Disclaimer: Dark Shadows is a Dan Curtis Production and not mine
CHAPTER 22: PREPERATIONS
Midnight struck at the Old House, but neither Barnabas nor Julia were asleep. They were wide awake in the basement discussing their plans. Or rather – plotting and scheming against his traitorous protegee.
That was how it seemed to Judah.
He eyed the shut iron door of the basement from the foyer, listening to Barnabas and Julia's rapid exchange. Their voices carried excitement. The up-jumped neophytes believed that they'd just acquired a useful tool.
Judah couldn't blame them for their excitement. He himself could get quite excited by indulging in the mere thought of destroying Miranda. The witch that destroyed him.
And evidently this Barnabas Collins also.
He took a moment to consider the unfortunate man that had so enraptured Miranda. He was not impressed. Gaunt, introspective and indecisive, he could scarcely imagine what she saw in him. Perhaps there was a hint of fire hidden under all that brittle ice he clad himself in.
Miranda was suicidally attracted to fire.
What a wretched woman.
Thinking back to his encounter with her in the netherworld, Judah chuckled wistfully. The ugly old witch had gawked at his new features. The devilishly charming face of Gerard Stiles.
He was a foolish charlatan that Judah acquired rather easily. Gerard was a slave to his ambitions. Those strings had been all Judah needed to make him into his puppet.
He wore this new face like camouflage. Judah knew his own wicked nature would undo him before too long. But with mortals one needn't concern oneself with time. His handsome mask and honeyed words would ensnare them long enough to ensure his curse would last for eternity.
After all, Miranda was little more than a passion project. The Collinses were and always had been the priority.
Turning away from the basement door, Judah strode into the parlor.
The candles were still lit, while a fire crackled dimly in the hearth.
Though Judah had to take part in this charade to dupe his summoners. As well as subject himself to whatever absurdity the Hoffman woman concocted. He had no intention of carousing about as though he were actually a sub-par warlock with mediocre magic. He would do whatever it took to keep Miranda and the Collinses in line. No matter how childish. More than a century of hell had scored the pride from whatever soul he might still claim.
That was why he would take part in that woman's ridiculous experiments. Trifles though they were, the futility of fleeting mortal endeavors had been one of the things to drive him to Master Diabolos in the first place.
But he knew he also needed to take heed.
Since hijacking his summoning, Judah had sensed the Collins ghosts. They were alert and active. Circling the manor like entitled buzzards. He couldn't afford to draw their attention. They would come snooping around soon enough.
Luckily, he had experience at pulling the wool over the eyes of the Collinses and even their hangers-on. He was confident they would never discover what he truly was. They never had.
To them he would appear as nothing more than a dead rake named Gerard Stiles.
Of course they would be suspicious of him. He'd come from the netherworld. He had to demonstrate he was nothing more than a harmless cad.
Judah knelt beside the fire, peering through the flames into Collinwood. He grinned triumphantly to himself. His dark shadows still shroud the Great House – slithering through the rafters like snakes.
In the shadowy lifeless corridors of Collinwood, Willie found himself lost. The gothic, paneled walls stretched out before him. They went on forever, in every direction like a maze. With many dead ends and blind corners.
Willie was alone. Not even a ghost was around.
Strangely no natural light filtered through the old windows. Everything was dark.
Willie wandered the corridors aimlessly but frantically. He didn't know where he was going. He didn't know where the corridors lead. It was just a tedious paneled labyrinth with nothing but rows and rows of locked doors, old end tables, chairs and countless faded portraits. All of it shrouded in thick cobwebs.
"Maggie?" Willie called into the shadows. "Maggie, where are ya?"
Willie went on searching forlornly.
"Where did ya go?" he murmured. "Maggie?"
A sharp icy finger tapped on his back, stopping him cold.
Willie couldn't feel any other presence with him. He didn't hear any sound. No footsteps, no voice. He sensed nothing. Just a sudden jolting touch. A touch slithering inside his spine, seizing his soul. He recognized this spiky touch.
With a yelp, Willie jerked awake in a cold sweat.
"Are you alright, sweetheart?" A loving, feminine voice came softly through the dark. A voice belonging to Maggie.
Groggily taking in his surroundings, Willie realized he was in her room.
In her bed.
Maggie was propped up on her pillow next to him, leaning her head back against the headboard.
They were both safe.
She gently swept away strands of dirty blonde hair out of his eyes.
"Bad dream?" Maggie soothed softly.
Willie swallowed, leaning his head back against the headboard along with her.
"Yeah," he said roughly.
"What was it about?" Maggie asked, lending an ear.
"I dreamt I lost ya, and then somethin' dead reached into my body," Willie succinctly confided. "It all happened up at Collinwood."
"Sounds like something that would happen up there," Maggie murmured. She tenderly wrapped the shaken Willie in her warm arms. "See, I'm right here. You haven't lost me. I wish I knew how to make these nightmares go away."
She softly kissed his forehead.
"I – after everythin'," Willie stuttered. "I think the nightmares are here to stay."
With a heavy heart, Maggie held him closer.
He was probably right. Since they'd gained their freedom from the Old House, the nightmares had never left her, either.
Still in her arms, Willie glanced over at her apologetically. "Did I wake ya?"
"No – no." Maggie stroked his hair. "I couldn't sleep."
"Why? What's wrong?"
"I'm worried about Pop," Maggie murmured. "He isn't being forthcoming about Fenn-Gibbon at all. But he is being more secretive and ill tempered than usual."
Willie nodded quietly.
"I hope I'm imagining it," Maggie continued. "But before we went to bed, I-I smelt whiskey on his breath. At least, I thought I did."
"Ya think Fenn-Gibbon is up ta somethin' with your Pop?" Willie asked quietly.
"It's obvious that he is, Willie," Maggie murmured. "We all know he's scheming something to do with Quentin Collins. We just don't really know how bad this is going to get. I need to look out for Pop."
"But Maggie, we're up at Collinwood most of the day," Willie pointed out.
"Yes, but after everything Josette has done for us, I have faith in her," Maggie whispered hopefully.
As the chilled, predawn gloom lingered over the Collins grounds, a paranormal glow was still illuminating the inside of an icy shed near the wicked house by the sea.
The ghost of Millicent Collins hovered over the table, still in training. She channeled her luminous energy on the wooden hammer on the table.
Unbeknownst to her, more than forty-eight hours had passed since she'd began. She paid no heed to the time of day or the frigid planks of wood surrounding her.
Her attention was solely fixed on the hammer. Lives were at stake. The lives of her family. (Yes even the dead ones!) And of poor Joe.
Inwardly, Millicent also admitted she wanted to surprise her family. In the most splendid of ways, of course. She wished to transform herself into a sentinel, powerful enough to aid the ones she loved.
But her secret training had offered no progress thus far.
She had yet to so much as feel the hammer in her grasp.
She made another halting attempt to snatch it off the table. Like the countless efforts that came before, (perhaps numbering in the thousands) her slender hand streamed right through the cursed inanimate tool.
Millicent groaned, her eyes sadly downcast.
She shook herself.
"No – no! I mustn't despair! If I could just feel the shaft, it would be something!"
She was mustering energy to make her next attempt, when she was verbally interrupted.
"Are you infatuated with that discarded hammer now? I almost pity the addled sailor you've been traipsing after."
Taken off guard, Millicent slammed her hand through the hammer. Her eyes darkened at the sound of that detestable voice.
Nathan Forbes strutted into the squalid shed, smiling rakishly.
Neither noticed the hammer rocking gently on the table.
"What do you want, Nathan?" Millicent growled.
"I was just concerned over your absence, my dear," Nathan insisted lightly. "It is so unlike my adoring wife to seclude herself like this."
Millicent balked. "I am attempting to build my strength to protect the ones I love. How would this involve you?"
Nathan's face was a smirking mask. But he rejoined with a taunt. "I suppose you've grown so mighty, that you no longer concern yourself with that doomed fool Joe."
"What do you mean?" Millicent was alarmed. "What have you done to Joe?"
"Nothing compared to how you women fuss with him," Nathan defended. "I only gave him guidance in corresponding with the witch. As well as a little advice on social matters. Which I dare say has done the lad a great deal more good, than if I were hiding myself away in the woods like a vagabond, playing with a hammer of all things."
"I am not hiding away!" Millicent spat. "I am building up my strength!"
"You have strength!" Nathan crowed. "Have you forgotten you are a wispy little ghost?"
"I am not strong in comparison to Josette and some of the Collins elders," Millicent conceded. "Which is why I am teaching myself to focus my will into solid objects."
"Your will!" Nathan laughed condescendingly. "Millicent, you were fragile in life. Sadly, dying did you no favors. How could someone as weak as you change such a well earned fate?"
Scorched by his words, Millicent glared at Nathan hatefully.
Without thinking, she quickly grabbed the hammer off the table and threw it at him. The hammer flew through the shocked Navy man's form and hit the wall behind him. It crash landed on the floor.
Nathan gazed down at the tool with a single raised brow.
"You finally hoisted the wretched thing, and all you can think to do is immediately throw it to the floor?" he stated mildly. (Much emphasis on mildly.) "Solitude has done little for your strength. It's certainly bolstered your temper, however."
"Leave me be, Nathan!" Millicent snapped. "Leave! Now!"
"Come now." Nathan smirked. "I am only performing my husbandly duty."
"I am not your wife!"
Enraged, Millicent charged after Nathan, but he vanished away before Millicent could tear her incorporeal claws into him. Her charge was so full of momentum, she accidentally streamed through the wall where the flying hammer struck.
She was outside for a fraction of a second before streaming back inside.
Thankfully, the shed was now devoid of Nathan.
Collecting her bearings, Millicent dropped her eyes to the floor. Next to her ethereal feet laid the hammer that was no longer on the table. Millicent stared at the hammer, marveling at how it got there. A smile further lit up her glowing face.
"I did it!" She giggled gleefully. "I threw a hammer at Nathan!"
Her giggle grew into a happy laugh. She knelt beside it, making an attempt to grab it again.
Her fingers failed to catch the surface.
"No!" Millicent cried.
Her hand stream through the tool again.
"But I can touch it," she reassured herself. "I will again. I must!"
A gray dawn loomed over Collinwood, the sun coldly absent.
In her bedroom, Elizabeth didn't need fickle Maine sunlight to alert her to the arrival of morning.
She was already up.
She sat at her vanity, softly brushing her long dark locks in the lamp light, wrapped in her robe.
As she silently stared at her reflection in her antique mirror, Elizabeth replayed the previous night's events in her mind. The dinner where she revealed to her family that Vicki was her daughter.
Carolyn's rambling reaction was a little worrisome. It was erratic – but that was Carolyn. Still she didn't seem too upset.
Elizabeth knew Carolyn liked Vicki.
But then there was Roger. He'd been theatrical about it all, but seemed no less accepting.
And yet...
Placing her hairbrush on her vanity, Elizabeth glanced down, finding the seaweed wreath that Bill Malloy gifted her. It laid beside her comb.
A briny scent snuck up to her.
She glanced up, finding Bill's ghost hovering beside her, seaweed and all.
"Good morning, Liz. It's a brand new day for you and your family."
"Yes." Elizabeth resumed absently staring at her own reflection. "It is."
"What's the matter, Liz?" Bill asked, sensing her troubles.
Elizabeth returned her gaze to him. "Do you think Roger and Carolyn will accept Vicki?"
"They're digesting that she is a Collins," Bill insisted. "The indigestion will pass."
"I hope so," Elizabeth said softly. "I want them to truly accept her."
"They will," said Bill. "It's just your family is prone to the melodramatics."
Elizabeth chuckled lightly. "That's an understatement."
"I wouldn't call it an understatement," said Bill. "Your family has been blighted forever. I've met some of your ancestors. Many have quite a few horror stories to tell."
"Oh, I don't doubt it." Elizabeth sighed. "In the Collins family, despite their ingrained secretiveness, horror stories were handed down just the same as the heirlooms. Perhaps you can relay what you heard later?"
"Understood," Bill courtesy noted. "But you'll hear them soon enough."
The time noisily struck seven 'o clock on the antique grandfather's clock in the foyer at Collinwood. The December morning gloom filtered through the many windows, lighting the Great House's many corridors and rooms in winter gray.
The house's inhabitants had yet to come out of their rooms to start the day. Not even Mrs. Johnson was up and about.
One person stirred, however.
Vicki, modestly wrapped in her robe, was in the kitchen, peering through the windows. She sipped from her coffee mug, filled with steaming fresh coffee she'd brewed herself.
Her mind kept replaying the dinner from the night before. When Roger, Carolyn and David learned she was one of them.
Vicki couldn't get Carolyn and Roger's reaction out of her mind. With Carolyn being animated, while Roger was stoic and removed as ever. Vicki understood they were shocked by the reveal – and they should be. She'd been floored herself.
But was this true acceptance? Would they continue acting as though they were fine with it?
If nothing else, David seemed delighted to have a new cousin.
Gazing at a snowdrift outside, Vicki thought about the Old House. She wondered how Barnabas would react to her being a Collins.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the creaking sounds of approaching footsteps. It was probably Mrs. Johnson coming to prepare breakfast. Vicki wondered if she should tell the family maid about her status as a Collins. Or if she should leave that to Mrs Stod – her mother.
But it was Carolyn that came through the kitchen door. She, too, was in her robe, only it hung over her nightgown loosely. Her hair was every bit as unkempt as Vicki's however.
She spotted Vicki across from the door. "There you are. You weren't in your room."
"I felt like getting up early today." Vicki took a sip of her hot coffee. "Were you checking on me?"
"I guess I was." Carolyn padded over to her. "Did you actually sleep?"
Vicki smiled sheepishly. "That's why I'm up early. Were you worried?"
"Well, it's our first morning together as sisters after all," Carolyn explained.
"Yes, I'm officially a member of this family." Vicki's eyes returned to the window.
"Yes," Carolyn said softly, her eyes downcast. "But I suppose you always were."
Vicki trailed her eyes back to Carolyn. "I know this has to be a shock. But of all the girls in the world, I'm glad that you're the one who turned out to be my sister."
Carolyn lifted her eyes, stretching a small grin on her lips. "Yes, I feel the same." She laughed cheerily. "And, hey, we already have a sisterly bond. We even had a thing for the same guy!"
Seeing the brightness in her smile, as well as in her eyes, Vicki allowed herself to be reassured. Maybe Carolyn was really on board with the whole lost sister thing.
"Yes, I suppose we did." Vicki cleared her throat. "I'm planning on telling Barnabas today."
"Really?" Carolyn was surprised. "I wonder how he'll take it. Especially since he's so stuffily old-fashioned, and obsessed with everything to do with this family's blood line."
"Yeah, I know."
Vicki felt discouraged. What if Barnabas refused to accept her as a Collins? Or worse was upset with her mother? Shoving that aside for the time being, she decided to veer their conversation in a new direction.
"And for general information, Missy, it should be I checking in on you. I am the oldest."
Carolyn snorted. "Yeah, well, we're not entirely traditional. At least, I'm not!"
Mrs. Johnson chose that moment to step into the kitchen, wearing her traditional blue maid dress. Her hair was pinned up. She was honestly surprised to find the two young women lurking in the kitchen.
"Well, you young ladies are up much earlier than usual."
"We have a special request." Carolyn grinned impishly.
"What's that?" Mrs. Johnson was openly suspicious.
"Blueberry pancakes."
Mrs. Johnson snorted. "If you spook sisters wanted that so badly, you might have thought to fish the blueberries out of the freezer."
Vicki and Carolyn chuckled as they moved to help Mrs. Johnson.
At the Evans cottage, Maggie, dressed for her day of work, stepped out of the kitchen, clutching a mug of hot coffee.
The brew wasn't for herself.
Her Pop was slumped on the couch, ignoring the weather report on the radio.
His eyes were bloodshot – a telltale sign he'd had a rough a night.
Staring at him, Maggie's heart sank. He looked so hopeless.
As Maggie approached her Pop on the couch, she noticed Josette's golden, anti-witch medallion, lying on the coffee table.
"Here you are." She handed him the mug.
Sam took it without comment.
Maggie picked up the medallion off the coffee table. "Remember what I told you about this thing? Keep it with you."
Sam quietly stared at the medallion lying on her palm, plainly disinterested. She jammed it into his hand regardless.
At this moment, Willie's keen sense of timing kicked in. "Ready to head up to Collinwood, Maggie?" he called as he stepped out of the kitchen.
"Yes," Maggie replied. She gazed down at her father. "Take care of yourself, Pop, please."
Sam wordlessly darted his eyes up, showing he acknowledged her.
Hoping this was a good sign, Maggie said, "Have a good day, Pop."
Willie helped her slip into her coat.
Maggie had one last quiet look at her father. Then she and Willie were out the door.
As they went down the porch steps in the crisp open air, Willie muttered to Maggie, "I think you're right 'bout your Pop. He looks plastered."
"Yes, I hope he takes it easy," Maggie said worryingly, as they trudged through the front yard.
"He's got Josette's necklace," Willie noted.
"I forced it on him," Maggie informed. "To protect him."
"Good idea," Willie agreed.
He opened the rusty door of the junker mobile and helped her climb into her seat. After closing her door, Willie rounded to the driver's side and quickly crawled in.
When he shut his door, Maggie added wearily, "Speaking of irresponsible old people, should we go to the Old House to see how Barnabas and Julia are coping with their new accomplice?"
"We'll do that after our paying work," Willie responded. "That Christmas party is in two days, and Mr. Collins wants a lot done ahead 'a time."
"Oh, yeah, that's right." Maggie sighed.
After a few false starts, Willie ignited his rusty truck's engine. They were gracelessly off to Widows Hill.
Sam, still slumped on the living room couch, set his cup of joe and magic medallion aside on the coffee table.
He haggardly pulled himself off his cushion, his joints popping noisily as he did so.
He rummaged through his large collection of painted canvases, pulling out one he had hidden among all the others. The portrait of Quentin Collins. He immediately moved it to the easel, wasting no time in gathering his painting supplies.
As he was loading his pallette, he was interrupted by the piercing ring of a telephone.
Swearing under his breath, Sam reluctantly hurried to the phone and quickly answered it.
"Yeah, hello!?" he snapped into the mouthpiece.
"Sam?" came the concerned voice of Dr. Woodard. "Are you alright?"
"Uh – yeah," Sam grunted. "I've been busy – working."
"I was hoping to come over for a visit later," said Dr. Woodard. "I've been busy myself. That business with Roger Collins' wife disappearing over at Windcliff. I don't know what to think about that brother of hers checking her out the way he did. I'd like to catch up, maybe compare notes about all the latest supernatural happenings. Maybe even invite Burke."
"Oh, sure, Dave," Sam muttered.
"Sam are you alright?" Dr. Woodard asked, the concern returning to his voice. "You sound terrible. Have you been drinking again?"
"I'm fine, Dave." Sam irritably rubbed his brows. His head was throbbing. "We'll talk later."
"You can count on that."
With that terse exchange they hung up.
Sam, again, rubbed his aching brows, despairing his plight.
Meekly, he trailed his tormented eyes to the coffee table. As he grabbed his mug of cooling coffee, he noticed the golden medallion. Its golden chain was crumbled up in a pile beneath it. For the first time Sam really noticed it. The gold was glistening. There truly was something about it.
Sam figured it made sense given its supposed magical properties. A ghost woman gave it to his daughter.
Sam picked up the bauble and closely examined it. The medallion was clearly old but there wasn't even a hint of tarnish.
His appraisal was interrupted when the front door blew wide open.
Victor Fenn-Gibbon stood casually on the threshold. From his spot at the entrance, he eyed Quentin's portrait on the easel. It was far from finished, but the outline was done. Mr. Evans had chosen bountifully wicked and bold colors.
Fenn-Gibbon stretched out a pleased grin. "I commend you on your splendid taste. You may now resume."
Sam stood frozen behind the coffee table. Without thinking, he flashed the medallion at Fenn-Gibbon.
Fenn-Gibbon immediately recognized the unearthly magic crackling within the medallion. He was far from unfazed. In fact, he was dumbfounded.
He then realized what this medallion was meant for.
"My poor man. I'm afraid that won't be of any use to you. Josette was just a common aristocrat in life. Her ghostly powers could never combat mine. I am afraid that even if she and her witch nemesis were to combine forces, they're unified powers would still fall far short of my own."
Fenn-Gibbon darkened his eyes. "Now, resume my portrait good sir. We mustn't waste a precious second."
The overwhelmingly smothering feeling of a mental tidal wave crashed against Sam's exhausted mind. With a shivering jolt, Sam lost his grip on the medallion. It fell uselessly to the floor.
He obediently prepared his pallette.
Next Chapter: Shadowing the Matriarch