Disclaimer: Dark Shadows is a Dan Curtis production and not mine
CHAPTER 13: A GHOSTLY EVENING AT COLLINSPORT
The December snow dreamily drifted outside Windcliff in the pitch black night. In Angelique's windowless padded cell, a white gloomy light switched on.
Nurse Jackson creaked inside the cell. Angelique didn't respond to her presence. She sat cross-legged and motionless on her spot across the cell strapped into her straitjacket. Her back leaned against the padded wall. She was heavily medicated and her pupils were so dilated she didn't react to the sudden cold brightness from the fixture above.
Nurse Jackson shut the door hesitantly, her gaze never leaving this pitiful, yet somehow frightening patient.
She stepped up to the ancient woman. Following Dr. Hoffman's instructions, the nurse injected the patient with a muscle relaxant. Amid all this, the patient didn't put up a fight or flinch away. She allowed the nurse to prick her backside with a long injection needle.
Once she was finished, Nurse Jackson looked at the old woman sadly. She wondered where Dr. Hoffman had possibly found her. She hadn't arrived here with a name. She was only known as patient W.
She looked absolutely harmless. It was hard to imagined she was ever violent or dangerous, but Dr. Hoffman stressed that she was. She must constantly be given muscle relaxants to curve her violent urges.
Nurse Jackson had never seen this woman become violent. Certainly not like the criminally insane patients that occupied this Wing. The patient had been nothing but fragile. She was so frail. Yet, Nurse Jackson reminded herself she had never personally seen patient W without being heavily medicated. Quietly, she crossed over to the door. She gazed at the old mysterious woman one last time, then opened the door.
Just then, the dirty blonde matted haired janitor lazily crossed paths with her outside the door, dragging an old moldy mop.
"Nurse," he commented snidely. "How's Doc Hoffman's monster project?"
"Oh, Cyrus," scolded the nurse unimpressed. "Don't be so horrible. If you ask me, your attitude is the one that is monstrous."
She switched off the light, stepped out, and locked patient W inside her quiet dark cell alone.
Or at least Nurse Jackson presumed the padded cell was quiet and miserably lonely.
For Angelique, the cell was unbearably noisy. The sound of tingling music courtesy of a despicable music box rang in her ears all night. Even worse, the owner of that tingling, detestable sound hummed along to her own dreary melody.
"La, da, da, hmm, hmm, mmm, mmm, mmm..." Josette's transparent ghost twirled in a graceful pirouette high up near the ceiling. An enchanting white glow emitted from her. She had every intention of preventing Angelique from relenting to her slumber. She would haunt and torment her former maidservant until the witch lifted the ghost lady's unjust banishment from Collinwood, along with the abhorrent spell on the boy David.
Though, Josette was pleased she was able to aid Vicki, and later Willie and Maggie through the windows of the haunting Great House, she badly needed to enter inside to properly haunt it as she had for so many centuries. She needed to thoroughly cleanse it from the witch for the family's sake.
If Angelique somehow managed to sleep through her former mistress' noisy music box, then Josette supposed she would just have to haunt her dreams.
The ghost lady deeply wondered what sort of nightmares witches suffer from. What terrifying images do they find so bile-inducing as to plague their dreams?
Josette vividly recalled the graphic monstrous image of herself as a vampire that Angelique inflicted upon her on that fateful night on Widows Hill. The night Josette flung herself off the cliff and impaled herself on the cold jagged rocks of the murky shores below.
Before Josette could further indulge herself in this morbid curiosity, some guests breezily arrived. Joshua and Naomi Collins materialized in the cell, along with wispy cousin Millicent.
Joshua looked noble and proud in his revolutionary-era military uniform. He gazed down at the horrid looking hag with no emotion in his eyes. Naomi, garbed in a lavish ivory gown that complemented her unearthly glow, had a wondrous look etched deeply on her dignified features.
"You didn't need to come," Josette said high above them as she slowly descended her way down.
"I feel that we ought to," stated Naomi, her stinging gaze never leaving the wicked woman planted on the floor.
"How is Barnabas?" Josette inquired softly.
"He went up to bed," reported Joshua."Miraculously, it was a bed he crawled into and not the coffin. He still has the reactions of a mortal man. However, I do not like how he endlessly gazes into that ugly portrait for hours on end by the fire. I understand why he hates the witch, so. But it is troubling how he's transforming his hatred into an obsession."
"Try to convince him to see all of us," Naomi suggested to Josette."I believe reconciling with his family will help him come to terms with our dark past and bring him some peace."
"I will try." Josette nodded.
"I am truly glad our family is finally receiving justice," said Joshua. "But I must implore you, Josette. Do not allow your hatred for the witch to become an obsession."
"I am merely protecting the family from her," Josette insisted.
"Very well." Joshua gave a satisfied nod. He returned his stiff gaze to the restrained crone on the floor. "I have often wondered if this moment was even possible." His blue eyes locked firmly on the hag. "For I have come face-to-face with the demon who stole every precious life from me. The demon who destroyed my son and my brother... our darling Sarah, whom she took so cruelly and heartlessly. And damned us all for the rest...
"I truly wish I could feel something for this pitiful wench," the dead patriarch continued on silkily. "I wish I could feel for her some sorrow, pity. Instead when I gaze at her now, I feel only satisfied."
"I feel tremendous relief that the curse will finally be lifted," Naomi spoke hopefully.
Millicent slowly dropped to her knees on the padded floor. She glared into the witch's drugged up eyes ferociously.
"I am not quite as stoic as you, cousin Joshua," the wispy ghost stated heatedly, her cold glare never leaving the witch's swirling eyes. "When I look at her now, I feel hatred and resentment for all the lives she has destroyed and tainted! And for the lives she is destroying and tainting still! No, I am afraid I am not stoic like you, cousin Joshua!"
Millicent lunged her transparent form through the witch's shriveled frame, violently attempting to possess the old decaying body. But Joshua quickly grabbed the hysterical ghost by the shoulders, and pulled her petite form away from the family's great tormentor.
"Millicent, get a hold of yourself," Joshua said gruffly, as Millicent tried to wrestle away from her cousin's strong grip.
"Why have you brought her?" Josette questioned Naomi.
"She resiliently insisted," Naomi exclaimed.
"We must destroy her!" Millicent wailed through Josette's tingling music. "We must destroy her!"
Josette averted her gaze from the distressing scene. She deeply hoped that the portrait was now vulnerable enough to be destroyed. But would it really end Angelique and her powerful curse?
While Josette's phantom music box haunted a dark padded cell in a mysterious asylum, a vintage musical piece courtesy of a phantom gramophone continued lingering vigorously through the shadowy forbidden corridor at the West Wing of Collinwood.
The spirit of Beth Chavez had finally returned from her task. Her face was a mask of sorrow and anxiety. She reacted unflinchingly to Quentin's music and the inky shifting shadows clinging sharply to the dark paneled walls and cobwebbed ceilings.
She found Tim Shaw and Rachel Drummond where she had left them: Guarding the prison wall with the pouty-faced Carl joining them at their post.
Tim and Rachel detected Beth's approaching presence, and spotted her gliding eerily down toward them with much relief on their faces.
Beth's golden curls fell somewhat to the shoulders of her white chiffon gown.
"Beth," Rachel greeted welcomely. "Thank goodness you have returned. It must've been disheartening to lay Jenny to rest." she dropped a sad gaze.
"What is going on here?" Beth demanded of her helpers. "Why are there unnatural shadows billowing about? And why is Quentin's music blaring so loud?"
"Quentin's been tormenting us with his music since you left with Jenny," Tim filled in.
"And that man and woman who look like Rachel and I have rediscovered this wall again," Carl cut in hastily. "But everything is fine now. Josette consoled them, and they shouldn't be stumbling into this area again."
"Quentin is still sealed behind this wall, isn't he?" Beth hardened her expression.
"His powers have been slowly building for quite some time," Carl squeaked hysterically. "He has been tormenting the boy with that telephone."
"Yes, but he has been unable to communicate with that boy since he has fallen ill," Beth stated firmly. "We must continue to restrain Quentin and keep everything about him sealed behind this wall forever. We must restore order to this Wing.
"Mr. Carl, please seek out Magda and Sandor Rokosi," Beth ordered.
"But – but, Beth," the ghost of the young man stammered. "I – I honestly don't know where to look for them."
"Then have your fiancée accompany you," Beth persisted. "You can use her psychic abilities to seek them out."
At that suggestion, a bright, joyous smile stretched upon Carl's surprised lips.
"You – you want me to be with my Pansy?"
"Yes, to combat Quentin." Beth shot him a narrow look.
But Carl didn't care about the dire situation. He ecstatically rushed to the former maidservant, threw his arms around her slender waist, lifted her off the ground and spun her around with overwhelming happiness.
"Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!" he cried out gratefully.
"Mr. Carl, please restrain yourself." Beth was clearly displeased by his physical exuberance. "You must find Sandor and Magda," she growled over his shoulder as he continued to spin her dizzyingly around.
Abruptly Carl stopped spinning and steadily returned Beth's inferial feet back to the dusty floor. His cheery face soberly dropped.
"I am not certain if my family would permit gypsies to enter inside this house," he whimpered with such uncharacteristic seriousness. "They didn't like them in our time."
"They will permit it in order to keep Quentin a forgotten memory," Beth said pointedly.
Carl's bright smile gladly returned. "Yes, and this is the chance for Pansy to prove herself as a lady to all of them. I cannot wait to see the looks on their pompous faces when they fully realize they made a tremendous error in regards to her character. They'll greatly regret dismissing her as a tawdry showgirl!"
Carl shot himself up into the dark ceiling and fired his transparent form through a window like an enthusiastic cannonball. His chaotic departure didn't break any glass.
Once he was gone, Tim and Rachel read the still anxious look plastered on Beth's put upon face.
"Beth, I am very sorry for what you have been through with Jenny," Rachel murmured.
"I – I believe she is at peace now." Beth's voice cracked. She lowered her gaze. "She sensed Quentin's presence here and got confused."
"Did she put up any resistance?" questioned Tim with a raised brow.
"She needed coaxing," Beth confirmed, staring up at them. "But thankfully it wasn't strenuous. The reason I was gone for so long was that I took the liberty to track Petofi."
"Did he sense you?" Rachel raised a worrying brow. "Does he even hold power over the likes of us?"
"He didn't see or sense me," said Beth. "And he didn't do anything out of the ordinary. He showed himself to be a harmless eccentric. One that is interested in old houses. He enjoys frivolous discussions with random villagers. But he has indeed set his sights on Collinwood."
"So I take it he wants to come here." Tim folded his arms and cocked his head.
"He keeps gazing up at this house from the village," said Beth. "He does that every time he ventures outside and the house is within his view."
"Do you know what he is after?" queried Rachel.
"No." Beth shook her head. "But he must not be allowed inside this house. There is no telling what Quentin will do."
"Or what Petofi will do," said Tim. "I could spy on him for you."
"You would do that?" Beth was rather surprised by Tim's offer. They didn't exactly know each other well in life. He was a local from the village and didn't work at Collinwood like Rachel had when she was governess. He only haunted the Great House to be around Rachel.
"I know his history with the Collins family," said Tim. "And I played a role for bringing him to town. I feel I owe it to the Collins family to thwart any plan he has for Collinwood."
"Thank you, Tim Shaw." Beth looked at him with tremendous gratitude.
It felt nice to have an ally.
"I'm coming with you," Rachel told Tim.
"Change out of your Josette dress, and you have yourself a deal." Tim grinned, eyeing the depressing wedding gown and veil from top to bottom.
"Consider it done," Rachel agreed with a warm smile.
Beth watched them go, finding herself back to her eternal post as Quentin's jailer. His wretched music kept her company through the shadows.
"The binds that hold me are unwavering, Beth," the phantom's velvety voice oozed behind the wall. "I will get out of here and you know it."
"You'll never escape, Quentin," Beth retorted cockily. "You have been my prisoner for seventy years. You haven't escaped in all of that time, what has changed now?!"
"You were my prisoner first, Beth," Quentin countered.
While the West Wing of Collinwood was drowned by noisy chaos and shrouded by unusually stealthy shadows, it was normal and pleasantly quiet down in the study on the main floor.
Vicki nestled herself on an armchair by the warm cozy fire, reading the volume on her lap. Snowflakes drifted gracefully outside the plate-glass window.
Vicki skimmed through the volume entitled The Collins Family of the 19th Century.
She wasn't really familiar with the Collins clan during that time. Since being haunted and rescued by the ghost of Josette Collins, Vicki became primarily interested in her legend and her time period of the colonial age.
Flipping through page after page, Vicki wasn't quite as enthralled by the Collinses of that era as she was with Josette.
But she did want to find something on Jenny Collins. A part of her deeply wondered what happened to her, considering she was obviously not well accepted by the Collinses of that time. She found a little entry on her husband Quentin. He moved away to Paris in 1897. There was no mention of Jenny. Vicki was a little disappointed by that.
There was some information on Laura but not much. Only she was married to Edward Collins and begat Jamison and Nora Collins. There wasn't even a picture of her.
The only thing that was written about Judith Collins was that she became the head of the family after the death of Edith Collins in 1897. She never married or had children of her own.
Vicki discovered an early photographic portrait of the 1890s Collins family in the book. (Taken in 1895.) It consisted of the old woman she saw with Burke; Edith, along with the ever familiar Judith. Edward Collins, Quentin Collins and Carl Collins were also featured in the old photograph.
Vicki continued to marvel at the physical resemblance between Judith and Mrs. Stoddard. They really could've been twins.
The resemblance between Edward and Roger Collins was also frighteningly uncanny. And had Carl Collins really looked so much like Willie Loomis? Vicki wondered if her own eyes were deceiving her.
"Hi, Vicki." Carolyn came in through the door and shut it behind her. "Has Burke gone?"
"Yes," Vicki answered from the armchair. "Has Joe?"
"I suppose." The blonde heiress shrugged as she approached the fire. "I haven't really seen him since uncle Roger hired him to be our new handyman this morning."
"It's very odd how he abruptly left the fishing fleet," commented Vicki. "He was very committed to being a fisherman."
"I don't understand what is happening with him," confided Carolyn, as she leaned against the mantle. "Him and uncle Roger both. You should've seen them this morning, Vicki. They both acted like aliens from outer space."
"Roger sure has been acting like a martian since he married Cassandra," Vicki remarked dryly.
"She obviously did something to him," agreed Carolyn.
"David thinks she's a witch," Vicki told her.
"What?" Carolyn flung her head back and scoffed.
"He told Dr. Woodward, your mother and myself that he thinks Cassandra made him sick," Vicki exclaimed.
"With witchcraft?" Carolyn looked at her amused but also with some seriousness.
"After everything I've been through since moving here, I consider it a possibility," Vicki said seriously.
Carolyn's amused grin faded. "Is this because of your experience with Josette and little Sarah?"
"And my experience with Laura," Vicki added. "And what Burke and I saw in the West Wing earlier today."
The heiress knitted her brow as the governess continued. "Burke and I saw a vision from the past. Your family from the nineteenth century."
"You and Burke took a trip to the past?" Carolyn was baffled but intrigued.
"We saw Judith Collins, who looked exactly like your mother," Vicki explained. "And her grandmother, Edith. Judith called her grandmama."
"How cute." Carolyn shrugged simply.
"Then we saw Laura," Vicki went on.
The intrigued giddiness dramatically dissipated from the silky blonde's face.
"Laura?" Carolyn said glumly. "You mean – no, not that Laura."
"I'm afraid so," Vicki said grimly. "You should have seen the look on Burke's face when he saw her. She looked exactly like the Laura we knew. Burke and I are certain this was one of her past lives as a Phoenix."
"What was her connection to my family in the nineteenth century?" Carolyn tightly crossed her arms over her chest.
"She was married to Edward Collins," Vicki answered her. "She's the mother of your grandfather Jamison."
Carolyn's eyes widened. "Well... I sincerely hope her genes change every time she burns through one of those carbon copies of herself. It's disturbing how she's married into my family all those times and had children. It clearly doesn't agree with her. Or us."
"Carolyn, I think that vision came to Burke and I to warn us about something," said Vicki.
"Was this vision ominous?" Carolyn tilted her head to the side.
"Everything about this house is ominous," Vicki said exasperated, but quickly collected herself. The history volume still rested on her lap. "We were consumed by all these shifting black shadows, and a terrible vintage music that haunted us. A sound of a deranged man's cackle practically assaulted us. It felt as though I was drowning in all of it, but Josette rescued us from outside the bay window in the lounge of the West Wing. The shadows along with the laughter and the music vanished.
"Carolyn, something is happening inside this house," Vicki continued. "And I feel your family is in danger. I'd like to find a way to make sense of it all."
"Well, I know of someone who would get a real kick out of this," Carolyn claimed.
"Who?" queried Vicki hopefully.
"A Professor Timothy Eliot Stokes," answered Carolyn. "My friend Donna told me all about him. He teaches at the college."
"Why would a college professor be interested in what Burke and I've been through?" asked Vicki.
"He teaches supernatural spooks," Carolyn explained. "Apparently, he's been interested in my family and this haunted house for years."
"He's some sort of supernatural expert?" Vicki furrowed a quizzical brow.
"That's what Donna says," Carolyn said lightly.
"And he teaches at the college?" Vicki wondered if there were parents who were explosively livid that some sums of money were given to the superfluous subject of supernatural phenomenon.
"He might be worth visiting." Carolyn intruded on the governess' thoughts. "He might make sense of what you saw in all of this craziness. I wonder if he could give us some advice on witches and ghosts."
"I'd like to attend one of his lectures," Vicki decided. "But I want to make sure he isn't some fraud before I tell him anything."
"It must be so crazy, Vicki," said Carolyn. "To have to tolerate this nuthouse, when all the while you're searching for your family."
"I meant what I said that you all became like a family to me this past year," Vicki said earnestly.
Carolyn looked at her dubiously.
"I've been through a lot with you and your family," said Vicki. "And this haunted mansion is the closest thing to a home I've ever lived in. As crazy as that sounds." She grinned up at the heiress.
Carolyn silently return the gesture.
"When I find my family, and I will," Vicki said determinedly. "You and your family will continue to be a constant fixture in my life. It's going to take me a lifetime to repay your mother's generosity in offering me this job and this place to stay."
"We all like having you here, Vicki," Carolyn said honestly. "I think uncle Roger has been warming up to you. Our little monster clearly has."
The two young women shared a light laugh. It was amazing to Vicki how she and David started out disastrously, but now the boy couldn't live without her.
"I know you and I started out on the wrong foot," Carolyn said guiltily. "With my going after Burke. I am very glad for the both of you."
"I know," Vicki assured her. "There's no hard feelings."
"I'm glad you came here, Vicki," Carolyn said simply.
"Yes, me too," Vicki echoed.
Through the tiny crack of the study's door, Elizabeth eavesdropped on this exchange. She silently slid the door back shut, and quietly padded into the drawing room. She shut the double doors, and headed for the window to watch the snow fall. Her face was emotionless, but her heart felt like a churning mixture of happiness and sadness.
A ghostly salty breeze tickled her features and gently stroked her dark hair. A masculine presence drifted into the room.
"Penny for your thoughts, Liz?"
Elizabeth sneaked Bill Malloy's transparent, seaweed drenched ghost a sideways glance.
"But, of course, there's no need for you to tell me your thoughts," the ghost said sheepishly. "I already know them."
"You do, do you?" Elizabeth resumed staring out of the plate-glass window. She sighed heavily. "Of course, you do. I swear you could read them even when you were alive."
"It's always been a gift of mine, I guess." Bill shrugged lightly.
"Tell me what I am thinking now," Elizabeth challenged him.
"I know you are overwhelmed by that miracle in the study," said Bill.
Elizabeth's facial expression remained emotionless. She continued watching the curtain of snowflakes billowing into the night.
"Liz, your daughters are bonding in the study," Bill exclaimed gently. "They've known each other for well over a year, and they don't even know they're sisters."
"They'll know soon enough." The matriarch looked at him fully this time.
"I was just thinking," said Bill. "How wonderful their Christmas would be this year if you told them they're sisters."
"You think I should tell them right this instant?" Elizabeth raised a delicate brow.
"Vicki and Princess deserve to know," reasoned Bill. "And I'm quite frankly surprised people haven't noticed yet how she obviously looks so much like her gorgeous mother."
Elizabeth's hardened dark eyes softened.
"You should spare her the wild and pointless goose chase, Liz," Bill implored her. "You've gotten to know her, and she's turned out to be a nice and generous gal. She's not the type to hold grudges. I don't see her turning against you."
"Yes, but it seems inappropriate to tell her now with everything going on with Roger and David," Elizabeth said softly.
"You're not sorry to see that woman out of this house," Bill told her bluntly.
"No, I'm not," Elizabeth admitted. "But I think it's best for matters to be more settled with Roger and David before I tell Vicki. After all, this affects everyone in this house."
Bill shot her a sharp disbelieving look.
"I promise you, Bill, I'll tell Vicki very soon."
"Very soon?"
"Yes."
"Please do, Liz," Bill pleaded. "You deserve to have a real relationship with her."
The two exchanged soft gentle glances. The grizzled ghost then abruptly broke their silent spell to advance to the window.
"Well, I must cast off for now," he announced.
"You don't have to leave," Elizabeth told him warmly. "You are welcome here always."
"I'm not brushin' ya off, Liz," the ghost assured her. "It's not in my nature."
The matriarch smiled, causing him to smile in return.
"It is however in my nature to watch out for your best interest," he verified. "Someone needs to keep that McGuire on a choke chain."
Elizabeth nodded, understanding why he was leaving for the moment.
"Will you tell Vicki about her father?"
Elizabeth's face fell at Bill's question. She'd never really gave that much thought. She always just imagined telling Vicki she was her mother. She honestly never thought of telling her about Jason.
"That's all right, Liz." Bill seemed to have read her thoughts again. "That one is a thinker. Vicki certainly deserves to have someone like you in her life. She doesn't deserve the likes of Jason McGuire."
He streamed through the window, carrying his dangling seaweed and unnatural chill with him. Elizabeth watched him drift off through the swirling snow.
A bitter drunkard recklessly stumbled about on the icy, snowy docks, as a mighty wicked fog cloaked the New England sea. The drunk donned a dark coat which didn't provide much warmth to him. Curtains of persistent snowflakes fell grimly around him. The drunk slipped carelessly on the dirty slick ice, sending him landing painfully face-first on the hard stinking dock. He spilled what little whiskey remained in his ever dependable flask. The scorching alcohol dripped freely, but sadly not into his mouth.
This particular man had officially sunk. Things hadn't gone right for him since his con of a lifetime blew up in his face, and sent him packing to the streets.
Since then, he'd wandered from city to city with virtually nothing in his pockets. He reverted to petty pick-pocketing to get by, just like his humble beginnings during his youth in Dublin.
But that was a beginning the drunk had no desire to revisit.
Not after he'd experienced the glorious luxury of smoking the finest cigars, drinking the finest brandy, owning the most stylish suits, and wearing the warmest slippers on his feet. Then he was back to wearing a greasy cotton button shirt and his sailor hat. (Which he lost in a drunken brawl.)
A few weeks ago, he ventured to Vegas where he hoped to turn his rotten Irish luck around. At first it wasn't so bad; he pulled some successful scams and gambled into a bankroll. He hobnobbed at glitzy casinos, and attended a few shows. He even watched the Rat Pack perform. He then tangled with some Irish Mafia gangsters. After easily performing the obligatory sordid errands for them, he tried to double crossed the mob boss Flanagan. It seemed sensible at the time. But that went as well as marrying Elizabeth Collins Stoddard.
He somehow dodged a spray of bullets, and immediately bolted out of sin city.
He was once again broke and directionless. Then he was summoned to Collinsport, courtesy of his darling ex-fiancée. It was a desperate move. He had nowhere else to go.
"McGuire."
A faint gruff voice crept up on him. He was still drunkenly lying face first on the icy dock.
"McGuire. MCGUIRE!"
Jason bolted to his hands and knees with a start. He was certain he'd heard a rough voice barking out his name. But no one was present in the winter fog.
Jason pondered if it was just his swimming boozy brain pulling tricks on him.
"You're in fine shape, McGuire," spoke the sudden Yankee voice in biting sarcasm. "You are in fine shape to help Liz."
"Oui, where are ya?" Jason growled indignantly through the curtain of dreary snow.
"You're not very observant."
Seaweed drenched boots materialized before Jason on the treacherous docks. Jason slowly raised his blurry gaze and finally glimpse up at the unmistakable bearded face of the dead man Bill Malloy.
"Ah, ya not here!" Jason callously dismissed. "I know ya popped off."
"I'm a ghost, McGuire," Bill said tensely. "And I'm going to see to it that you obey Liz's orders."
"What can ya do," Jason growled resentfully. "Ya a dead man."
"I already warned you about crossing Liz," reminded the ghost.
"I thought I was goin' mad in that mausoleum," mumbled the Irish con. "Ya not here."
"I am here all right, and you'll not stir up any trouble for Liz," warned Bill.
Jason scoffed. "Ah, I'm headin' for the Blue Whale."
As he collected his now empty flask, he stumbled back on his unsteady feet with wobbly legs.
"You can't go to the Blue Whale now," Bill argued. "Roger's there drowning his sorrows."
"A man like Roger Collins has gentlemen clubs for that," Jason scowled.
"Maybe in the cities, but this is Collinsport, Maine," Bill argued. "We're a tiny and humble fishing village. There's no gentleman's club for Roger to get drunk in. The Blue Whale is all we have in our hard working fishin' village. This ain't Bangor!"
"Why can't I go in?" Jason slurred.
"Because Roger is in there, and Liz brought you here to spy on him at Collins Enterprises. Not get drunk with him at the Blue Whale."
"Where can I get drunk?" Jason whined petulantly.
"You're already drunk," Bill retorted irritably.
"Where will I sleep?" Jason grumbled.
"Have you forgot what Liz told you," Bill said annoyed. "A room from the Inn will be arranged for you."
"I ain't gonna wallow at Liz's command like a whipped dog," Jason snarled bitterly. "I ain't nothin' like ya!"
"I hate to break this to you, McGuire, but you have no place else to go and no one else to turn to."
Jason giggled hysterically at that comment. "No one else to turn to!" He repeated with a deranged cackle. "Oh, I have someone to turn to! I got someone!"
With a harsh glare, Jason hotly turned his heels from the ghost. He then instantly and inexplicably crossed paths with a young couple.
The man wore a Victorian brown suit with a matching frock coat. He had short sandy blonde hair and groomed sideburns. His female companion had auburn hair that was neatly pinned up, perfectly framing her innocent face. She had deep brown eyes. She was somehow awfully familiar to Jason. But her dress was old-fashioned. A frilly thing with a long green skirt that reached the ground and a puffy white top. She wore no coat. None of the lasses wore what she wore nowadays. Jason for the life of him couldn't place where he knew her from. Even more striking, a white glowing light seemed to illuminate from the duo supernaturally, causing Jason to squint painfully at them. The brightness was blinding. His vision was blurry enough as it was.
"Hey, mind turnin' down ya torches," Jason spat at them.
He then literally moved through their unearthly frames like they were curtains of icy mist from the fog. Not realizing what he'd just done, Jason went on his way without giving a second thought.
Bill's ghost grinned at the couple a little embarrassed, and said sincerely, "I apologize for him. Had too much to drink. You folks enjoy your evening."
"Thank you," said the ghost of Tim Shaw politely. "Are you certain there is no problem?"
"Everything's swell," Bill said assuredly.
He floated by the couple and charged after the inebriated Jason. As he went, the two friends heard him humming, "What can you do with a drunken sailor, what can you do with a drunken sailor..."
The ghost pair smiled fondly at that tune. They resumed floating down the docks. Playfully linking their arms, they heartily and joyously broke out into song. "What can you do with a drunken sailor, what can you do with a drunken sailor..." They then burst into uproarious laughter.
"That's one of the sea shanties we used to sing when we were children." Rachel beamed nostalgically.
"Yes, I do recall." Tim grinned at her contentedly.
Their arms still cozily linked, they continued floating in the fog.
"How is it that mortal man can see us?" Rachel wondered.
"Oh, you'd be astonished at the sorts of things mortals can see when they're heavily intoxicated," said Tim. "They'll immediately forget about it when they're hung over. Or chose to forget about it."
"I guess I understand how that is," Rachel said thoughtfully.
As the two quietly floated down the dark foggy dock, Tim took a moment to admire his friend's green and white dress.
She was her natural self again. He was so glad she was no longer masquerading as someone she was not - for now at least. Hopefully the witch had really gone from Collinwood.
Staring around through the thick icy fog, Rachel commented in amazement, "It really is incredible how the world has changed and evolved. Transportation's different. There are no longer horse-drawn coaches. Even the buildings and houses are different now. And the clothing people wear is so outlandish. Have you seen much of these changes in the years since I departed, Tim?"
"I have witnessed some of the transformation," Tim explained. "I lived long enough to witness the decade known as the Roaring Twenties."
"The Roaring Twenties?" Rachel furrowed her brow. "Is that supposed to be the nineteen-twenties?"
"Yes, most of the automobiles you see now started to evolve around then," explained Tim. "American cities became much more spread out and grander, and music started to become more bouncy and wild. Women danced provocatively. Men performed daring stunts in the skies and on high skyscrapers. And there was a ban on alcohol, which resulted in the rise of brutal criminals.
"It was an exciting time," Tim finished dryly.
"And that was the time period when you died?" Rachel said to him gently.
"Yes, sad and alone," answered Tim somberly. "I'll never forget my dying moments hearing your voice from the heavens singing those sea shanties." He sighed heavily.
Reading the uncertain look on her face, he said, "I lived my life. All of that is behind me now."
"As it is with my life," said Rachel softly.
They spotted a forlorn looking tavern through the thick fog. They glided up to it, and peered through the large wide window near the entrance.
"There's Petofi." Tim spotted the warlock sitting at a table with a fellow bearded man.
"Can he see ghosts?" Rachel asked Tim. "Will alcohol allow him to see us? He did not seem to notice Beth, but he may not have been drinking then."
"I think we should take the precaution of waiting out here," insisted Tim. "We can keep an eye on him from here."
Inside the tavern, the same songs as always played on the jukebox, and there wasn't many patrons as usual. Sam Evans sat at a table near the bar with his new art admirer Victor Fenn-Gibbon.
Roger Collins sat sulking at the bar, drinking copious amounts of scotch. He had been there for about three hours, and Sam had been keeping a close eye on him.
Fenn-Gibbon spoke incessantly about his growing fondness for the obscured fishing village known as Collinsport, Maine. But Sam wasn't really listening to what the stranger was saying.
Fenn-Gibbon picked up on that. "You seem awfully concerned with that gentleman at the bar."
Sam blinked.
"Oh – well, not really," Sam said distractedly. "I've just known him for many years."
The two overheard the tipsy Roger inquiring of the bartender, "Your name is Bob, correct?"
The bartender wordlessly nodded.
"Then why do people sometimes referred to you as 'Punchy?'" Roger looked at him with droopy eyes.
"That's Roger Collins," Fenn-Gibbon stated to Sam. "He wouldn't allow me into Collinwood. I desperately want to study it for its historical value."
"I know Roger Collins," said Sam. "He is not easy to befriend."
"The poor man certainly looks worse for wear," said Fenn-Gibbon. "Have you heard the rumors circulating about his wife?"
"Something about an accident," Sam muttered.
The details regarding Cassandra Collins' accident and her whereabouts were unknown to the general public. Leave it to the Collins PR machine to make that happen. But the artist wished he knew what was really going on with the witch, now that Barnabas' vampirism had been cured. He supposed he would just have to get the lowdown from Willie and Maggie later.
The door flew open; Burke, donning a long expensive black coat, stepped in from the December night. After shutting the door, he spotted Roger drowning his sorrows. Burke looked at him somewhat pityingly, and turned his attention to Sam at the table.
He slowly approached, releasing a tired sigh. "Good evening, Sam."
"Hi, Burke," Sam replied. "Please meet Victor Fenn-Gibbon. He's new in town. Victor, this is Burke Devlin."
"Pleased to meet you," Fenn-Gibbon told Burke pleasantly with a toothy grin.
"Hello." Burke shook the stranger's gloved hand.
"Come, join us," Sam invited.
Burke quickly grabbed a chair from an empty neighboring table, and joined the other two men.
"I believe I have seen you before Mr. Devlin." Fenn-Gibbon peered owlishly at Burke through his absurd magnified spectacles. "Yes, you were here with a young beautiful lady, and having drinks with Sam's daughter and her boyfriend."
"Yes, I remember seeing you." Burke now recalled seeing Fenn-Gibbon speaking to Sam and Dr. Woodard on the night of his and Vicki's double date with Willie and Maggie. "The young beautiful lady was my fiancée Victoria Winters."
"Ah." Fenn-Gibbon nodded. "Do you two live in the village?"
"I'm staying at the Collinsport Inn at the moment," Burke exclaimed. "Vicki and I are planning to live in the renovated West Wing up at Collinwood after we're married."
"Collinwood?" Fenn-Gibbon comically widened his eyes through his glasses. "You and your fiancée know the Collins family?"
"I have quite a history with them." Burke sheepishly avert his awkward gaze from the bushy-faced bespectacled stranger. "Vicki is employed there as governess."
"And you two are going to reside in the West Wing?" Fenn-Gibbon was clearly interested.
"Yes," Burke reluctantly answered.
"It must be so romantic to live in a place with such history," said Fenn-Gibbon.
Not so when history surrounds you with strange attacking shadows, sinister music, and unsettling glimpses of strangers from my grandparents time, thought Burke sardonically. But yes, how romantic.
He didn't vocalize those words. It was just too uncomfortable to share such a frightening and mind-boggling experience with a total stranger. Not to mention the kind of stranger who seemed to be even more of an eccentric, history obsessed nut job than Barnabas Collins.
Instead, Burke said, "Vicki is very excited."
"Ah." Fenn-Gibbon took in those words. "Is your daughter and her boyfriend planning to wed as well, Sam?"
"No, they're happily un-married," Sam told Fenn-Gibbon, who raised a single brow at those unconventional words.
Burke however was rather amused by Sam's bluntness.
"Well, at least they are for the time being," Sam clarified.
As the three men continue to interact, and Roger continued gulping down Punchy's best cheap scotch, the ghosts of Tim and Rachel remained observing them through the frosty window.
At the Evans cottage, Willie and Maggie dressed down in their warm house robes, enjoying a quiet dinner of shrimp pasta in the tiny dining room. Shimmering white candles glowed on the table, and the red, blue and green Christmas lights decorating the window provided an eerie and intimate atmosphere for them. The Christmas lights shined as colorfully and whimsically as wild sprites in a fairy garden.
But the lingering uncertainty over the witch's condition, Barnabas' plight, and the bizarre happenings in the West Wing of Collinwood hovered between them.
Maggie, ever resilient, would not allow all of these strange and monstrous horrors to dictate her life or relationship. She spoke to Willie from across the small table.
"I think I finally know where I want you to take me, Willie."
He glanced up from his plate awkwardly, forming a bewildered frown. "T-Take you? Oh, ya mean for our trip?" His voice brightened.
"Yes." Maggie nodded, smiling happily. "I'd like to see the desert."
"T-The desert?" Willie wasn't expecting that.
She grinned at him. "Yes, before you came to town, I tried to convince Pop to take a little family trip to Arizona. I've always been fascinated with deserts. I wonder how hot it could actually get there, and what it's like to be in all that heat. I've always wanted to see a giant cactus up close, and tumbleweeds tumbling around. Maybe we can even go and see the Grand Canyon."
"I never been to Arizona," muttered Willie.
"Then it will be an adventure for both of us," Maggie said brightly. "You don't mind, right? I'd just like to know what it's like to be in a state that doesn't rain all the time."
"Oh, I don't mind, Maggie," Willie loyally assured her. "I-I'll take ya anywhere ya like."
"So, Arizona and Singapore." Maggie gave a little nod. "Those are our two dream destinations."
"O-Okay." Willie enjoyed watching her bright, happy face through the glow of the candles between them.
"Okay," Maggie agreed with a cheerful grin.
Willie jerked his head nervously, and muttered, "I-I got somethin' for ya."
"A gift?" Maggie tilted her head playfully, her grin never leaving her face.
"Yeah." Willie nodded.
"But it's not Christmas morning," said Maggie.
"It don't hafta be," Willie insisted. "I'll be right back."
Maggie watched him hurry out of the cramped dining room. With dirty dishes visibly cluttering the sink in the nearby kitchen, along with the stove being unscrubbed after the cooking, Maggie felt this was still the most romantic dinner she'd ever had regardless. No matter how unconventional it may be. Hell, their own dream destinations were unconventional.
Willie quickly returned. He produced a small jewelry box from the pocket of his robe and returned to his chair. He shyly but reverently nudged the jewelry box across the table to her. Maggie stared down at the small silver box. It was very pretty. The silver practically glistened. But it was a little big to carry a specific ring. That was more than fine for Maggie.
"Oh, Willie," she said touched. "You finally figured out the concept that it is the man who's supposed to give the woman the jewelry, not the other way around."
He smirked at her quip, and they both shared a warm-hearted laugh.
"Open it, Maggie."
Wordlessly, Maggie slid open the lid. Two small sparkling emerald earrings gleamed up at her from inside the box. They were mere little gemstones, not the enchanting tear-shaped diamond emerald earrings from Josette's exquisite jewelry collection. With that said, these earrings were not even close to being half as expensive as Josette's. They were not meant to be worn by some princess or noblewoman. Maggie could have easily bought them with her old waitressing salary.
"D'ya like it?" Willie looked across from her nervously.
Maggie continued staring down at the little earrings. The inexpensive gemstones were unquestioningly beautiful. Even though they were not part of the Crown Jewels, they shined beautifully. Willie certainly knew beautiful jewelry when he saw it.
"Yes, Willie." Maggie took the little earrings out of the silver jewelry box. "They're beautiful. I really love them. But I don't have anything for you," she added guiltily. "I haven't started my Christmas shopping yet."
"That's okay, Maggie," Willie insisted. "I got off pretty good."
Maggie gazed at him softly. She hoped she could find something special for him when she got the chance to go shopping in Bangor. He always did everything for her.
After dinner, the two nestled on the couch. They decided to engage in a extremely rare past time: They hooked up the television set the Evans household only used for special occasions to watch. Or at least, Willie watched it. Maggie was engrossed with her copy of The Turn of the Screw. She wasn't really interested in the bright colorful adventures of Batman and his sidekick Robin. After his experience with Barnabas, Willie was flummoxed by the concept of a Batman being a hero who solved crimes, and was nice to his sidekick. ( Even though he had heard of the famous superhero before, he just couldn't associate bats as a symbol of good.)
On the television set, Batman and Robin shared an unlikely encounter with legendary actor Edward G. Robinson. The dynamic duo engaged in a out-of-the-blue discussion about art with Mr. Robinson. Maggie glanced up from her reading. Apparently, one of movie's most famous gangsters had a strong aversion to pop art.
"Do you think I should write Edward G. Robinson a letter and ask him to fly up here to check out Pop's art?" she joked.
A rough banging rattled the front door. It was a little late for visitors. Willie reflectively moved to dutifully answer it, but Maggie halted him. "I'll get it."
She sat her gothic ghost novella aside, and stepped up to the front door. She creaked it open and was stunned to find the bleary-eyed Jason McGuire barely standing on the doorstep. His blurry eyes widened once they registered Maggie.
"I just saw ya at the docks." He pointed a clumsy finger at her. "You were with some laddie dressed like Edison."
"Jason!" Willie shot up from the couch and joined his girlfriend at her side.
"He's on the sauce, Willie," Maggie whispered to him.
"Jason." Willie took in his more than normally disgraceful appearance. He was barely alive.
"Willie, m'lad."
"What are ya doin' here?"
"I have been summoned, Willie," Jason muttered gruffly with obvious whiskey reeking breath.
"Summoned by who?" Maggie knitted her brows curiously.
"By the queen who lives in the sky!" Jason barged pass them uninvited, and staggered carelessly inside the cottage.
Willie shut the front door, as Jason scanned through the Christmas decorations and Batman airing on the telly. Then his devious eyes narrowed on Willie and Maggie's house robes. His grin was a little too cheeky for Maggie's liking.
"Willie, I don't mean to barge in on ya and the missus, but I hafta see ya. It's been so long."
"Jason, what are ya doin' here?" Willie reiterated impatiently. He was a little emotional seeing his old friend again. But this was also a little shifty.
"Has Mrs. Stoddard brought you here?" Maggie chimed in.
Jason cackled bombastically. "Wha-Wha why would Liz want me back?"
"Because she's the only one who could bring you back." Maggie folded her arms. "We all know she kicked you out of town."
"Ay, that's not important," Jason dismissed her.
"Jason, what's wrong with you? Why are ya like this?" Willie eyed him from top to bottom. He noticed a trail of wet seaweed on the floor. His old pal evidently dragged it in by the stark evidences trailing from the door leading up to the Irishman's wet boots. Willie pinched some seaweed between his fingers, and asked in a scrunched up face, "Have ya been in a shipwreck, Jason?"
"Ay, I have been in a shipwreck, Willie." Jason glared spitefully.
"Jason, you're drunk," Maggie said evenly. "Why don't you go to the guest room and sleep it off. You can talk to us when you're feeling more civilized."
"I'm feelin' a bit more civilized now," declared Jason.
Sizing up his old friend, Jason exclaimed, "I never thought of you as the marryin' sort, Willie."
"Me and Maggie aren't married," Willie informed the inebriated Irishman.
Jason laughed slyly, and said, "Oh, ya haven' change for the worst, m'lad."
"No, he changed for the better." Maggie pulled out the silver jewelry box from the pocket of her house robe. She showed the unwanted house guest the tiny and special emerald earrings. "We are committed."
Jason's eyes brightened considerably at the sight of the tiny, shiny emeralds.
"Oh, Willie. Ya always have eyes for the jewels. Ya greedy bastard!"
Maggie snapped the lid shut, and deposited the little box back inside her pocket.
"Jason, why don't ya listen to Maggie and sleep it off," Willie suggested earnestly.
But now Jason was a con man with a mission.
"Nah, I'll leave you with your little mistress." He clumsily flung Maggie into an uncomfortably tight hug. "Thanks for makin' me Willie a dishonest man," he breathed sinisterly into her ear. He quickly let go of her and planted a big bear hug on his old mate. "Goodbye, m'lad. If we meet again, it'll be too soon."
"Lemme walk ya to the door." Willie purposefully escorted the Irishman to the front door. "Are ya sure you don't wanna sleep it off?"
"No, I'm good, Willie, I'm good."
Willie opened the door. "Bye, Jason."
"So long, lad." Jason eagerly darted out of the cottage as Willie shut the door.
Alone on the dark snowy front porch, Jason, with a greedy grin, stuffed his hand into the pocket of his coat. Instead of making contact with a certain little box containing shiny emeralds, Jason instead felt something wet and slimy.
He produced only a fistful of seaweed.
"Surprise, McGuire!" Bill Malloy's ghost materialized before the drifter.
Jason growled enraged. "Wha this!"
"You haven't gotten away with Maggie's earrings," Bill explained simply. "Her beau stole them right back for her like any courteous delinquent boyfriend would."
Jason growled furiously again. He could practically feel his old friend's cocky smirk taunting him behind the door.
"Then wha is this?" Jason flung the seaweed at the transparent ghost, only for it to fly right through him.
"Oh, I put that there." Bill shrugged sheepishly. "Thought it would be funny."
Jason glared at him.
"Now, let's set sail for the Collinsport Inn," said Bill lightly. "Liz has already made the necessary arrangements."
"Did she now," sniped Jason.
"You just turned down your friend and Maggie's invitation," Bill pointed out reasonably. "And you've made enough of a spectacle of yourself. You have no place to go to. Might as well accept Liz's hospitality."
"Yeah, right," Jason sneered.
"Let's cast off now." The ghost herded his old rival away from the cottage. "Y'know, those lovebirds are right about one thing, McGuire. You do need to sleep it off."
Once he'd ushered Jason out of the snowy front yard, the ghost began singing his favorite shanty. "What can you do with a drunken sailor, what can you do with a drunken sailor..."
"Stop it with that bloody song," snarled the hot-headed Jason.
"I greatly envy you, Mr. Devlin," said Fenn-Gibbon in a thick voice.
Burke, along with Sam, quietly listened to him at their table in the Blue Whale. Roger still drunkenly sulked at the bar, and the two ghosts were still peering closely through the large window from out in the freezing night.
"To reside in a portion of such a tremendous home," finished the stranger.
Burke quietly took a sip of his bourbon.
"It's interesting how things turned out," Sam said to Burke. "The first thing you wanted to do when you got back to town was to purchase Collinwood."
Burke chuckled ironically at that reminder. At the time, he wanted to depose the Collins family out of their legendary home, and reign over the property like a tyrannical king. He even commissioned Sam to paint his portrait so he could boldly place it above the mantle piece in the drawing room. As fate would have it, love had mellowed Burke Devlin. He was now destined to live closely to the people he once considered his enemies.
Thankfully, he'd develop a genuine friendship with Liz Stoddard and got along pretty well with Carolyn. He genuinely cared a great deal for David, or Davey as he liked to call him.
"Is that true?" Fenn-Gibbon gave Burke a surprised look through his spectacles, unaware of the sordid details of this story.
"Yes." Burke grinned awkwardly. "But I find that my tastes in homes have changed drastically since then."
"Oh?" Fenn-Gibbon lifted a single bushy eyebrow.
"Yes, the problem I have with Collinwood is that it's basically a giant tomb," explained Burke.
"Is that due to the various ghost legends?" Fenn-Gibbon inquired.
"You see, just about every room has a plaque," said Burke. "The Collinses love to hang portraits of their own dead up on the walls."
"What an interesting and morbid fascination," Fenn-Gibbon said whimsically.
"Yes, well." Burke steered the conversation. "What are you all about Mr. Fenn-Gibbon? Judging by your accent, I'd say you're not from around here."
"Why yes, I am actually Hungarian. And you must excuse my voice. My throat was unfortunately slit when I was performing volunteer work in the Sudan. I have spoken like this ever since."
"I'm very sorry to hear that," Burke said sympathetically. "So, Sam's doing a portrait for you?"
"Yes, of a man from this town's sordid history," Sam filled in.
"Some obscure figure?" asked Burke.
"A forgotten one," Fenn-Gibbon said solemnly. "Someone who used to wander the very halls you and your fiancée are refurbishing."
"A Collins?" Burke raised his brows.
"Wait a minute, Victor," Sam interjected. "If this subject is a Collins, then wouldn't there already be a portrait of him stored up at Collinwood?"
"I'm afraid not," Fenn-Gibbon claimed sadly. "The circumstances surrounding this man's life were truly tragic. I feel compelled to restore his legacy."
"He sounds pretty important for someone who was forgotten," Burke commented.
"Yes," Fenn-Gibbon swiftly checked his pocket watch, and just as swiftly slid it inside his breast pocket. "I must retire for the night."
"Good night, Mr. Fenn-Gibbon," said Burke.
"Please, refer to me as Victor," he said.
"Very well, Victor." Burke nodded.
Fenn-Gibbon got up from his chair and shrugged on his long black shabby coat.
"Good night, Sam. I eagerly anticipate you're continued progress on the portrait."
"Yeah, sure thing," Sam said to him.
As Fenn-Gibbon exited the tavern, he eyed Roger Collins closely. The man who'd rudely shut him out of the great home he desperately wanted to enter. Finding the depressed rich man had not acknowledged his presence all evening, let alone remembered who he was, Fenn-Gibbon quietly stepped out into the winter night. He carefully made his way out to the icy docks.
Tim and Rachel forced themselves to remain unseen to this powerful stranger.
"Should we follow him?" Rachel whispered to Tim.
"No, it's too dangerous," Tim dismissed cautiously. "I think we should focus on his interest with that bearded man."
Inside at their table, Burke whispered to Sam, "I think Barnabas Collins has serious competition for being the town's resident eccentric."
"Perhaps." Sam sighed uneasily, reluctantly withholding the knowledge of the mysterious Collins true identity, and what he did to his daughter. "But Victor is interesting to work for."
"I don't doubt that," Burke stated lightly.
"He works for Petofi." Tim and Rachel streamed into the tavern, and hovered closely near the table. They were invisible to the two men, as well as Roger and Bob the bartender.
"He seems like such a nice man," Rachel murmured, closely eyeing Sam. "Why would he work for Petofi?"
"He might be desperate," Tim speculated. "Just like I was when I was in Petofi's hands."
The door flew open again, and Dr. Woodard entered the tavern wearing a long winter coat. He quickly shut out the harsh winter cold. He spotted Roger drowning his sorrows at the bar.
He gently stepped up to him. "Mr. Collins, I thought you would like to know your wife is stable and comfortable."
Roger didn't even glance up, let alone register the doctor's words.
Dr. Woodard squeezed the wealthy man's shoulder. "She's in good hands."
The doctor then ventured toward Sam and Burke's table. Along with the rest of the mortals, he was oblivious to the presence of Tim and Rachel.
"Hello, Sam. Mind if I join you and Burke?"
"Be my guest." Sam shrugged.
Dr. Woodward planted himself in Petofi's empty chair, heaving a deep sigh.
"Penny for your thoughts, Dave?" Sam offered.
The doctor sighed heavily again. "Oh, Sam, I just had a strange, strange day."
He and Burke went into how Cassandra Collins suffered a mental breakdown at Collinwood and was promptly carted off to Windcliff.
Sam listened intently. He along with Dr. Woodard knew who Cassandra really was. But the doctor had to withhold the part about the woman's rapid and grotesque aging from Sam due to Burke's presence. After all, Dr. Woodard and Sam agreed not to come forward with Barnabas' secret for the sake of Maggie and the Collins family.
Dr. Woodard said nothing when Burke told Sam about how Cassandra's face was covered in a black veil while she was hauled away to Windcliff. Burke vigilantly didn't buy Dr. Julia Hoffman's explanation of why the new Mrs. Collins face was concealed due to over sensitivity to stimulants.
Dr. Woodard grew weary. It was dangerous for Burke to become too suspicious.
All the while, Tim grew more and more disinterested with this discussion. It had nothing to do with Petofi or why the friendly bearded man was associated with him.
Rachel decided to fully explore the tavern. She gazed at the clashing Christmas decorations displayed along with the nautical décor on the walls. She then floated up to Roger, who despairingly rested his forehead on the bar by his empty glass. The bartender looked at the wealthy man sadly. Rachel found herself pitying him also.
"In time you will come to realize this is for the best," she whispered kindly. A whisper she was unsure reached his ears. He was obviously intoxicated but Rachel was uncertain if he could sense her.
Rachel then moved to the jukebox, a contraption that greatly baffled her. It played such strange and bizarre music. The instrumental pieces were performed by instruments beyond her comprehension. She placed her slender hand through the exterior of the mysterious melodic device. She felt various spinning mechanisms course through her transparent hand. This caused the strange music to come out distorted.
Sam, Burke and Dr. Woodard jerked their heads at this sudden malfunction, while the bartender was too occupied watching the hopelessly depressed and drunk Roger.
Rachel pulled her hand from the musical device, and the melody resumed its steady rhythm. She giggled amused.
"That was odd." Burke frowned, staring at the jukebox
"That has happened before," Sam recalled vaguely.
Tim glided up to Rachel at the jukebox, and gently closed his hands around hers.
"May I have this dance, Miss Drummond?" he asked courteously.
"Do people actually dance to this music?" Rachel said bewildered.
"Music has obviously change since your demise," Tim said as he glided her to the dance floor. "Young people such as ourselves in this time dance to this noise quite frequently."
"But I don't understand this music," Rachel exclaimed.
"Then let our imaginations guide us," Tim suggested. "Let's pretend this strange piece of noise is the melody to a sea shanty. We can perform a peasant dance like we used to in secret at Worthington Hall."
Rachel giggled warmly at the sweet memory. But before the two friends could even take a step, a dead serious tone poured out of the man named Burke Devlin.
"You're not the only one who had a strange day, Dave," the businessman said drearily.
"Oh?" Dr. Woodard listened, interested.
"Yeah," said Burke, keeping his voice low. "This is so hard to explain, but I'm fairly certain Vicki and I received a dire warning from the ghosts of Collinwood."
From the dance floor, Tim and Rachel looked at each other, then continued their eavesdropping.
"What?" said Sam.
"When did this happened?" Dr. Woodard pressed.
"A couple of hours after Cassandra got shipped off," Burke whispered so Roger couldn't hear.
"What happened?" asked Sam.
"The ghosts showed us a vision from the past," said Burke. "We saw a scene between a woman who was a carbon copy of Liz, and an old woman who was her grandmother. Vicki believes their from the Victorian era. The room sure did look it."
"Room?" Dr. Woodard frowned.
"Yeah, it all took place in the lounge of the West Wing," explained Burke lowly. "The woman that looked like Liz gave her grandmother some soup and saltines. Then – Laura showed up."
"Laura?" Sam deeply studied Burke's troubled face.
"Yes, the Laura," said Burke seriously. "Presumably in one of her past Phoenix lives."
"I have heard there was something peculiar about Laura." Dr. Woodard thoughtfully rubbed his chin. "There have been lots of whispers about the late Dr. Guthrie's investigation on her."
"Yeah, I know," Burke muttered. "The Laura from the past seemed to be just as conniving as our Laura. Seemed to have a penchant for doing unspeakable things to her own children."
Sam and Dr. Woodard threw each other sobering glances.
"I'm convinced the ghosts are warning us about her," said Burke. "The vision got so out of hand, Josette had to pull us out of it."
"You saw Josette?" Dr. Woodard was stunned.
"Vicki saw her through the window," Burke clarified. "I heard her music box, the one Barnabas gave Vicki. Josette pulled us out of these threatening shadows that surrounded us. We also heard this old gramophone music and some man's maniacal laughter." Burke paused. "I can honestly say I experienced something truly supernatural at Collinwood, and it was truly terrifying. I just hope Josette has our backs as we proceed to renovate the West Wing. There's no turning back on that. Davey needs Vicki."
"Burke, did you see anything else in this strange vision?" Dr. Woodward inquired closely.
"Well, Vicki and I saw a cocky young man who looked like a pretty boy Abe Lincoln." Burke shrugged. "He was tall, and had short dark hair and long pointed sideburns."
Rachel gasped at Tim. "I think he is describing Quentin!"
"It certainly sounds like him," Tim drawled.
"He was introducing his new wife to the grandmother and the woman that looked like Liz," Burke went on. "He seemed to have married her impulsively, and the two women didn't like that. I did feel sorry for the guy's wife. But I don't think they are connected to the threat we're supposedly being warned about. It's got to be about Laura."
"Are you sure this vision was intended to be a warning?" asked Dr. Woodard.
"Why not," said Burke. "Laura was in it. I consider that to be a threat."
"But Laura's gone," Sam said logically. "She can't possibly come back now, can she?"
"I honestly don't know, Sam." Burke absentmindedly tapped his fingers noisily on the table. "I hope not."
"We should return to Collinwood and inform Beth of this," Rachel told Tim urgently.
"We will," Tim promised her, tenderly patting her hand. "But I'd like to watch this bearded man a little bit longer. We need to know what Petofi's interest in him is."
It was around one o'clock in the morning by the time Sam finally returned to the Evans cottage. He spent a great deal of time keeping Roger in his sights at the Blue Whale. In all his years of knowing the man, Sam had never seen Roger this downtrodden. He didn't know if Roger was even capable of getting depressed. He always carried himself with an insufferable arrogance with his confidence. Clearly, that witch woman put him under some sort of spell. Hopefully for Roger it would soon wear off.
Sam and Burke decided to drive him up to Collinwood in Burke's car.
Given that over ten years ago Roger sent Burke to prison for a drunken hit and run he hadn't committed, and Sam got roped in to seal Burke's fate, this was an ironic turn of events.
When they dragged the barely conscious Roger to his family's front doors, Elizabeth and Mrs. Johnson tended to him.
Burke bade good night to Sam when they returned to the Blue Whale, and climbed into their respective cars. Burke headed for the Collinsport Inn to retire for the night. Sam got into his station wagon and safely returned to his cottage.
Once he came through the front door, he was greeted by the sight of Maggie snuggling next to Willie on the couch. They were both sound asleep.
Sam found the Christmas tree lights on, casting shimmering colors of red and green in the dark room. The hooked up television set was turned off.
The artist shut the door and locked up. He guiltily gazed at his sleeping daughter on the couch. She and Willie likely stayed up late to make sure he returned safely. But sleep obviously claimed them.
Sam deeply hoped Maggie didn't think he went on another bender. He only had a few drinks. He would just have to assure her in the morning. He didn't want to wake her.
He grabbed the Afghan clinging to the top of the couch, and gingerly covered his daughter and her boyfriend with it. He quietly switched off the Christmas tree lights and creaked into his bedroom.
Once the living room was engulfed in heavy darkness, a ghostly white glow sparked into the room. Willie and Maggie still snoozed cozily on the couch undeterred.
The ghosts of Tim and Rachel materialized in the living room.
"I really think we should speak with Beth now," Rachel whispered.
"We may well learn what Petofi's interest and motives are here," Tim countered.
"I don't know, Tim," said Rachel. "This is just a harmless cottage. I doubt it holds the dreaded secrets that Collinwood contains."
"No, but it holds the sight of a girl who looks exactly like you snuggling intimately close with a boy who looks like Carl." Tim smugly indicated the sleeping couple on the couch.
Rachel snorted. "Carl Collins and I were never intimate, Tim Shaw! He was too juvenile for me, and besides, he's madly in love with that showgirl."
"There's no need to be short tempered, Rachel," Tim said light-heartedly. "I merely thought it was humorous."
Rachel looked at him indignantly. They began investigating the room, observing the numerous canvases and cheery Christmas decorations.
"This man appears to be a painter," Rachel remarked, studying one of the canvases. "Or his daughter is."
"I found something, Rachel," Tim spoke by the coffee table.
Rachel glided up to him, and he showed her a large piece of paper.
"What is it?"
"A sketch drawing," Tim informed her.
Rachel took a glimpse at the sketch.
"It's a drawing of Quentin!" Rachel said surprised.
"Yes," said Tim. "It appears Petofi commissioned this painter to create a portrait of Quentin."
"Why? What for?" Rachel was puzzled.
"Petofi commissioned a painter to create a portrait of Quentin in 1897," said Tim thoughtfully. "It seems he wants that portrait finished seventy years later."
Next Chapter: A Startling Command