger showed not the slightest hint of emotion.
Burke's attention was diverted by something else. "Why is Mrs. Collins' face covered in a veil?"
"She's in shock and is highly sensitive to stimulants," Julia told him simply, as she and Barnabas completed their trip down the stairs.
"I thought she was knocked out." Burke frowned.
No one responded to him.
"Willie, how is the medallion?" Maggie whispered very softly, as everyone was distracted by the witch getting whisked away. Maggie placed a hand on Willie's chest, feeling the medallion through the dusty fabric of his sweatshirt. The trinket felt lukewarm. It barely reacted to the witch being so near.
Willie grinned down at her, clearly pleased she was touching him again. Those pleasant tingling sensations had returned.
Barnabas and Julia followed the paramedics out of the front doors. Once they reached the snowy front porch, they spotted Joe Haskell racing his way through the thick snow on the grounds with a shovel in hand.
"What's going on here?" he panted heavily as a result of his running through the snow.
He observed the familiar veiled individual getting hauled into the muddy white ambulance truck.
"I'm afraid Mrs. Collins suffered through a troubling ordeal," Barnabas told Joe silkily. "She is being admitted to Windcliff Sanitarium."
"What?!" Joe glared at Barnabas harshly. "Did you do this to her?!"
His mistress' whispered words from the night before crept right back into his thoughts. How Barnabas was responsible for their shared pain, and how they were kindred souls. Joe still didn't know how Barnabas broke Cassandra's heart, but he inwardly vowed to find out.
More of his mistress' words further taunted him. Willie and Maggie are Barnabas' servants. He is the reason why she left you for Willie. They are very much against us.
"You're trying to take her away from me!" Joe desperately wanted to strike Barnabas with his shovel.
"I have done nothing to her." Barnabas looked at the young man affronted. "I see you are well acquainted with her," he added.
"Mr. Haskell, I can assure you that Mrs. Collins is very ill," Julia chimed in calmly. She turned to Barnabas. "I am going to accompany them. You should get back to the Old House."
The woman doctor quickly rushed inside the Great House to collect her coat and medical bag.
"She has been poisoning your mind," Barnabas told Joe seriously. "You mustn't allow her to destroy you like this. Fight her."
"Listen to him, Joe," Millicent's disembodied voice whispered gently in his ear. "You must comprehend that she is controlling you, and only you can make your will your own again."
At the sound of her voice, Joe turned away from Barnabas, his eyes mist with great pain and anguish.
As he silently watched Julia climb into the ambulance truck in her long green coat and medical bag, he inwardly countered Millicent's plea. Sometimes when I'm with her, it feels so nice not to have to think or feel anything.
As the ambulance truck carefully rode away from the Collins estate on the winding wintery road, Josette's wispy ghost watched flowing high above the icy, high-pitched rooftop of the Great House. She leaned against one of the chimneys.
Her white veil gently billowed in the winter breeze under the cloudy gray sky. The witch was dragged away from the family home, and this welcoming development brought a victorious smirk to the ghost lady's lips.
Once the muddy vehicle disappeared from sight, Josette floated to the back of the mansion. She tried to dematerialized through one of the stained-glass windows. But she found it remained impenetrable.
She was blocked out.
Josette raised a quizzical eyebrow. She attempted to dematerialized through the window again. But like the first attempt, a hidden barrier kept her at bay. Josette sighed.
"This can't be," she said silently. "Angelique's banishment is still intact."
The forbidden corridor in the West Wing grew ever more shrouded in inky black shadows and gray dreariness. The dusty windows were even gloomier than usual, matching the bleak weather outside.
The haunting dour music that routinely taunts the air effectively enveloped the dark space.
Two ghosts, Tim Shaw and Rachel Drummond, leaned against the elaborate paneled wall, guarding the dark phantom imprisoned inside. The two dead guards were silent.
Rachel still donned the ghostly white gown and veil so she could continue to be the striking image of Josette. She sat on the filthy flagstone floor with both her legs and the long silky skirt of her gown curled beneath her.
Tim stood tall on his feet beside her, resting the back of his sandy blonde head against the wall.
There was not a single solitary sound echoing through the corridor, only Quentin Collins' song. A melody that unwelcomely kept Tim and Rachel company all through the night and the entirety of the day.
"Quentin's song becomes exceedingly tedious and increasingly incessant the more I listen to it," Tim remarked sardonically.
"He played it quite frequently in life as well," Rachel filled in from the floor. "He played it for me once. He poured me some sherry in the drawing room, and recited its lyrics for me - Shadows of the Night."
"Sounds like he was trying to - romance you," Tim commented awkwardly.
"I suppose." Rachel shrugged innocently. "But I knew what he was. I accidentally spotted him with Beth a few times when I worked here as governess. I also saw several other ladies coming to see him out at that cabin on the grounds."
A manic cackling broke through Quentin's song, accompanied by white swirling light. The hyperactive Carl burst out of the swirl of light, and bounced around the foreboding corridor like an animated sugar wired five-year-old.
"My, Carl, Jamison and Nora never got this excited." Rachel smiled cheerily behind her veil, as Carl wildly bounced off the walls and darkened ceilings.
"What is the cause for celebration?" Tim asked jovially, as the boyish ghost continued his chaotic bouncing. "I am beginning to feel as though Rachel and I need something to celebrate."
Carl finally calmed down, and threw the duo a bewildered look.
"You two still guarding Quentin?"
"Obviously, Beth is still persuading Jenny to rest in her grave," exclaimed Tim.
"Still?" Carl said aghast.
"She should be here at any moment ," Rachel said reasonably.
"Good, because everything is becoming much more splendid," Carl said giddily. "The witch has gone, Rachel! We have won!"
"The witch has gone?" Rachel floated up from the floor.
"Yes, I witnessed her get whisked away in a dirty and disgraceful vehicle," Carl reported happily.
"Thank goodness," Rachel said pleasantly behind her veil. "I feared my Josette ruse was beginning to wane. The witch told me so herself."
"I for one will be immensely glad when you finally cast aside this silly gown and veil and dress more like Rachel Drummond again." Tim lifted up the veil to remove it from his darling friend's bright, cheery face.
As Carl watched Tim gently stroke Rachel's cheek, he found himself missing his dear Pansy terribly. Curse his prudish family for forbidding her from the Great House.
As the inky shadows slowly encroached upon the corridor, the three ghosts felt tightly encased by its imposing blackness. Quentin's song strongly intensified, bouncing off the paneled walls in rumbling vibrations.
Boldly, Carl charged the prison wall and ferociously banged on it.
"You cannot frighten us, you rotten lecher!" he shouted angrily, but there was clear intimidation in his voice. "We are as dead as you!"
"Carl, calm down," Tim intervened. "Quentin is trying to provoke you. He is acting strangely riled. He has been since Beth left to take care of Jenny."
"He is always trying to rile me" Carl retorted hotly.
"I am not certain why he is acting like this," Tim clarified. "I think he is in distress. Hopefully, Beth will calm him."
"What makes you so certain that he is in distress?" Carl demanded petulantly.
"He displayed such a vulnerability when Count Petofi was here in our own time," Tim explained patiently. "After you and Rachel were killed. He tried to harm Quentin and make his curse worse."
"And Quentin hasn't tried riling us until now," Rachel pointed out. "And his music has never been this intense. The walls are actually shaking."
"I sincerely hope Petofi being physically here is not prompting Quentin's temper," said Tim.
"This Count Petofi sounds awful," said Rachel. "Is he really capable of such tremendous power?"
"He can force his entire body into suspended animation so he can possess the souls of the living," Tim informed her direly.
"Oh, no, he mustn't come into this house then," Rachel said worryingly.
"Quentin is dangerous enough," said Carl. "We just disposed of one undesirable person trying to curse my family. But so long as the family keeps this Petofi locked out of this house, Quentin will remain just a rotten secret."
"Count Petofi is really cunning, Carl," Tim warned. "I hope he isn't plotting something, but he likely is."
"I just hope Beth will be able to calm Quentin when she returns," murmured Rachel.
Once Cassandra Collins was unceremoniously rushed out of the Great House, a still calm settled in the old darkened corridors of the ancestral mansion.
As far as Vicki was concerned, this was no different from the corridors of the West Wing, despite the construction crew still pounding about. But in the past couple of days, dramatic progress had begin to unfold. The West Wing was no longer a hazardous zone cluttered by torn up ceilings, walls and debris. New paneling and plaster now replaced the old dingy cracked walls and ceilings, and the corridors appeared far more civilized. New gothic crown moldings would soon adorned the new walls.
Passing by many of the construction crew, including Tom, whom Vicki said hi to while passing, she found Burke in the lounge alone leaning against the cold and empty fireplace, studying some well-worn blueprints.
Like most of the corridors, the lounge had received a massive overhaul with new plaster and trimmings. It was slowly transforming into the old world room Vicki dreamed of.
Hearing her step in, Burke glanced up from the blueprints, rolled them up, and placed them on the mantle.
"Vicki." Reading the weary expression on her face, he added tiredly, "It's been a hell of a day. It's pretty mind boggling how Roger's wife is heading off to Windcliff. I wonder what the real reason was they put that veil over her mug."
"I'm far more concerned about David." Vicki crossed to the bay window glumly.
Burke joined her. "I'm worried about him, too. After all, me and Davey-boy are best buddies."
"I know." Vicki bestowed him with a small grin. "I just hope Dr. Woodard can find some way to help him."
"I have every confidence that he will." Burke comfortingly rubbed her shoulder. "Doc Woodard is the best."
Vicki graced him with a full smile this time.
"On the bright side, the West Wing is coming together." Burke attempted to brighten the mood. " I bet by the time Davey is one-hundred percent, he'll be all set to race through the corridors with all of his toy cars and that robot of his."
Vicki smiled warmly. "I really want to live my life with you, Burke."
"I want to give you what you want," Burke said to her tenderly. "I want to transform the West Wing into everything your heart desires."
"To be like the past," Vicki murmured dreamily.
The couple then realized billowing shadows shifted stealthily around them like smoke. They couldn't see anything, everything was pitch black. Then the shadows slowly shifted like opening curtains. The room had changed. No, not changed. It completely transformed.
Golden wallpaper and crown moldings elegantly adorned the walls and ceilings. Furniture now filled the room, along with some Parisian rugs. The styling was very chic, gothic and European. Something out of the turn-of-the-century. The bay window was now cloaked in velvet draperies. A sparkling chandelier hung prominently from the middle of the ceiling.
Even more startling, Vicki and Burke were not alone, but there was no sign of their noisy construction crew.
An elderly woman perched on the red silky settee in the middle of the room. Neither Vicki or Burke had seen her before. She was rather matronly, with long silver hair wrapped up in a bun. She wore a long black silky lace gown with matching feathers. It reminded Vicki of a large menacing raven.
The old woman hadn't acknowledged the younger couple that inexplicably found themselves in the lounge with her. Vicki knitted her brow, puzzled by the changing lounge and the sudden presence of an unknown old lady.
"What the hell is all of this?" Burke gaped around.
Oddly, the old woman didn't seem to have heard him. She looked to be the sort to be easily scandalized by words like hell. But she didn't seem to hear it. She was engrossed with her sewing.
The shut paneled double doors flung open. A prim woman entered the lounge, causing Vicki's eyes to widened. "Mrs. Stoddard?"
The woman had shoulder-length dark curls, and the exact same features as the Collins matriarch. But her dress was like nothing Elizabeth Collins Stoddard would wear. It was frilly, pink and very Victorian.
She carried in a dinner tray holding a hot bowl of soup with some crackers on the side.
"Mrs. Stoddard!" Vicki rushed to the highly recognizable woman, but she passed straight through the governess' frame like a ghost.
"Burke," Vicki murmured alarmed.
Her fiancé wrapped his masculine arms around her waist reassuringly.
"She can't see me," Vicki whispered.
"Yeah, and we can't touch them either, it seems," said an incredulous Burke.
"I brought you your celery soup, Grandmama," the woman who looked like Elizabeth announced to the older woman.
The matronly lady gazed up from her knitting. "Have you brought the saltines, Judith?" The old woman's tone was very regal. She was unquestioningly the queen of her castle.
"Of course, Grandmama," Elizabeth, who was apparently called Judith, replied loyally. She was evidently not Elizabeth Collins Stoddard.
"I never touch soup without saltines," declared the old woman haughtily.
Burke and Vicki observed the scene quietly, wrapped tightly in each other's arms.
The old woman removed her knitting, allowing Judith to sat the tray on her lap. Judith joined her Grandmama on the couch.
"You always take tremendous care of me, my dear," the old woman complimented as she crushed some saltines in her hands and littered them into her warm soup.
"Well, of course," said Judith. "I want you to be well cared for."
This should be a heartwarming moment between a grandmother and her granddaughter. But it was strangely detached. Judith came across as something of a kiss-up as opposed to someone who is loving and well-meaning. The old woman seemingly expected her granddaughter to care for her no matter how she personally felt.
"Have either of you seen Jamison and Nora ?" A new voice rudely intruded into the lounge.
An unnervingly recognizable one.
Vicki and Burke turned their attention to the room's entrance. Their eyes rounded in horror.
A woman looking very much like Laura Collins stood at the entryway, garbed in a lavish purple and black ruffled dress, her blonde hair stylishly pinned up.
"Laura!" Burke gasped.
Vicki had never seen him look this - off guard.
In their own time, Laura Collins was David's mother, a deranged woman who tried to burn her own son alive. She was supposedly a supernatural creature known as the Phoenix, who existed for hundreds of years and could rise up from the ashes anew.
Vicki and Burke both believed that of Laura since she vanished into thin air after the boat shack fire. Vicki and David had watched her burn.
Since the woman that stood before them now looked exactly like Laura in every intimate detail, with the same scheming blue eyes, and the exact same beauty mark,( hers was even more vivid than Judith's likeness to Elizabeth) then the legend of the Phoenix could only be more true.
This must be one of Laura's past lives. Clearly, she had been involved in the affairs of Collinwood on more than one occasion. But if Phoenixes can rise up from the fiery ashes and be reborn, they can't however see people who shouldn't be there.
Laura was just as blind to Burke and Vicki as Judith and the old woman. Burke then found it very strange to see the woman he had a torrid affair with behind Roger's back donning the kind of period dress his grandmother must've dreamed of possessing when she was Vicki's age.
"I haven't seen the children since breakfast this morning," Judith answered Laura's question, glaring at the blonde woman in obvious dislike.
"Clearly, Edward is hiding them from me." Laura uninvitingly strolled into the lounge, crossing over to the burning fireplace.
"I honestly do not approve of your intentions for the children, Laura," stated the old woman in rampant disapproval. "It all seems rather unorthodox."
Burke and Vicki stared at each other. So she is Laura.
"I have hopes and dreams for my children just like any mother," Laura insisted lightly, keeping her hypnotic gaze on the dancing red flames in the hearth. "It is only my hopes and dreams for my children are rather different from most mothers."
Vicki didn't like how she stated that, especially how she kept her mesmerizing gaze on the glowing flames.
Just then, a tall man strode confidently into the lounge. Neither Vicki or Burke had seen this man before, though Burke inwardly mused that this man carried a pretty boy resemblance to Lincoln.
He was an attractive man with dark hair, mischievous blue eyes, and long pointed sideburns. He wore a dark suit with a long frock coat. A heavy look of joy and happiness brightened his face, but there was something smug and arrogant about it.
"Hello, Grandmama." He leaned over to peck the old woman on the cheek. "Dear sister, Judith," he added smoothly.
"Quentin, you have returned from New York," stated the old woman formally.
"Yes, indeed." Quentin smirked.
"I didn't know you were expected to return today," said Judith.
"I wanted my return to be a surprise."
Quentin jubilantly strolled back to the room's open entrance. He didn't acknowledge Laura at the fire. She seemed to be as invisible to him as Burke and Vicki.
That happy yet arrogant gleam still sparkled in Quentin's crystal clear blue eyes as he gestured for someone out in the corridor to join him. A woman eagerly scurried up to him, wearing a flashy emerald green dress. She had curly red hair that went down her shoulders, and wore a look of glowing happiness on her gentle face.
Quentin wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and proudly announced, "Grandmama, Judith, please meet Jenny, better known as Mrs. Quentin Collins."
"Hello," Quentin's bride said nervously. "I am very honored to meet you both."
"You married, Quentin?" Laura drawled by the fire, her face amused.
"Good gracious! Are you trying to give an old woman a heart attack, Quentin!" spat the old woman angrily on the settee. She glared at Jenny's emerald dress with open distaste. "You haven't left Collinwood for that long!"
"It was love at first sight," Jenny exclaimed earnestly. "We just had to get married right away."
"You love her, Quentin?" Judith's voice was highly skeptical.
"Of course I do, Judith," Quentin retorted fumingly.
"How fascinating." Laura threw Quentin a roving eye.
"Oh, this is not going as promising as planned," Jenny said a little discouragingly. "But I promise I won't be such a burden," she hastily added. "I come with my own servant. Quentin has told me so many wonderful things about the family, especially of young Jamison."
Laura curled her lip at that.
"I am certain we will all grow closer once we all become better accustomed to each other," Jenny said brightly. "I am a good singer! Quentin loves it! This house could use a lovely song to lift its dismal spirits."
Judith and the old woman exchanged heavy long looks, while Laura smirked by the fire. But Quentin gazed at his hopeful bride lovingly.
Watching the scene, Vicki found herself feeling sorry for Jenny. Her plight looked very troubling.
Like a clap of lightning, billowing shadows instantly engulfed the room once more, surrounding Vicki and Burke in unnatural blackness. The people in the room were gone, along with the walls and furniture. A mocking sinister cackle crept out of the darkness, accompanied by an unnerving painful music.
"Burke," Vicki echoed.
Burke held her tightly, listening observantly to the music. Burke thought it sounded like it came from an old gramophone.
Brighter music intruded through the powerful haunting dirge. A light tingling music which prompted Vicki to stare around hopefully through the shadows.
"Josette?"
The tingling music was the melody of Josette's music box. It was that unmistakable song.
Vicki turned away from Burke to better locate Josette's music.
"Josette?" Vicki stepped through the shadows and the haunting sinister music, determined to reach Josette with her outstretched hand.
While the music box melody overpowered the imposing song, the shadows shifted like the mist in a cemetery, and the haunting music was vanquished. Vicki found herself facing the bay window. Outside a faint shadowy figure floated in the chilled overcast air. Vicki knew who it was.
"Josette!" she cried excitedly.
But the vague figure faded. Nothing was there.
"Josette!" Vicki cried. "Josette, why can't you come back to us like before?"
"Vicki." Burke came up behind her, placing steadying hands on her shoulders. "Vicki, are you alright?"
The comforting pounding of the construction crew sounded off in the corridors. They were free from the echoes of the Victorian past.
"Yes." Vicki turned to face him. "Are you?"
"Yes," Burke assured her.
The couple embraced again. Burke traced his fingers in her soft dark hair. "But what was that, Vicki? Were we somehow transported to the year 1900 and then back again?"
"I don't think that was time travel," Vicki told him, still embracing him tightly. "I think we were on the outside looking in. Like Josette outside that window just now."
"That depressing music sounds like it came from one of those old gramophones from some seventy or eighty years back," Burke commented over her shoulder. "My Grandfather had one."
"I believe sometimes the past and the present collide." Vicki gazed up at him. "I think that's what happened. It's what I feel sometimes when I'm with Barnabas."
Burke nodded blankly. "So, what do you think? Are the ghosts of Collinwood trying to send us a warning? I sure hope Laura isn't coming back!"
"The Collins family are probably in trouble, Burke," warned Vicki.
"Something is always going on with them," Burke pointed out knowingly.
"We should look after them just in case," persisted Vicki. She heaved a deep sigh. "I feel so sorry for that woman."
"Yeah, her reception from the Collins clan was even more patronizing than mine," Burke quipped.
Around five o'clock in the evening, the winter darkness fell on Collinwood. When the witch was rushed away to Windcliff Sanitarium, the mood in the gothic mansion became silently withdrawn.
Elizabeth shut herself away in the study. Whenever Maggie creaked by as she made her way through the corridors, she would hear Elizabeth's voice from inside. It sounded as if she was speaking to someone.
When Maggie checked in on her, she found no one was with the matriarch. But Maggie was certain she was speaking to someone.
Maggie found that very spooky. The more she thought about it, the more she pondered the possibility that Mrs. Stoddard was speaking directly to one of the ghosts of Collinwood. The ghosts of legends. If she was, then Maggie certainly had no right to judge her. She knew they were real. Josette Collins and little Sarah proved that.
But she assumed that the Collins family dismissed the ghosts tales as nothing but myths, along with the rest of the town. But maybe that was not strictly the case. Maggie decided not to bother Mrs. Stoddard with it. She was a very closed-off woman, and it was unlikely she wanted to engage in a fantastical conversation involving subjects like ghosts with her latest hire. And if she wasn't speaking to ghosts, then Maggie feared that might not be a good sign.
In the meantime, Roger collected his coat and fedora and robotically departed from the Great House. This was more than fine by Maggie. She wouldn't have to tolerate his snotty and brainwashed dislike of her, or have to watch her back in case he tried to imprison her in some other secret prison cell stored away in the house somewhere.
Carolyn also kept a low profile during the course of the dreary day, but left the house at one point in the late afternoon. Mrs. Johnson was assigned to watch over the ailing David.
That left Maggie to do the boring and lonely chores in the many dark and creepy rooms and corridors that lacked the warmth of a true home, even in the guise of festive Christmas decorations.
Maggie avoided Roger's caterers for the duration of the day, who were still busy in the Great Hall. They quietly left when evening arrived.
Maggie highly doubted that this Christmas party would go on as planned.
Once Mrs. Stoddard dismissed Maggie from her duties for the day, Maggie gladly headed for the West Wing to check in on her Willie.
She stumbled onto a pleasant surprise once she got there. The West Wing discovered the novel innervations of electricity and heat. Much of the area was now lit with light bulbs instead of candlesticks and rusty old lanterns. It felt good that this place was now warm and toasty and not the decaying iceberg it once was.
That should be more comfortable, even luxurious, for Willie and his crew.
"Hey, Maggie." Tom proudly strolled up to her in the crowded corridor, as much of the crew packed away their tools and gear. "We put our electrician to good use today."
"I can see that, Tom." Maggie smiled brightly as she gazed up at all the new paneling. "This place is really coming together."
"Yeah, after all the madness of today, at least something productive came out of it." Burke came up to them, looking a little tired and haggard. His dark eyes appeared to be a little haunted.
"It's ashamed that this had to happen during Christmas." Maggie hoped she sounded sympathetic over the Cassandra Collins drama.
"Yeah, that's a shame," Tom agreed, staring down awkwardly to the floor.
"But at least the West Wing is coming together," Burke said encouragingly. "It should all be done by the time David is well. No Collins ghosts will interfere with that."
At that statement, Maggie looked more closely at Burke's visibly haunted eyes. She wondered if he'd encountered any of the resident spooks. Could be something about Sarah, who seemed dead-set for Vicki to find her parents. Maggie sincerely hoped he hadn't encountered that awful skeletal clown. Or was it perhaps that music Willie fearfully told her about?
Before she could even think of asking him what was wrong, Burke asked her tiredly, "You here for Willie?"
"Yes," Maggie confirmed.
"He's in the master suite," Burke explained. "I'll have Tom show you there."
"All right," said Maggie. "Vicki must be so happy over all this amazing progress, Burke."
"Yes, she is." Burke suddenly avoided her gaze. "You and Willie have a good night."
"Yes, you and Vicki, too," Maggie replied.
She watched the businessman headed in the direction of the lounge.
Tom noted the weary expression on her face, and exclaimed, "Oh, he's just tired. We've all been working pretty hard."
"Yes, and you all did a magnificent job," Maggie said impressed.
They ventured through the reconstructed corridors together, passing by exhausted crew members who were ready to call it a day.
"So, how do you like working with Willie?" Maggie asked Tom conversationally.
"Oh, he's quiet and keeps to himself." Tom shrugged. "He's not very sociable, but he's very knowledgeable about the structure of old houses such as this. I can see why Burke made him the man in charge. He knows what he wants on any given day, he makes sure we have what we need, and his expectations are reasonable."
Maggie grinned as they continued their trek through the corridors. "How's Amy?"
"She's coping." Tom let out a heavy sigh. "I hope Chris will get here soon to celebrate Christmas with us. Carolyn had to take her to school this morning. She also had to pick her up."
"Why?"
"Carolyn says Joe was acting very strange this morning," Tom informed her.
"What did he do?"
"He was wandering the grounds aimlessly when he was supposed to drive Amy to school," Tom explained. "He apparently reacted to things that weren't even there. That's what Amy told Carolyn anyway. And he impulsively left his job at the cannery when Mr. Collins offered him a handyman position here at Collinwood."
"He left his job at the cannery?" To Maggie, that behavior was not just strange. It didn't make a lick of sense. Being a fisherman was Joe's livelihood. It was both his passion and in his blood.
"But if he really wants to be a handyman," Tom said with a sheepish shrug, "it did me good."
Maggie nodded in a quiet manner. She inwardly told herself that what Joe did with his life is really none of her business. Not anymore.
Tom led her to a strongly constructed wooden spiral staircase.
"Willie's up there," he told her. "This staircase is one of his masterworks for this project."
Maggie closely inspected the restored banisters. The staircase was expertly designed to blend in with the rest of the gothic decor of Collinwood. It was made of much of the same oak wood as the rest of the mansion. Willie had scoured the West Wing and beyond for spare and discarded pieces of trim and railing.
"He did a terrific job." Maggie beamed proudly.
"Yeah," Tom drawled. "Well, good night Maggie. You take care."
"You too, Tom," Maggie replied. "Tell Amy I said hi."
"I will."
Maggie watched him go, and happily shot up the graceful spiral steps. She found Willie packing his gear. New plaster adorned the walls of Burke and Vicki's master suite. Great progress had been made in this room as well.
"Hey, Maggie." Willie grinned happily once he saw her.
"Hi," Maggie replied with a smile as she came closer to him.
"It looks like Barnabas and Julia got rid of the witch," Willie said gladly.
"Yes, I don't know what to make of that," Maggie admitted. "I thought they wanted to get rid of her for good, not hold her prisoner. But, of course, Barnabas is good at holding people prisoner." She shrugged.
"I'm glad they got her outta this house," Willie muttered. "The people here are safe."
Maggie smiled warmly, truly touched by his honest compassion for others. It was still amazing to her how much he'd dramatically changed since she'd met him.
"Yes, even though their Christmas plans will likely be disrupted," she said somewhat guiltily.
"Only for Roger Collins," said Willie. "All the other Collinses don't like his bride. But he's better off without her. Maybe he won't lock us up in a tower again."
"I hope he will be disenchanted with her soon," Maggie said wryly.
Looking around the ever developing master suite, Maggie exclaimed, "Willie, I really want you to know that I'm very proud of you."
Willie regarded her praise silently.
"You're doing wonderful work here," she went on. "I know you'll do a wonderful job with our cottage. I can't wait till we start building it."
"If ya want, I could build you a castle," Willie suggested lightly.
"No, I really don't like big houses like this," she declined playfully. "It's a pain in the neck to clean up. A cottage is more for me - and you - together."
Willie felt his cheeks growing hot.
"I'm further impressed you were able to make this much progress with the house being so haunted," said Maggie.
"I worked on haunted houses before," Willie pointed out. "Those are the only houses I work on."
"True." Maggie nodded. " I saw Burke downstairs. You'd think he'd seen a ghost."
"How didja know that?" Willie furrowed his brow.
"His eyes had that haunted look in them," Maggie explained knowingly. "Like Vicki when she saw Sarah. And like us when we were imprisoned at the Old House."
Willie took in her words.
"Have you heard any more of that ghost music today?" Maggie asked him.
"Nah." Willie scratched the back of his head.
A faint music defiantly reached their ears. A creepy tune that slightly startled them.
"Maggie, that's the music!" Willie gasped, listening to the song closely.
Maggie strained to listen. There was a vague familiarity to it.
"Where is it coming from?" she wondered.
"D-Dunno," Willie stammered.
Curious, perhaps unwisely, Maggie decided to see if she could follow the tune.
"Maggie whatcha doin'?" Willie asked warily.
Maggie didn't respond to him. She found this music every bit as enthralling as a vampire bite. It felt very - dream-like. She creaked down the spiral steps, straining her ears more closely to seek out the phantom tune.
It still haunted the air as she searched down the stairs. Willie followed after her, leaving his toolbox behind.
"Maggie, don't go lookin' for it," Willie pleaded behind her.
But Maggie followed the music down a series of nearly renovated and deserted corridors. She found a darkened area that was left untouched by the construction crew. None of the amenities of comfort, light and warmth from Willie's renovations were present. But the music was more audible here.
There was something extremely off-putting about these sets of lifeless corridors. It felt chillingly as though this was a territory meant for the dead. No living soul should ever dare to tread here.
When they started the renovations of the West Wing, Burke had never mentioned doing anything with this area to Willie and the crew. They merely ignored it. No one ever purposely stepped foot in here, including Willie.
Or so Willie thought.
As he followed Maggie down the cobwebbed and darkened corridors, he found there was something faintly familiar to them. But soon he found himself surrounded by hypnotic swirling lights. Vivid colors of green, blue, and red. A sound like the chiming of crystals snuck up on him through the music.
As he fearfully took in his surroundings, Willie was convinced he had been here before. Somehow.
Maggie had the same lingering feeling as she followed after the music. The swirling colorful lights and chiming crystals came to her clearly, along with the baffling familiarity that she had been here before. But she had no conscious recollection of ever being here.
As Maggie and Willie rounded into the next corridor, a very real memory crashed into them. The memory of a ghost. A blonde woman haunting beside the center paneled wall in the corridor.
The melody of the music resounded much more clearly to Maggie. She felt she'd listened to it in dreams.
"Willie, I know this song," she whispered.
Then another haunting memory practically assaulted her. A terrible memory of listening to this distant sounding song against that same wall, until a wild ghost spun her away from it in a deranged dance. The ghost frantically shoved her against another wall near where she and Willie stood now.
The ghost warned her of a horrible monstrous man who murdered his own brother. The ghost shared a strong resemblance to Willie. Maggie now fully realized that ghost was Carl Collins.
Willie now vividly recalled finding Maggie pinned up against that filthy wall, pale and petrified, stuttering something about a ghost that looked like him. Willie had to gently get her out of this area.
"Willie, we have been here before!" Maggie cried out, as the music grew intensely louder. "But - how could we forget this?"
Terrified by the evil frightening presence that seemed to smother this area, along with the unmistakable unseen presences of other unknown phantoms, Willie became confused by an incident that he had somehow forgotten. He hastily grabbed Maggie's hand, and hurriedly dragged her away. He didn't want to stay here any longer than he had to.
But Maggie spotted something through one of the dusty windows, and halted Willie's brisk retreat.
"Josette!" Maggie cried. "Willie, stop!"
She pulled away from his desperate grip, and raced to the window. She hysterically swung it open, and frantically called through the icy air, "Josette!"
"Maggie, c'mon!" Willie shouted panically. "Let's get outta here!"
"Josette, there are ghosts here!" Maggie hollered through the winter darkness, her eyes stinging from the icy wind. "They're dangerous! And something is erasing our memories of them!"
"Then you and Willie must keep what was taken from you," Josette's wispy voice came soothingly through the open window. "Now that you are able to remember again."
Her voice was so soothing, it coaxed the cowardly Willie to join Maggie at the window so he could gaze upon the shimmering ghost lady hovering outside. The sky was obscured by the clouds of the night above her.
"But why did we forget?" Maggie questioned.
"Your memories have been forcefully suppressed," Josette explained to them. "You and Willie must keep this to yourselves this time."
"But Vicki and Burke live here, and these ghosts are horrible," Maggie argued.
"You mustn't tell Barnabas or Dr. Hoffman of this," Josette insisted.
"We can't tell Barnabas and Julia?" Willie finally spoke up.
"No, Willie," Josette said to him.
"Josette, I think the Collins family is in danger," said Maggie. "And Vicki and Burke."
"They are safe, Maggie," Josette told her. "The danger is sealed away. Your dear friend and her lover will remain safe as long as that remains so."
"Are they?" Doubt clouded Maggie's voice.
"Yes, Maggie," Josette said reassuringly. "There are good spirits here like Carl Collins and others warding the dangers away. Escort her home, Willie. Be safe and warm for tonight. But remember, never inform Barnabas or Julia of your knowledge of the West Wing hauntings."
Willie didn't know what to make of this, but if this dire situation was really under the control of Carl Collins and other ghosts as Josette claimed, then his services were not required. Burke, Vicki, and the Collins family were safe. And since Barnabas was not involved, Willie figured maybe this wasn't terribly important.
After watching Josette's ghost drift away in the icy, stinging wind, Willie calmly left the haunted corridor with Maggie hand-in-hand. After he retrieved his toolbox, the couple bade good night to Vicki and Burke, put on their coats, and shared a brief farewell with Mrs. Stoddard.
They rode the junker mobile to the Evans cottage. Once they'd gladly returned home, they found Sam was absent.
Maggie found a scribbled note placed on the coffee table.
"Pop has gone off to the Blue Whale to meet up with Mr. Fenn-Gibbon," Maggie informed Willie when she finished reading the note. "We have the cottage to ourselves."
Willie gave Maggie a rather flirty grin. Maggie grinned right back as she set the note back on the coffee table.
"Yes, so many possibilities for a young couple in love to do all alone." Her voice was bubbly, which delighted Willie to no end. He was beyond ready to move on from yet another horror-filled day at Collinwood.
He took off his coat, and said, "I hafta take a quick shower first."
"All right, I'll warm us something to eat." Maggie shrugged off her winter coat.
After they hung up their respective coats, Willie spotted something else on the coffee table. He picked up a sketch drawing.
"Hey, is this what ya Pop has been drawing?"
Maggie came up to him to look at her father's sketch. "I think it's a sketch of the portrait that Mr. Fenn-Gibbon hired him to do."
"Huh." Willie continued staring into the drawing.
The man that would ultimately become a subject of a portrait appeared to be a young Abraham Lincoln, only he looked like he was possessed by demons.
The icy winds blew fiercely up Widows Hill, roughly banging the shutters outside the parlor's window at the Old House.
Barnabas was undisturbed by the howling, violent winds. He sat relaxed on his armchair by the flickering fire, admiring his former wife's portrait resting on his lap.
Garbed in his silk smoking jacket, Barnabas couldn't remember the last time he felt so triumphant.
The ghosts of his family swooshed throughout the drafty manor, feeling victorious and joyful themselves at the news of the witch being carted away. All the lit candles throughout the Old House were extinguished from the excited and celebratory spirits, as the chiming crystal chandelier swayed back and forth.
The fire in the hearth was the only illumination, with shadows leaping up to the ceilings.
But Barnabas was disinterested by the frivolity of his deceased family. His rapt attention was firmly held by the portrait. He must've closely studied every wrinkle, every liver spot, every hideous pore a hundred times over.
The ghost of Ben Stokes hovered over his master's shoulder, a proud smile etched across his meaty lips.
"I must say, Ben," praised Barnabas, "I highly admire your new-found artistic talents."
"How does it feel, Mr. Barnabas?" muttered Ben happily. "To have 'er at ya mercy?"
"I am starting to believe for the first time that I will finally overcome her, Ben," answered Barnabas, his dark eyes remaining on the portrait. "And I will overcome her."
Julia had the witch incarcerated in the East Wing of Windcliff Sanitarium, a special hospital located a hundred miles outside of town. It was a ward devoted to containing the more violent and dangerous patients.
Julia and Dr. Woodard safely observed the witch from behind the window on the door of her padded cell. The old wrinkling crone sat on the floor against the padded wall, securely restrained in a straitjacket. She wore plain white hospital pajamas.
Julia dosed her with some heavy medications. The witch's blue eyes, which were once striking with bright powerful brilliance, were now unfocused and dilated. Her greasy white hair sloped against her shoulders in a matted mess.
"What are your plans for her?" Dr. Woodard asked Julia. "Are you going to conduct the same type of bizarre experiments as you did with Barnabas Collins?"
"It's best that I handle this slowly," said Julia.
They stepped away from the door, leaving the witch alone in her cell.
In all the lives she had led, Angelique Bouchard never felt so powerless. Not even the damnation of the netherworld could compare to this torment. She never felt so helpless, powerless, and ugly. There was something weak and degrading about having these mundane medicating drugs flowing unrestrained through her own veins, to steal her mobility, and worst, her focus.
Mortals really are such pathetic creatures, the frail witch despaired.
As Angelique began to relent to inevitable slumber, an exotic perfume made her nose twitch. Tingling music also loomed up on her, a sickening sweet song.
A chilled presence sat beside her, lucent and ghostly.
Angelique darted her wide gaze beside her, and encountered a terrible sight.
The ghost of Josette sat comfortably beside her in her ever flowing white gown and veil. Her music and jasmine were just as much a part of her as the silk of her gown. She was the dead noblewoman Angelique had served and betrayed, not the sniveling imitation plaguing her life at Collinwood.
"You mustn't sleep, chérie," Josette whispered evenly. "Not so long as the boy remains ill, and I am banished from Collinwood. I will keep you company in your squalor until your disreputable taint ceases to shroud the family home."
Over her words, presence, music, and scent, Angelique let out a miserable and pitiful groan.
Next Chapter: A Ghostly Evening at Collinsport