Disclaimer: Dark Shadows is a Dan Curtis Production and not mine
CHAPTER 17: THE PHANTOM'S DECLARATION
Vicki faced the last man she'd ever expected to see on this earth again. Or at least not in Collinsport, Maine.
"Jason, what are you doing here?" the governess demanded, stunned.
The Irishman looked at her as wildly as a demented mental patient.
"Are you back to cause more problems for Mrs. Stoddard?" Vicki glared at him narrowly. "If that's the case, then Carolyn and I will chase you out of here. We all know that Carolyn's not afraid to pull a gun on you!"
"Don't even speak to her, McGuire," the whispered hiss of Bill Malloy's voice slithered inside the old con's ears. "Step outside you mangy sod!"
"Stop hasslin' me," Jason snarled, shooting his irate glare over his shoulder. His blurry eyes then wandered upward to the ceiling.
"You're drunk, aren't you?" Vicki said bitterly. She followed his gaze up to the ceiling. "What are you looking at?"
"Get the hell out!" Bill commanded.
"Nothin', kid," Jason slurred at Vicki, as he shot up from his stool and hazily staggered out of the diner.
Vicki sat and seethed silently for a moment. Then she impulsively got up and chased after him. She caught sight of him just as he was leaving the Inn. But she didn't really know what to do about him.
Vicki decided to return to Suzy, where two slices of warm apple pie waited on the counter.
"That guy seemed like a loony, in addition to being a drunk," Suzy remarked, as she disposed of Jason's untouched coffee. "I think he thought you were sitting on the ceiling like Mary Poppins."
"Suzy, how long has he been staying here?" Vicki inquired.
"A day or so, I think." Suzy shrugged. "He's never caused any trouble. Just keeps to himself." At this, the waitress smirked. "But the latest word on the street is he's something of a boozer."
Out in the lobby, Burke shuffled down the staircase where he noticed a big coated stranger clambering into the Inn, seeking refuge from the unforgiving New England winter. Burke instantly recognized the odd man. It was Victor Fenn-Gibbon.
"Ah, Burke," he cheerfully called out in his characteristically distorted voice. "Pleasure to cross paths with you again, dear sir."
"Yes, very fortuitous," Burke remarked. "I was hoping to talk with you."
"Why, yes, of course." The bespectacled old stranger allowed the no-nonsense businessman to usher him into the diner.
From the counter, Vicki and Suzy saw the two men enter. Burke selected the nearest table to the entrance, away from the counter.
"Here, sit." Burke pulled out a chair for Fenn-Gibbon.
Burke took the chair next to him. Vicki crossed over to them, carrying the two plates of apple pie.
Burke gestured up to her. "Victor, meet my fiancée, Victoria Winters. Vicki, this is Victor Fenn-Gibbon."
"You're the man that commissioned Sam Evans to do your portrait?" Vicki joined them at the table, placing a slice of pie in front of Burke and then herself.
When they spoke with Willie, Maggie and Carolyn in the drawing room earlier that evening, Burke filled them in on how he met Victor Fenn-Gibbon at the Blue Whale. He was informed that Fenn-Gibbon hired Sam to paint a portrait of a forgotten Collins ancestor. An ancestor that Burke, Vicki, and the rest of the group learned to be Quentin Collins.
"Yes, but it's not a portrait of myself, dear child." Fenn-Gibbon released a strange throaty laugh.
Suzy trotted over to their table, carrying a tiny notebook and pen. "Would you like to order, sir?" she addressed the stranger politely.
"Yes, dragon tea," said Fenn-Gibbon.
"We don't serve tea here," Suzy informed him dryly. "We have coffee and hot chocolate."
Fenn-Gibbon scrunched up his furry face. "I'll take the hot chocolate. I detest this watery mud labeled 'coffee'."
"Very well, sir." Suzy headed back to the counter.
"I know Mr. Evans is not painting a portrait of you," Vicki assured Fenn-Gibbon casually. "Maggie told me you hired him to paint a portrait of a Collins ancestor."
"Yes, that's quite correct," Fenn-Gibbon confirmed. "He was an extraordinary man."
"We just learned who this extraordinary man was," Burke cut in. "What do you know about Quentin Collins?"
Fenn-Gibbon peered at Burke with an intrigued expression. "You have discovered Quentin Collins? The forgotten ancestor?"
Burke leaned back against his chair. "It's like I said the other night, Victor. Collinwood is a giant tomb. Ghosts and legends haunt the walls where Vicki and I are trying to build our future."
"The West Wing." Fenn-Gibbon raised his bushy eyebrows.
Burke gave an affirmative nod.
"Remarkable." Fenn-Gibbon stretched out a delighted grin. "You have encountered Quentin's spirit."
"He was clearly not a nice man," Vicki said pointedly.
"He was vulgar rich and a man of the world," Fenn-Gibbon said admirably. "The world was his oyster."
"He was also a terrifying bastard," Burke countered.
"It seems as though your experience with the apparition of Quentin Collins was most negative," Fenn-Gibbon stated.
"Yes, it definitely was," Vicki said firmly.
"Tell me, Victor, what's your interest in Quentin Collins?" Burke inquired. "Why are you paying Sam Evans to paint a portrait of him?"
"Quentin Collins is a very important figure in the Collins family," Fenn-Gibbon claimed.
"I've been studying the figures in the Collins history for quite some time," Vicki challenged. "And there were quite a few Quentins in the family."
"Yes, but our Quentin existed near the dawn of this very century," Fenn-Gibbon explained importantly. "His influence should not be discounted."
"The family history states he moved to Paris in 1897," Vicki relayed. "He never returned."
"Considering his ghost is presently haunting the West Wing of Collinwood, that may not be entirely factual," Fenn-Gibbon reasoned.
"Yes, you may be right." Vicki nodded.
"You know what really happened to him," Burke said to the old man.
It wasn't a question.
"It was a tragedy," Fenn-Gibbon whispered sadly. "A soul-wrenching tragedy."
"What happened?" Vicki prodded.
"He was cursed," Fenn-Gibbon spoke softly. "Cursed into a wretched monster. It destroyed him and all those he loved."
"So he was a typical Collins." Burke nodded. "But why is he lashing out at us? We've done nothing to him."
"That may not be his view point" Fenn-Gibbon cautioned. "You and Miss Winters are invading his home."
"The West Wing?" Vicki lifted her brows. "But that's the Collinses' home."
"Perhaps he blames the whole Collins family for his woes and misfortune," Fenn-Gibbon suggested.
"Whatever the case, I need to find a way to get this tragic figure over his issues and moved on," said Burke. "Preferably straight out of the West Wing."
"I feel a strong connection with Quentin Collins," claimed Fenn-Gibbon. "Perhaps I can help you."
Burke and Vicki shared a quiet look.
Willie parked his rusty jalopy in front of the snowy Evans cottage. He and Maggie were bundled up in their coats. The truck's heater filtered little of the winter chill from the air.
"Ah, another harrowing Collinwood day almost over with," Maggie tiredly muttered from the passenger side, rubbing her equally tired eyelids. "Are you sure you don't need my help finding Angelique's hideout?"
"Nah, ya tired and we're already at the cottage," Willie reasoned kindly. "And besides, if I get caught, do ya honestly think Barnabas will come rushin' in after me?"
"Point taken," Maggie muttered. "You know, we should have a little chat with Barnabas about how he behaves up at Collinwood. He was too strange tonight, carrying on about how the air was blessed with Josette's jasmine. Mrs. Stoddard was staring at him like he was a loon."
"Barnabas don't care much what people thinks of 'im," Willie muttered. "He won't take manners from servants."
"Yeah, you're right," Maggie conceded. "You don't think it's too much to ask him to stop flirting with Vicki? That's really creeping me out."
"I tried to get 'im to stop flirtin' with you," Willie said seriously. "For a long while it didn't do any good. You should know."
Maggie swallowed. She pushed the gentle reminder of her horrific abduction to the back storage of her mind.
"Vicki is marrying Burke," Maggie empathized heavily. "She loves him. Barnabas needs to accept that. Giving her Josette's music box is not going to change anything."
"Yeah, he's got a good thing goin' with Julia." Willie got out of the truck, went around to open Maggie's door, and courtly helped his girl down to the snowy pavement. Much of the fresh snow had been shoveled. Willie had piled a big mountain of it at the curve.
"You think there's something going on between Barnabas and Julia?" Maggie asked him with interest, as he shut the truck's door.
"She likes 'im." Willie shrugged simply. "She'll take care of 'im."
"I know she has a big interest in him," Maggie said softly. "But how does Josette figure in? She and Barnabas still love each other."
Willie didn't have an answer to that.
Hand-in-hand, he escorted her across the yard. Wind swept snow banks glistened under a starry sky, illuminating the cottage in a soft glow. To Willie it looked so much better than a idealistic Christmas card. They carefully climbed up the icy porch steps.
Maggie opened the front door. Sam was in the living room, painting on one of his canvases.
"I'm back, Pop!" Maggie announced. "But Willie has to go back out and do a bidding for Barnabas." As Willie helped her out of her coat, Maggie took a closer glimpse at her father's latest creation. "You started the portrait of Quentin?"
The portrait was in the early outline stages, but she could just make out Quentin's familiar, tall and lean profile.
Sam slid her a sideways glance. "It's the portrait Victor commissioned."
"The man in the portrait," Maggie explained unsteadily. "His name is Quentin Collins."
"Victor told me he's a Collins ancestor," Sam assured her.
"His ghost is haunting the West Wing at Collinwood," Maggie exclaimed.
"What?"
Before Maggie could elaborate, Willie quickly popped into her bedroom to grab the protection medallion, sliding it under his turtleneck. He bade a quick farewell to Sam, kissed Maggie goodbye, and left to find an evil lair inhabited by diabolical witches.
"The man I'm commissioned to paint is a ghost haunting Collinwood?" Sam spluttered.
"Yeah."
The daughter helped the father take a seat on the thread-bare couch.
Maggie filled him in on the strange hauntings shadowing the West Wing, beginning with the sighting of Beth's ghost, to Carl Collins' dire warning, to the spooky vintage music, to the gallery of West Wing ghosts such as Carl and Beth keeping the obviously dastardly Quentin imprisoned.
She also explained that she and Willie had somehow forgotten their West Wing encounters, but gained their memories back when they rediscovered the wall that Beth kept under tight guard.
She also told him about the terrifying, slithering time shadows that attacked her and Willie in the foyer.
Maggie also let him in on her faint inkling that the mad ghost woman from the tower room incident might've been married to Quentin. Maggie had heard Carl's voice calling her Jenny in the tower room, and she and Willie observed Quentin and Beth talking about a woman named Jenny in the past. A woman, who according to Vicki and Burke, was Quentin's wife. But was that the same Jenny that she saw in the tower room?
Once she was finished, Sam grumbled, absently rubbing his furry chin.
"Burke told me and Dave the other night that he and Vicki saw some strange spooky vision in the West Wing," the artist relayed. "He said that he and Vicki were pulled into some scene between a Victorian woman that looked like Mrs. Stoddard and an older woman. He also saw Laura, and a man he described as looking like a pretty boy Abe Lincoln. He introduced his new wife, who is perhaps that mad ghost you and Willie saw. The family shunned her. Josette ended up saving Burke and Vicki from those damn threatening shadows, like she did with you and Willie. Burke seemed to think that Laura was behind it."
"I know," Maggie murmured. "He told us what he and Vicki went through, and about seeing Laura in the past. But she's gone, Pop. I think Quentin is behind this."
Sam gazed at the outlined figure on his canvas. "Is this the pretty boy Abe Lincoln that Burke was referring to?"
"Yes," Maggie replied. "That's Quentin."
"He doesn't seem all that pretty," Sam sniped.
"Josette is also tangled up in his imprisonment," Maggie informed him. "She demanded that me and Willie promise to never tell Barnabas about what we know about the West Wing."
"I don't see how we owe Barnabas anything." Sam shrugged. "He's too busy brooding about his own problems."
Maggie nodded. "I think there's something fishy about Mr. Fenn-Gibbon, Pop," she proclaimed. "Burke, being Burke, certainly agrees."
"Yes, and this is the third time I've been duped into painting a mysterious dead Collins this year," Sam grumbled irritably. "First Laura, then Barnabas, and now this – pretty boy Abe Lincoln."
"Do you feel something strange – or I don't know – evil – when you paint Quentin's portrait?" Maggie asked. "Does it seem off like when you were drawing his sketch?"
"It's not like with Laura," Sam hastily assured her. "But I find that his eyes are powerful – sharp – kind of like a wild animal! There's something incredibly intense about the portrait. I had the same feeling when I painted Barnabas."
Maggie looked at him worryingly.
"I'm going to stop painting it," Sam promised. "I'm going to have a little chat with Victor Fenn-Gibbon, and demand he tell me what the hell is going on."
"You feel a connection with Quentin Collins?" Vicki asked, fascinated.
"Yes," Fenn-Gibbon replied.
Suzy handed the old man his steaming hot chocolate and went back behind the counter.
"I take it you knew him," said Vicki.
"Long ago," claimed Fenn-Gibbon.
"Quentin Collins lived around the turn of the century," Burke put in. "I assume he died a long time ago."
"I advise you not to underestimate my age, Mr. Devlin," Fenn-Gibbon said silkily.
"I'm not," Burke assured him lightly. "What was he like?"
"He was quite the charming devil." Fenn-Gibbon chuckled fondly. That lead to a breathless wheeze. Once he caught his breath, Burke quipped, "Well, I believe the devil part."
"Perhaps you and Prof. Stokes can help us," Vicki suggested.
"Prof. Stokes?" Fenn-Gibbon furrowed his brow.
"Yes, he's very knowledgeable about the occult," Vicki informed him.
At this, the stranger's wild, bushy face lit up, smiling widely. "Sounds like a fine man."
"I only met him once, but he seemed nice." Vicki grinned. "And I think we should continue this conversation again sometime soon." She got up from her seat and grabbed her plate of uneaten pie. Burke followed her up, bringing his own pie.
"Yes, of course," Fenn-Gibbon courteously agreed. "Presumably in a day or so?"
"That would be wonderful." Vicki smiled. "I promise we'll keep in touch. Good night, Mr. Fenn-Gibbon. It was a pleasure meeting you."
"Likewise, Miss Winters," Fenn-Gibbon returned politely.
"Have a nice night, Vic." With his slice of pie in hand, Burke accompanied his fiancée out of the diner.
As they ascended up to Burke's floor, the businessman leaned close to the governess and whispered, "So, Victor Fenn-Gibbon is officially shifty."
"I agree," said Vicki. "But in a way, he sort of reminds me of Barnabas."
"They're both peculiarly obsessed with the past," Burke noted. "And with the Collinses."
"That, and he seems to be a man out of his time," Vicki murmured. "Like he's someone deeply rooted in the past."
"Like what you told me about Barnabas that night at the Blue Whale?" Burke asked.
"Yes, like they don't really belong here," Vicki murmured dreamily.
"I wonder what their intense fascination with the past is really about," said Burke. "And its connection with the Collins family. That's very convenient."
When they reached the third floor, Vicki took that moment to drop her whiskey-soaked bombshell.
"Burke, there's something I have to tell you." She heaved a heavy sigh. "Before you came downstairs, I bumped into Jason McGuire. He's back."
Burke cursed under his breath. Jason's return was just as bad as Quentin's ghost causing unnatural havoc in the West Wing.
On a desolate, icy beach, cold black waves crashed thunderously on the rocky shore, while Willie tromped cautiously over crumbling plates of frozen sand, investigating the scattered beach cottages dotting the Collins grounds, searching for Angelique and Nicholas' lair.
Willie was so inspired while renovating the West Wing for Burke and Vicki, that he would sometimes daydream of building him and Maggie a beach cottage. It seemed like it would be the perfect place to build their dream home. It would've been mighty peaceful hearing the soothing sounds of the sea as they woke up together in the morning. To take intimate, hand-held strolls by the shore in the evening, watching the perfect sunset and listening to squawking seagulls gliding under a heavenly pink and orange sky.
But now that he was actually exploring this peaceful, soothing beach in the dead of winter, Willie had grown to hate that idea.
The harsh, salty wind stabbed his eyes relentlessly, making it hard for him to see through his own squinting. The biting cold even had his bruised jaw throbbing again. Wickedly thick fog totally obscured the beach like a churning gray curtain. More than once, he'd clumsily stumbled into slick jagged boulders, or simply tripped on loose rocks. It was like the fog was childishly pulling pranks on him.
Leave it to Barnabas to hand Willie the most disagreeable jobs.
No, he and Maggie would not be building a beach cottage. There was a world of difference between having a beach house in your head and having one in Collinsport, Maine.
The young man supposed he was back to square one when it came to his and Maggie's dream home.
Willie wanted a location that was remote. His heart wasn't into having a house that was aligned with Collinsport itself. He wanted someplace that was different. Special. A place that was purely for him and Maggie.
Willie inspected another forgotten, weather-beaten cottage and the hidden caves beneath it. He didn't find any witchy domains with bubbly cauldrons.
He gladly moved on from the godforsaken beach.
As he hiked up into the frosty, foggy woods, his feet cold and numb, Willie was thankful that he at last found the main road.
Through the blinding mist choking the forest, an out-reached hand sharply tapped him on the shoulder. Willie yelped, his heart pounding. He had no clue what he was about to face. Almost anything could be creeping about in these woods. Especially if it was connected to the Big House on the hill. With that in mind, Willie figured maybe Barnabas came out to check up on him. But on second thought, that didn't sound like anything Barnabas would ever do.
No, he was probably about to come face-to-face with the golden-haired witch or her smarmy cohort. Or someone else who had long since died. Bottom line, this was going to be someone who didn't even have a pulse.
With a hard gulp, Willie hesitantly turned around and faced – Carolyn Stoddard?
"Willie?" The heiress frowned, bundled up in her fine winter clothes. Her blonde head was partially obscured by the furlined hood of her coat. They looked warm, but her boots were the least fashionable thing he'd ever seen her wear. "What are you doing out here at this hour?"
Thinking quickly, Willie concocted the perfect cover. "I'm doin' somethin' for Barnabas." To be honest, that was entirely true.
"You seem to enjoy working for Barnabas." Carolyn's tone was sardonic, and her eyes held a strong hint of an accusatory stare. "Even when you're working for someone else."
"Barnabas' awright." Willie merely shrugged. "Wha' ya doin' out here, Carolyn? Ya should be warm and cozy at the Big House."
"I'm looking for Joe," Carolyn explained. "He's out here somewhere. I thought you were him." At this, she sniggered, but quickly grew serious again. "He's in a lot of trouble. Have you seen him?"
"Nah." Willie sheepishly rubbed the back of his head. "He's probably home. I'm sure he'll call ya. You don't need to be runnin' around out here. 'Specially with the woods bein' all spooky and cold."
"I don't think so," Carolyn disagreed. "He's – in a dark place, Willie. I'm sure you know what that's like."
"Dunno what ya mean." Willie shrugged.
"Yes, you do," Carolyn said firmly. "You sure are acting awfully coy this evening." She huffed out a breath. "Listen, Willie, I should be on my way. I know you can't help me. But if you do see Joe, tell him to come find me in my room. That is, if you can even manage that!"
"I can help ya find Joe," Willie offered.
He figured that if Carolyn got herself caught by the witches', Barnabas would blame him.
"No, I can't have you gorillas at each other's throats," Carolyn gritted over her shoulder. She was already walking away.
Willie watched her go, bewildered by her hot temper. Did Joe blab about what happened at Windcliff? About Julia and the dead witch that wasn't quite so dead anymore? Did he spill the beans about him and Barnabas? Willie could tell that she at least knew about his fight with Joe.
Once Carolyn disappeared back into the drifting fog, the young man shook off his nerves, and continued on with his mission. He couldn't ponder about this now.
He wondered what Barnabas would do. Or could do. He wasn't a vampire anymore, so he couldn't just bite Carolyn and order her to simmer down. This could get ugly. But Julia was as scary as ever. Maybe she would have something up her sleeve.
About twenty grueling minutes later, the medallion, still tucked protectively inside his turtleneck, warmed significantly against his bare chest.
Willie looked out across a clearing in the oppressive fog and made out the silhouette of an old two story house. A house by the sea.
Willie cautiously shuffled a bit closer, the medallion growing hotter with every step. He paused. The medallion was practically vibrating now. He'd found the witches' hideout.
The next time he sees Josette, he would deeply thank her for giving Maggie this necklace. It really was a life saver.
He didn't want to get any closer to the house than he needed to. If magic could detect witches', then magical witches' could probably detect him. His blood froze when he realized flickering candle light faintly glowed in some of the bottom story windows. Icily, it reminded Willie of how Barnabas lived at the Old House. How he heavily relied on candles and fireplaces to light and heat his home. Not electricity.
Satisfied with his discovery, Willie swiftly turned away and journeyed back through the gnarled, frosted forest he'd spent the long night hiking through. Finally, he reached the road at the edge of the woods, where he'd parked the Junker Mobile.
Hastily, he climbed inside the rusty truck. It took several tries, but the cold engine finally wheezed to life. He drove back to Collinsport.
The old fishing village was all sparkled up with white, red and green Christmas lights. It was pretty. But Willie had always preferred the twinkling stars hung in the sky. The radiant moonlight perfectly illuminated the Evans cottage, accented by the silver glow coming off the snow.
Willie was glad to be back.
He parked in front of the mound of snow he'd piled up. He shut off the jittery engine and got out. He trudged through the snowy yard.
He peered through the frosted bay window. No one was in the living room, but the lights were on.
He moved toward the French doors in the back, leading into Maggie's bedroom.
Maggie was inside, warmly wrapped in a large flannel house robe, engrossed with some Edgar Allen Poe poems.
Willie peered through the frosted glass and made out his girl reading on her rocking chair. He tapped the icy glass.
Maggie gazed up from her reading and noticed a figure outside her French doors. The backyard was dark compared to her cozy bedroom. She hoped it was Willie. He'd sometimes surprise her like this when he returned from an errand. He used to do that quite often before Barnabas and Julia creeped back into their lives.
Maggie used a small silk ribbon for a bookmark, and set her book on top of her dresser. She eagerly padded over to the doors. Sure enough, she found her boyfriend. She flung the doors wide open and flashed him a welcoming grin. His cheeks were intensely rosy, and he was clearly shivering.
"Hey, you, find the wicked castle?"
"Yeah, it's a old rundown house by the sea," Willie replied.
"Well, are you coming in, or do I need to put on a coat?" Maggie playfully quipped.
Willie dutifully removed his boots before he stepped into her room. Maggie shut out the bitter night chill.
"Did they see you?"
"Nah, I felt the necklace turnin' hot," Willie explained. "I didn't stick around too long."
"Thanks, Josette," Maggie breathed. "You said it was a house by the sea?"
"Yeah," Willie answered.
"You don't suppose it's the house Burke and Vicki wanted?" Maggie wondered. "But couldn't have because of random Collins family weirdness?"
"Dunno," Willie told her honestly.
"How many more people are the Collins family secrets going to drag down?" Maggie sighed.
"I ran into Carolyn in the woods," Willie exclaimed.
"What was she doing out there at this time of night?" Maggie asked, stunned.
"She was out lookin' for Joe and didn' like seein' me out there at all," Willie filled in. "I think Joe blabbed 'bout our fight. She pretty much accused me of bein' Barnabas' servant. With Joe tangled up with the witches', she could know anything."
"Oh, great!" Maggie groaned. "She's probably out there right now risking her neck."
"We'll tell Julia 'bout it tomorrow," Willie promised her.
"I hope Carolyn doesn't find anything, for her own sake," Maggie said heavily.
"Yeah, me too."
"I'm glad you're back safely, though." Maggie affectionately rubbed his bicep. "I missed you."
Willie tenderly stroked Maggie's cheek with a gloved finger. They quietly gazed at each other then inched closer.
They leaned in for a warm, sweet kiss.
Carolyn honestly didn't know how long she'd searched the wintry Collins grounds. She fought against the relentless, stinging winds, while the icy haze all but blinded her. She knew she wasn't making any progress in her pursuit of Joe. Worse, if she stayed out in this unforgiving freeze any longer, she would be a goner. Her back ached from prolonged shivering, but she made it back to Collinwood.
At the entrance, Carolyn gave one last look at the dark, foggy grounds. How could Joe possibly find his way to his bewitching mistress? Had his ghost girlfriend caught up with him and took him somewhere else? As horrible as it was, both options were better than Joe spending the night alone in the forest.
Carolyn's mind turned away from that thought.
She shifted her focus to Willie and his bizarre errands for Barnabas. Indeed, Carolyn found Willie's presence on the grounds highly suspicious. He was supposedly under some dark, blue-collar labor spell Barnabas cast. The reclusive cousin from England.
Joe told her that Barnabas broke Cassandra's heart once. Carolyn still found the notion of Barnabas the Casanova hard to fathom. But, she also acknowledged that she didn't really know anything about his past, either.
Carolyn assumed that modern girls wouldn't interest Barnabas much, due in large part to his fascination for historical lore. She had a strong inkling that he had an unhealthy crush on their ancestor Josette. It was hard not to notice the way he always spoke of her so affectionately. And the extensive, almost fetishistic knowledge he had regarding her life.
Cassandra didn't seem to fit Barnabas' type. But with Joe trapped under her wicked step-aunt's spell, Carolyn was willing to believe that Willie prowling around an icy, haunted forest in the dead of night, was somehow connected to Joe's situation.
It was so much to take in.
She caught a briny fragrance wafting through the stinging, frigid air. It wrinkled her nose. For some strange reason, it made her think of seaweed.
She finally shut out the torturous night. The seaweed scent was much stronger indoors.
Across to the drawing room, Carolyn spotted her mother sitting on the couch.
She entered the room and found that her mother had fallen asleep in a sitting position. Hoping not to disturb her, and with the warm fire still burning in the hearth, Carolyn gently laid her sleeping mother down on the couch, hoping to make her feel more comfortable. She covered her in a black wool blanket that was neatly folded over one of the armchairs.
Carolyn creaked out of the drawing room. She hung her winter coat up on the coat rack. As she quietly ascended up the staircase, the heiress found that the distinct salty scent still lingered in the air. The one that made her think of seaweed.
Without her realizing, the ghost of Bill Malloy saw her off. He'd kept a protective, paternal guard over her once he realized she was searching the grounds on her own. It looked as though Princess and young Haskell were on troubled waters. Again. Keeping up with their relationship was as easy as sailing a bathtub through a hurricane with the stopper pulled out.
Some things never changed.
The grizzled ghost floated into the drawing room, dangling his companionable seaweed. He found the beautiful matriarch resting peacefully on the couch.
"Oh, Liz, I hate that you brought McGuire here," the ghost lamented as she slept. "You'll have to face up to your own past soon. Unfortunately, your past is not the only one raising hell around here."
The signature, ghostly glow illuminated a certain forbidden corridor in the West Wing. The ghosts of Tim and Rachel conferred with Beth outside Quentin's sealed chamber. Quentin's trademark music droned lowly, its eerie presence a lingering shadow.
"Carl hasn't returned with word of Sandor and Magda yet?" Tim inquired.
"I have heard nothing since his departure," Beth relayed somberly.
"I hope all is well," Rachel commented sweetly. "He really should have returned by now."
"You'd be right, Rachel."
The ghost of Carl Collins childishly swooped down – head first – through the shadowy, cobwebbed rafters up above. A silly and triumphant grin stretched across his pale face.
He was followed down by the infamous gypsy couple, who descended from the rafters much more maturely.
"Sandor, Magda," Beth greeted, as they glided down toward her.
"How have you been, Beth?" Magda asked.
"I've stood watch over Quentin for the past seventy years," Beth filled her in.
"We've been informed that haz become a strenuous task az of late," said Magda.
"Carl, I see you have returned with the gypsies." The ghost of Josette Collins came flowing down the corridor in all of her graceful elegance.
"Josette," Carl chirped surprised, as his enchanting ancestor approached. "You need me to cause pranks elsewhere?"
"Not at the moment," Josette smiled at him. "But I will let you know."
"All right, we're just gathering to puzzle out how to control my brother, Quentin," Carl explained, gesturing toward the group.
"I know a great deal about your troubled brother," Josette assured him.
"You do?" Carl squeaked.
"Beth and I have spoken at length," Josette explained. She regarded the gypsies. "You will help us contain the phantom?"
"That'z the general idea," Magda answered noncommittally.
Her husband wildly gazed at the ghostly house mistress.
"I saw yer portrait at zee Old House long ago," he said mesmerized. "Back when my heart was beating. I zrew dartz at it. I deeply apologize, but that portrait didn't do your pretty face justice."
"You flatter me," Josette said humbly. "I forgive you for throwing darts at my portrait."
"Thankz," Sandor replied awkwardly, his chunky face grateful.
Carl's attention shifted to the arched, stained-glass window at the end of the corridor. He spotted his darling Pansy smiling eagerly from outside. The window was a little icy, but combined with the artistic staining on the window's glass edges, it framed Pansy's face beautifully like a custom made Christmas card. Carl thought she looked adorable.
Pansy eyed the regal Josette. She excitedly gestured to her eternal betrothed to speak with her, so they could finally lift her unjust exile.
"What are your methods for containing Quentin?" Josette questioned the gypsy couple.
"Gypsy magic," Magda answered with a sly grin.
"Is that similar to witchcraft?" Josette queried.
"Yes and no," Magda answered unhelpfully, shrugging her shoulders.
"Gypsies are very cunning," Beth cut in.
"So are witches," Josette murmured wearily.
"Yes, but we gypsies are ruled by greed," Magda stated. "We strive to gather all that we can for ourselves. Wealth, love, zatisfaction and comfort. Even feelings and experiences. We want everything!"
"So you are merely hedonists," Josette deadpanned, thrown off by Magda's blunt candor.
The gypsy's thin face split into a wide grin. "Ah, but greed does not alwayz make one zelfish. Zat is zee difference between gypsies and witches. A witch will alwayz fixate. Either on zomething they fear, or, more likely, on zomething they want. Zo the witch schemes and plotz, forgetting all other ambitions. They are zo obsessed with their prize, that they even forget themselves. Becoming wretched zlaves for power. A gypsy knowz life without freedom is worth nothing. If you ain't got yourself, nothing else is truly yourz. We gypsies revel in our brief lives. It is our greatest treasure. After all, for as long as we live, anything we desire can be ours. But when our time comes, we accept it honestly. We have alwayz revered our ancestors. We love them like we love our living family. When we die, all we've swindled and stolen stayz here and we go home to be with family and clan. Living or dead, gypsies only got each other. Witches cower from death."
"They don't respect the natural cycle of the earth," Josette commented thoughtfully.
"They don't respect nothin'!" Magda spat. "They trap the dead with their black magic. Use them worse than zlaves..."
"So, in summation," Carl cut in, "gypsies are irredeemably selfish like witches, but they love their families."
Magda looked just a bit miffed at the prankster's interruption, but quickly covered it with a bony-shouldered shrug. "Any gypsy that don't at least respect their family and clan ain't real gypsies. But the difference between gypsies and witches ain't about family. Witches don't care what they have to lose or who they have to hurt. But a gypsy is just too zelfish to let go of their standards. We want it all, including zelf respect."
"I see," Josette succinctly responded.
Under Pansy's pressuring looks from outside the window, Carl timidly tried to capture his ancestor's attention.
"Um, Josette..."
"What kind of mortuary showcase is going on around here?" Bill Malloy's ghost streamed through one of the many paneled walls of the corridor, nonchalantly dangling his seaweed. He crossed paths with the transparent crowd.
"Welcome, Bill," Josette said fondly. "I haven't seen you since we scared Matthew Morgan to death. What brought you back to Collinwood? The widows have been asking about you."
"Liz Stoddard," Bill answered. "She's in a rough patch. I want to be here for her."
"I know how that is." Josette gave an empathetic nod.
Bill took in the rest of the crowd, noting their Victorian clothing. "You all look to be before my time. And didn't I see you two at the docks a couple of nights ago?" he pointedly added to Tim and Rachel.
"Yes, you sang What Do You Do With A Drunken Sailor!" Rachel smiled joyously. "I love that shanty!"
Bill closely sized up Rachel Drummond. "You're a dead ringer for two ladies I know. And one of those ladies just so happens to call the shots around here." The ghost shot a rakish wink at the lead ancestor.
"I know." Rachel smiled, embarrassed. She wore one of her plain governess dresses. She was no glamorous house mistress like Josette. "I assure you I am just as baffled."
"It is rather odd," Tim chimed in. "Of course, there is also a man among the living who shares my face."
"How have you two been?" Magda eagerly floated up to the childhood friends.
"Very well, thank you," Rachel replied brightly.
"It'z good to zee you again, child." Magda wrapped Rachel's hands with her own.
"It's good to see you, too, Magda," Rachel returned sincerely. "And you, too, Sandor."
"Thankz, child," Sandor gruffly replied.
"I know that you and this jokester have been fooling with the witch," Bill addressed Rachel, gesturing toward Carl.
"We know you provided the seaweed," Carl added cheekily.
Rachel merely blushed, even though she was a ghost.
Bill chuckled. "That I did." He fell back into the humorous memories of the shower pranks. Being a ghost was surprisingly liberating. "We may need to gang up on her again. The witch's death didn't take."
"It didn't?" Carl frowned, disappointed.
"Unfortunately, no," Josette said softly.
"I'm afraid a witch isn't the worst of our problems," Beth broke in.
"Yes, I hear Quentin's music," Magda observed, listening closely to that unmistakable piece.
Outside the window, Pansy impatiently tapped on the icy glass. But Carl's eyes were riveted to the paneled wall. Terror gripped his dead heart, as a cold, taunting voice crept out from the hidden cell. "How thoughtful. I have so many visitors. I would be humbled if it didn't make me feel like a zoo animal."
The light-hearted banter was over.
"You really can't blame us, Quentin," Carl pipped up boldly. "We're all just morbidly curious to see what a trapped swine looks like after seventy years in his cage!"
"Come in here while I'm awake and say that to my face, brother," Quentin's voice dared.
"I've been in there with you," Carl reminded shakily. "I'm no coward."
Magda placed a warning squeeze on the prankster's shoulder. "That'z enough outta you."
"Who the hell is this?" Bill whispered to Josette.
"A cursed Collins," Josette told him delicately.
"There's no shortage of those," Bill grumbled.
"It's so nostalgic to hear your voice again, Magda," Quentin's voice said sardonically. "All things considered, with my curse being entirely your fault."
"I take full responsibility for my part in zis sin," Magda said woefully. "I know I am guilty. I recklessly cursed my own kin. Even in death, I must live with that. But, Quentin, let us not forget that you also hold the blame for your own downfall. For your sin of abandoning Jenny."
"Ducks, there's nothin' holding me back!" The ghost of Pansy Faye joyously intruded down the corridor. "It's like a bloomin' miracle! I was so certain a barrier was blocking me out. Did Josette..."
"Oh, my," Quentin's velvety voice interrupted the boisterous Cockney. "Pansy Faye. I never dreamed that I'd hear your barmy voice again."
Pansy stiffly paused midway down the corridor. "Quentin?" she echoed.
"Yes, love," Quentin's voice smoothly returned. "Once I bring this dreadful old house into line, I'll save a dance for you. After all, I wanna dance for you. Wanna dance your cares away."
"Ah, Quentin, what didja make of yerself?" Pansy whispered sadly.
"I thought you'd like me better this way," Quentin countered. Taunting laughter echoed through the wall. "I thought you liked scoundrels, Pansy."
"You leave Pansy alone!" Carl shot heatedly, lunging at the wall, but Sandor held him back.
"Quentin, you are forgetting yourself, again," Beth interjected coldly. "You have no control over this house!"
"No, but I've been shaking the cobwebs off my chains," Quentin declared. "The house will be mine soon."
"Like hell!" Bill spat. "This house – no, dammit – the whole estate is rightfully Liz Stoddard's! No jackass shut-in like you will take that away from her!"
"I will never permit your corruption to spread through this house," Josette added. "I am the unearthly mistress of the Collins estate."
But Quentin merely ignored these warnings. "Don't worry, Beth. Once I am the master of this lonely castle, I'll save a special dance just for you." He said that smoothly, his tone as seductive as warm silk.
Josette would not tolerate such brazen disrespect. "Perhaps you believe your curse affords you greater power than you actually possess."
"I have ways to squeeze through your lovely authority," Quentin countered cockily. "I can be very clever."
David was tucked securely under the warm covers of his bed in his dark bedroom. The boy slept soundly. That was, until the disconnected antique telephone rang loudly from his desk. The loud ringing was intense, very unnatural. Like it was barking out a command.
David shot up awake, startled by the piercing ring.
The candlestick telephone went on ringing mercilessly, imperiously demanding that David pick it up from its cradle immediately.
This was urgent.
Absolutely chilled, David ignored it. He covered his head with his pillow. He knew he shouldn't speak to Quentin. He'd succeed in ignoring his calls before when he was sick. But somehow, David could never find it within himself to just chuck that phone out of his room. Even after he recovered from Cassandra's cruel spell.
The ringing started to high-jack David's attention. It was irresistibly reeling him to the desk. David only realized he'd actually got out of bed when his hip painfully bumped into the desk. This was weird. Why was he going to the phone? He didn't want to do that!
David figured maybe it was because Sarah was always there to help him ignore the call. She helped him to ward off its supernatural pull. But not this time.
David knew Sarah was busy with other family matters. Something that was apparently important. And the ghost woman Beth hadn't shown up either.
David seemed to be at Quentin's mercy this time.
With a gulp, he unwillingly answered the demonic call.
"Quentin?" He breathed into the mouthpiece.
"Hello, David," Quentin drawled hypnotically. "I missed hearing from you. I know a witch had you under her sick spell."
"You're one to talk!" David shot hotly. "You're trying to cast me under a spell right now!"
"It won't be so bad, David," Quentin teased lightly. "Soon we'll be playing the game."
"T-The game?" David stammered.
"Yes, it will be so much fun."
A helpless dread seeped through David. He didn't like the sound of that. Contrary to Quentin's bemused attitude, this might turn out to be pretty – frightening.
Next Chapter: Looming Demons