Disclaimer: Dark Shadows is a Dan Curtis Production and not mine
CHAPTER 28: THE GHOSTS IN TIME AND SHADOW
A gloomy winter sunrise filtered through the wide window that used to provide Sam Evans the natural light he needed to paint his creations.
The clock in the living room chimed seven 'o clock.
Maggie and Willie lay curled up together on the couch.
The cottage was quiet.
The Christmas tree and colorful decorations seemed harshly ironic now. Maggie refused to look at them. She buried her face in Willie's chest, just hoping to keep her mind numb. Trying to hold it together.
As he absently rubbed Maggie's shoulders, Willie heard a car pull up outside. Followed by the sound of a car door shutting.
Just as promptly a knock came at the front door.
"Maggie, Willie, it's me." Dr. Woodard's voice sounded calm. Self-assured, even.
He had the bed side manner of a seasoned doctor, even when in mourning for his best friend.
Reluctantly shifting away from Maggie, Willie got up from the couch.
Quietly opening the door, he greeted, "Doc."
Dressed in his buttoned winter coat, Dr. Woodard stepped inside.
"I, um, just came back from... seeing your father."
Willie and Maggie let that hang. Dr. Woodard had insisted on identifying the body himself. Sparing the dead painter's daughter the grisly responsibility. It had only been a formality anyway. Everyone in town knew Sam Evans.
From the couch, Maggie lowered her glazed eyes.
Dr. Woodard looked at her with gentle sympathy. "Maggie, I'm so sorry."
"Thank you, doctor," Maggie said in a small voice, her eyes still cast downward.
"You should take it easy today, Maggie," Dr. Woodard gently advised. "I'll get a hold of Mrs. Stoddard to let her know you are out of commission. Of course, that means you two will be bowing out of Julia and Barnabas' witch hunt as well."
At that Willie fidgeted nervously. "Oh – Doc- I-I – dunno."
Maggie shifted on the couch. With puffy eyes, she stared at her father's portrait of her mother sitting by the window. Her dream of her parents together filled her thoughts. Along with her Pop's words.
Things will be different from now on.
Maggie shut her eyes. It took a strong resolve to open them again.
She looked at Willie and Dr. Woodard.
"No, we have to go on. I can't walk away from this. I don't want to."
"Maggie, you need to take some time off," Dr. Woodard urged.
Maggie sighed deeply. She glanced up at Willie. "I'm taking a shower. After I get dressed, we'll go up to Collinwood."
"Yeah, sure." Willie nodded.
"Thanks," Maggie murmured. "After work, we'll visit Barnabas and Julia."
"I still say you should leave this business with Julia and Barnabas alone." Dr. Woodard rubbed his tired eyes.
Maggie curtly shook her head, a solemn expression on her face. "Actually, I think you should keep your distance from Barnabas and Julia. Josette doesn't want them to know about Victor Fenn-Gibbon or Quentin Collins."
"Why not?"
"She wants Barnabas to focus on getting rid of the witch that cursed him," Maggie explained.
"Um – all right." Dr. Woodard was clearly perplexed.
A sympathetic expression crossed Willie's face. "Yeah, it gets pretty confusing, Doc."
"But they still need to be informed about Sam," Dr. Woodard insisted. "Do you suppose there's any chance I could convince Mrs. Stoddard to do it for me?"
Willie shook his head. "Sorry, Doc. Mrs. Stoddard don't handle deep snow too well and Barnabas ain't got a phone."
Across the living room, Sam's invisible ghost beamed at his daughter proudly.
"That's my girl. Mourn me as much as you need, but don't give in to despair. Whatever troubles may be on the horizon, you got to keep on living."
In the wee morning hours, after spending much of the night aimlessly wandering the Collins grounds, Joe eventually returned to the house by the sea. His mistress and the insufferable Nicholas Blair hardly noticed his return. His presence, along with his obedience, were expected.
But Joe didn't mind. He appreciated having a moment to rest.
As usual, he slept on the floor in the parlor, in front of the dying fire. Joe might've had an hour or so of sleep. He didn't really keep track. He had vague dreams about the sultry countenance of his blonde, blue-eyed mistress.
I just have to get her portrait back.
It was barely dawn when Joe awoke, still feeling restless. The fire had died down. Only a few embers remained to give warmth.
Joe staggered up to his feet, still in his winter coat, that now clung to his body, wrinkled and stained from the snow.
Joe quietly crept out the front door. He'd left the wand in his truck. He knew better than to bring it back to the house. His mistress had made her feelings quite clear on the matter of wands.
Thankfully, he hadn't parked his truck too far away.
But it was getting harder and harder to find it. The snow was starting to pile up on it now. Retrieving the wand from under the seat, Joe greedily stuffed it up his coat sleeve.
Again, he wandered. It felt like his mind was being pulled in a dozen directions at once.
Thoughts on the surface swirled around pleasing his mistress. Beneath the surface, Carolyn was there. The warmth of her compassion and the troubles with her family.
But what scattered his mind was the bizarre fixation on the wand. Despite his mistress and Prof. Stokes and the very real peril that he lived under; Joe just couldn't give up the wand. Couldn't forget the power.
There was even a small portion of his mind where bewildering thoughts of Millicent and Nathan tugged at him.
With so many distractions vying for his time, Joe realized he was beginning to resent his mistress' dominion over his thoughts.
If I could just really focus on anything else for even a minute.
All of the contradictory feelings were making him irritable.
He needed to clear his mind. It had been so long since he had really focused. It was frustrating how passive his mind seemed.
Oddly, his feet knew just the scenic remedy he needed. Joe found himself on an isolated rocky shore. Gray waves thundered at his feet. Widows Hill towered above him. Fallen snow powdered the rocks and clamp beach sand.
Yes, the perfect place for me to clear my head, Joe thought with a scoff. Beneath a cliff where a bunch of hopeless widows threw themselves into oblivion.
Trudging across the rigid frozen sand, Joe came up to a large boulder. Leaning his back against it, he slid down to the pebbly beach. A thin layer of hazy white sea salt was frozen to nearly every surface.
He watched the gray waves crash against the black rocks of the shore.
Joe pulled out the wand, feeling the now familiar grooves in the bark pressing against his palm. Feeling, dare he admit, even to himself, its magic.
The warm tingling sensation returned. Centering on his hand, then coursing up through his arm to his shoulder.
Joe decided to try and summon his mistress' portrait again.
Gray winter clouds hung in the sky. So, he aimed his wand to where he thought the sun should be.
"I call out to my mistress' portrait – at the Old House." Joe tried to think of how a spell should sound. "I command – thee to come forth."
Immediately after he sloppily intoned his words, Joe felt his body fall away. In dizzying speed, Joe was face-to-face with the portrait. The blonde woman stared at him with her frozen blue eyes.
Oh, those eyes.
There it is! I must have it!
However, like before, Joe didn't seem to have a body, let alone hands.
"Joe!" a female voice distantly called to him.
Startled, Joe felt himself being violently wrenched away from his mistress' portrait. Instantly, he was crammed back into his body. It startled Joe just how much it hurt. It felt like the air had been knocked out of his lungs. His ribs ached. His head was spinning.
With watery eyes, Joe squinted up at the woman who called his name.
Dressed in her winter coat, Carolyn stood before him.
"Um – good morning," Joe greeted, feeling embarrassed.
Dressed as he was, not to mention napping on a frozen beach, he must have looked like a lunatic.
But Carolyn was undaunted. "Good morning, Joe. I see you had another rough night."
"Um, yeah." Joe rubbed his eyes with one hand.
"You look it." Carolyn eyed his increasingly haggard appearance. His face looked even paler than yesterday.
"Does she ever let you sleep?"
"Oh, I think I had one hour," Joe said tiredly.
"One hour." Carolyn looked at him sympathetically.
"So, are we going to see the professor at the collage?" Joe asked.
"Hmm – actually – I'm going to sneak you into Collinwood so you could get some rest." Carolyn seemed to have decided this at the spur of the moment.
Joe was confused. "But what about the professor?"
"He's coming over to Collinwood later," Carolyn explained. "We'll talk to him then. We don't need to go to the collage."
"Um, okay." Joe sighed.
"But there is something I'd like to know," Carolyn said steadily. "What's up with that stick?"
Joe grew more flustered. He'd forgotten about the wand. He'd practically been pointing it at her this whole time. Why hadn't he realized?
"Oh, um..."
"What am I going to do with you, Joe Haskell." Carolyn gently took the unassuming stick from him. She eyed it closely, a nostalgic look crossing her face. "I remember when you were a little boy, you used to play pirate with Tom and Chris Jennings. You boys would pick up sticks like this and pretend they were swords."
She grinned faintly.
Joe got up to his feet.
Suddenly, Carolyn shrugged.
"And besides, with you at Collinwood, the witch will think you are still doing her nasty bidding. She wants you to spy on us, right?"
"Um, yeah." Joe didn't know what to say.
Carolyn casually tossed the stick aside (causing Joe's heart to drop.)
"Come on, Joe."
Once Carolyn turned her back to him, Joe quickly retrieved the wand. Luckily, Carolyn hadn't thrown it offshore. Joe snatched it up before it got swept away by the sea.
Protectively hiding the wand inside his coat, he followed after the heiress.
Not far away, the ghost of Millicent Collins sat primly on one of the jagged rocks, her hands folded lady-like on her lap. She watched her dear friend walk away with her look alike descendant.
"Oh, Joe, I am afraid you and I are hopeless. None of my efforts to aid you bore fruit. And now you somehow know witchcraft."
This was the second time she'd witnessed Joe's soul behaving queerly.
What in heaven's name were the witches teaching that poor boy?
"I fear Cousin Joshua may become even more unreasonable regarding Joe. Should he ever find out about his peculiarities."
"Not all is lost, dear Millicent."
Millicent's wispy energy bristled.
That swine Nathan Forbes materialized beside her rock, jauntily leaning against it, casually ignoring the waves crashing through his torso.
She glared at him in total distaste.
"My suggestion still stands," said Nathan.
"Suggestion?" Millicent knitted her brow.
"To free the Reverend Trask from his secret imprisonment," Nathan reminded.
Millicent shot him a furious look. "My family will never release that vile man!"
"Just think of it, Millicent," Nathan tempted. "Witches are hounding your family, my dear. Even sad little Joe suffers at their feet. Now, Trask may be a despicable charlatan and a devious fraud. But he won't shut himself away in an abandoned shed. Or cravenly hide behind the skirts of a French aristocrat."
Nathan took a moment to chuckle at his own insults before he continued.
"He might even have some real power now that he is a ghost."
"He is dangerous to my family, Nathan!" Millicent argued.
"Perhaps, but your family is always in danger," Nathan shrugged. "He at least has the will to fight your witches. Isn't that what your sailor needs right now? Someone who can fight for him?"
"Humph." Millicent haughtily looked off to the sea.
Dr. Woodard drove his sedan up Widows Hill, feeling drained, haggard and disheartened. He was on his way to the Old House to speak with Julia, to inform her about Sam Evans.
A large part of the pile of emotions weighing the doctor down was simple fear. The last time he visited the literal haunted house, the doctor had to accept his own frailty regarding paranormal affairs. Walking into an impassable ghost wall tended to stick with a man. Especially one as grounded as Dr. Woodard.
Back then, Julia was still in her secretive vampire experimentation phase. Hoping to cure Barnabas Collins from his curse. She would go on to achieve her dream of conquering vampirism with science.
Dr. Woodard was glad for his longtime colleague and friend. But admittedly it was an odd feeling.
He couldn't help but wonder what such a brilliant driven woman could achieve if she applied herself to nobler pursuits.
But Dr. Woodard was glad for Julia, nonetheless.
He could only hope that Josette and her brigade of spooks would let him in.
He had terrible news to deliver.
In truth, he didn't think Julia would be all that moved by his friend's passing. But given the nonsense she entangled herself in, and Maggie's involvement with said nonsense, a warning seemed in order. Besides, with Sam dead, Dr. Woodard felt that looking after Maggie's best interest should in part fall to him.
I need to see if Barnabas Collins is human with my own eyes.
When he caught sight of the frosted Old House through his windshield, Dr. Woodard's skin crawled.
But he drove up to the gloomy property anyway. He was too drained from last night to care about something like goosebumps. Dr. Woodard had a hard time finding a place to park.
Glistening windswept dunes of snow had gathered around the porch.
Why couldn't Willie or that Jennings boy do some shoveling?
Dr. Woodard parked on the road. It wasn't as close to the Old House as he would like. He got out and trudged through the rolling hills of snow. Dr. Woodard was dressed for the cold. Not for off-road hiking. His shoes were soaked through when he finally reached the Old House.
With tired annoyance, Dr. Woodard climbed the steps of the circular column porch.
He banged the doorknocker.
To his relief, it didn't take Julia long to answer the doors.
To his further relief, he felt no spectral presence holding him at bay.
Barnabas Collins was by her side. Dr. Woodard had seen him in sunlight before. When he arranged to rush Cassandra Collins up to Windcliffe. But still, it was reassuring seeing him in the light of day.
But he hadn't hiked all the way here to gawk at Julia's specimen.
"Dave?" Julia said with a raised eyebrow. "What brings you up here?"
Dr. Woodard broke the news.
The doctor couldn't be sure, but to him, the news seemed to make Barnabas Collins sad. But he tried to hide it.
Fog billowed around the Great House of Collinwood. While the manor's residents were distracted by their mundane morning routines, Carolyn snuck Joe to the back servant's door.
"I'm sorry, but we have to sneak in," Carolyn whispered. "I got up early to look for you. I don't think anyone knows I'm gone."
"You were out looking for me?" Joe murmured.
"Come on, Haskell," Carolyn deadpanned. "It's not like we haven't snuck into Collinwood before. Although, this time of morning, I suppose we'd be sneaking you out."
"Life was funner then," Joe murmured distantly.
"Maybe, but either way, it's never dull with us, is it?" Carolyn grinned.
"I'll give you that," said Joe.
Carolyn opened the door. Joe couldn't help but to smirk as they snuck inside.
Elizabeth strolled out of the drawing room. She was glad to find Vicki dressed for the day, descending the staircase.
"Good morning, Victoria," she said formally.
"Good morning, Mother," Vicki replied.
As she reached the bottom landing, the mother inquired, "Is Carolyn up yet?"
"I don't really know," Vicki answered. "I haven't seen her."
A rapping came from the front doors.
"I'll answer it."
Vicki crossed to the doors and opened them.
She was greeted by her fiancé wrapped in his black winter coat.
"Good morning, darling," Vicki beamed.
"Vicki, I'm glad to see you," Burke said glumly. "I'm afraid it's not a good morning."
Burke stepped inside; Vicki closed the doors.
Burke noticed Elizabeth. "Good, you should hear this, too."
"Something's happened," Elizabeth guessed.
Burke took an unsteady breath. "Sam Evans died last night."
Vicki gasped. "What!"
"He was found in a fishing shack near the docks," Burke filled in.
"A fishing shack?" Elizabeth was stunned. "How on earth did he wind up someplace like that?"
"The cops say they don't know," said Burke.
Unshed tears shimmered in Vicki's eyes. "Poor Maggie."
Elizabeth kept up her stoic facade. But she felt a detached sort of sadness wash over her. Sam Evans may not have been a model citizen. His struggles with alcoholism had long been a subject of public discussion.
But he was nevertheless a pillar of the community. The rebellious free-spirited artist stood out in their quiet fishing village.
For good and ill.
Elizabeth knew her family had piled its fair share of demons on the painter's back. More than one at least. With the whole Roger, Burke and Laura fiasco. And all the troubles with Bill's murder.
However, Elizabeth had grown unexpectedly close with Sam Evans' daughter Maggie. She had been just as helpful as Mrs. Johnson. Something Elizabeth hadn't expected from a young lady of her generation.
Elizabeth's heart went out to the girl. It had already been such a horrible year for her. Now she would spend her Christmas in mourning for her father.
Elizabeth decided to visit Maggie at the Evans cottage later on in the evening. To offer her sympathies as well as paid leave from her position at Collinwood for an extended holiday.
Elizabeth assumed it would be well after New Year's before Maggie had her affairs in order.
She still felt a little uneasy leaving the Great House. Though she had made some progress on that score.
Still, old habits die hard. She would always be weighed down by some insecurities.
Elizabeth reminded herself that after eighteen long years of seclusion, the first place she truly felt welcome outside of the house was the diner at the Collinsport Inn. Maggie was waitressing there at the time. She served Elizabeth coffee and a muffin and was very friendly about it.
She put Elizabeth at ease, if only a little.
"I was there for Sam, Liz, when it happened," Bill's voice whispered in her ear.
Before Elizabeth could even register what her companion relayed, another knock came from the front doors.
Vicki answered again.
To the governess – and Elizabeth and Burke's total surprise – Maggie and Willie were at the doorstep.
"Maggie," Vicki stammered. "What are you doing here?"
"I take it you heard about Pop," Maggie murmured.
"Maggie! you don't need to work today!" Elizabeth was aghast, but Maggie cut her off.
"I know, but we need to stay away from the cottage for a while."
Vicki was heartbroken for Maggie.
She supposed she could understand her friend's need to distance herself from her home for a few hours. Reminders of Sam Evans – most especially his paintings – were all over the little home. As though they were part of the cottage's very foundation.
But Vicki couldn't fathom why Maggie would want to work right now. Especially since her friend had told her, in no uncertain terms, how uncomfortable she was in Collinwood.
If Vicki lost Elizabeth, the last thing she would want to do is spend time in a place she thought of as macabre.
Not that she was an expert in the appropriate way to mourn a father or anything. Especially considering her feelings about her own.
Vicki gave Maggie a consoling hug. Maggie anxiously pulled away, mumbling she would be fine.
Still, Vicki couldn't help but to worry for her friend. She tried to reassure her that if she needed to talk, she would always be there to lend a shoulder. Maggie only nodded, her eyes hollow.
With a heavy heart, Vicki watched Maggie pass through the side door with Willie.
Elizabeth quietly went into the study, leaving Vicki alone in the foyer with her fiancé.
"Poor kid." Burke sighed sadly. "I can't believe Sam's gone. He was a hell of a guy."
After another heavy sigh, Burke said, "I know we're knee deep in troubles here with our patented Collins shadows. But I think this might have something to do with Fenn-Gibbon. In fact, I can't think of anyone else."
A deeply troubled expression crossed Vicki's face. "You're certain?"
Burke looked away, but his voice was hard as iron when he said, "Every instinct I have says that he's a snake. And we know Sam was wrapped up with him."
"Should I tell Mother?" Vicki asked. "We saw Quentin in that vision of the past. And we know Fenn-Gibbon was asking about him."
Burke shook his head. "Her heart's in the right place. But I haven't seen a mess yet that a Collins cleaned up."
Burke was confused as to why his fiancée was staring at him so icily, but then quickly added, "Present company excluded, of course."
Vicki wrinkled her nose at him. "My Mother happens to be very dependable; I'll have you know."
Burke nodded enthusiastically. "She's amazing, darling, but this isn't really her forte. What could she do, anyway? If this man's a killer I rather she just stays away."
Vicki gently took his hand in hers. "Whatever happened to Mr. Evans, and whatever is in store for us, I believe in us."
"They say love can move mountains," Burke grumbled. "I just hope Fenn-Gibbon counts."
Vicki silenced him with a chaste kiss. Burke pulled her into his embrace, deepening the kiss considerably.
After a while, Vicki pulled away.
"I have to – the caterers will be here soon," she breathlessly stammered.
"You mean for Roger's moronic party?" Burke guessed.
"Yes." Vicki shot him a shy and hopeful look. "Are you busy this morning?"
"I could be." Burke sounded intrigued. "What do you have in mind?"
"The West Wing," said Vicki. "I'm looking for a portrait to show Prof. Stokes."
"Oh." Burke looked slightly disappointed.
"I'm hoping to find the portrait of Desmond and Leticia Collins," Vicki explained.
Burke nodded agreeably. "Yeah, guess I'd like to know more about our séance crashers."
"Then let's go look for them." Vicki grabbed Burke's hand.
They climbed up the staircase together. Passing through the second story corridor, to the West Wing.
As Vicki pulled him down the desolate corridors, spiky chills crept down Burke's spine.
"Where do you want to look?" Burke swung his gaze to his girl.
Winter light faintly filtered through the icy windows, washing out what little color could be found in the West Wing. Making everything look even more drab and lifeless.
Perfect place to start a family with my young wife, Burke thought wryly.
"We'll start in this storage room," said Vicki. "It's where I've been keeping all the portraits I've collected during the renovations."
"I doubt I've seen even half of these portraits," Burke admitted. "They all look pretty much the same to me."
"The difference is that this portrait is of a couple," said Vicki. "Not a singular Collins."
"That's pretty unusual," Burke said thoughtfully. "The Collinses usually like to fill in a frame all by themselves."
"It could have been painted after they married," Vicki opined.
"Like a wedding present?" Burke guessed.
"I honestly don't know," Vicki admitted.
Unbeknownst to them, the ghosts of Carl Collins and Pansy Faye watched from the rafters.
Carl looking put upon, while Pansy tittered at the intrusion.
"Why can't they keep out of this Wing!" Carl griped.
Pansy gave him an encouraging nudge. "Looks like we can play our musical prank after all, ducks."
Carl's sourpuss face brightened. He grinned deviously.
In the forbidden corridor, Beth felt Quentin's spirit seething through the walls of his cell.
"They're underfoot, again" Quentin said darkly. "Tearing apart our home."
"Why can't they stay away!" Beth snipped irritably.
"Sandor and me will get rid of 'em."
Beth heard Magda's disembodied voice. She felt swooshing movements gliding down the corridor.
As the invisible gypsies flew off, Quentin's fist thundered against the wall of his cage, causing Beth to flinch at the force.
"Thieves and degenerates in the West Wing, and your idea of a solution is to dispatch the same gypsies that cursed me and generations of my family? I know I betrayed you first, Beth, but you did a far more thorough job of it in the end than I."
"You will never talk me out of my duty, Quentin," Beth said firmly.
"But are you certain you even know what your duty is anymore, darling?"
Vicki and Burke stepped into the storage room. Like the rest of the half-renovated Wing, it was mostly gray and dreary. But still adorned with decaying finery. Willie had transplanted the chandelier from the lounge into this room until the renovations were complete. He even jury-rigged it to work, providing much needed light to the windowless space. It was cluttered with the many neglected antiques and portraits Vicki had collected from all over Collinwood. She suspected her mother was looking forward to helping her incorporate these forgotten treasure into her vintage West Wing design.
"Let's hope the chatty couple are in here." Burke began filing through the portraits stacked in a back corner.
Vicki decided to sort her stack into two piles. Portraits and other.
She found the portraits of Naomi Collins, Jeremiah Collins, Edith Collins and Gabriel Collins.
Burke is right, Vicki thought. Most of these are half-length and bust view. No group portraits. No landscapes. No couples. No wonder that painting stood out so much.
Behind Vicki's back, the chandelier fell to the floor with a loud crash. She whirled around, catching the eye of her equally surprised fiancé. Before either could speak, a jaunty musical piece popped into the room, bouncing off the walls.
Vicki didn't know if this was the shadows' doing or not, but she started for the door anyway, certain that Burke would be right behind her.
Inexplicably, her fiancé slammed into her, spinning madly, like he'd been swept up in a dance.
Vicki fell to the floor as he spun away, knocking over an antique lamp as he went.
"Burke!" she shrieked.
"It's not me, Vicki!" Burke cried, panicked. "Something's dragging me around!"
"Why, it's jus' lil' ol' me, love," a female cockney cackled in a disembodied voice. "I never could resist handsome men!"
Vicki's heart slammed against her rib cage. "Ghosts?"
This was frighteningly unexpected. At least it didn't seem like another shadow attack.
"I wanna dance for you. I wanna dance your cares away!"
Burke tried to force his way out of the invisible woman's clutches. It would've been easier to grab smoke with his bare hands. There was nothing to take hold of or push.
"Burke!"
While she tried to climb up off the floor, something else grabbed Vicki's attention.
The portrait of Gabriel had changed. Flesh and sinew melted away from his skull, leaving only a mustache and dripping gore behind. The now ghastly decomposing corpse seemed to be staring directly into Vicki's eyes. Transfixing her on the spot, almost hypnotizing her in fear.
With deliberate care, a skeletal hand reached behind the wide lapel of his suit jacket, producing a vintage revolver.
Vicki could only stare as the corpse leveled the revolver directly at her. With dawning horror, she tried to throw the portrait aside, but her body was frozen. The hideous skull almost seemed to smile as he pulled the trigger.
Vicki shut her eyes as a loud pop reverberated through the room. She opened them a few moments later, to find a small flag with the word BANG emblazoned across it, waving tauntingly at her face. The skeletal abomination laughed soundlessly in its frame.
With a horrified scream, Vicki shot up to her feet.
She nearly fell to the floor again when Burke was spun directly into her arms.
"Next dance is all yours, love," the ghost lady sing-songed
They bolted out of the storage room. Once they got out to the corridor, they stumbled a few more feet away and leaned against a wall. Both wheezed heavily.
"Go!" A strangely accented voice echoed through the corridor.
They felt dozens of cold dead hands shoving, pulling and pinching them. Like with the singing and dancing woman, they could not see the owners of these hands. They were pushed and shoved all the way out of the West Wing.
Burke and Vicki grunted and yelled the whole time.
Once they were out the door, it slammed violently behind them.
They heard the click of the door locking.
Behind the door, the ghosts of Sandor and Magda were satisfied by their haunting prowess.
"Zey better keep out," Sandor grunted.
"Zey better, for their own zake," Magda agreed.
Above them, near the ceiling, Carl and Pansy spun triumphantly in each other's arms in a gay dance.
"Ya portrait prank was glorious, love!" Pansy praised her betrothed.
"It's my best work to date, darling." Carl grinned happily. "I tell you, the look on that oaf's face as you spun him like a top! My love, we're geniuses!"
Their exuberant mid-air love scene had Magda and Sandor rolling their eyes.
In the haze of terror, Burke and Vicki ran as far as they could from the West Wing, eventually throwing themselves into a spare room.
They clung to each other tightly. Burke was relieved to be in the arms of a living woman.
Each of their hearts were pounding.
Vicki slowly inhaled and exhaled, trying to calm herself.
Burke's exposed forearms were covered in gooseflesh. He tried to form words, but all that came out were haggard breaths. Being forced into a dizzying dance by an invisible ghost was a uniquely violating experience.
Still fighting through her own trauma, Vicki comforted her fiancé as best she could, gently rubbing his shoulders as she held him.
Absently trailing her eyes across the paneled walls, Vicki's attention was grabbed by yet another portrait. Thankfully, no one seemed to be melting.
Vicki gently de-tangled herself from Burke's shaken arms.
"Burke, look."
Vicki creaked up to the portrait. Upon closer inspection, she saw the portrait was of a man and a woman.
The woman was in a white, long-sleeved dress and veil. The fringes of her long blonde hair fell past her shoulders. The rest of her hair was braided or pinned up, looking something like a crown.
The man had bushy blonde hair. He wore a black, unremarkable, nineteenth-century suit. Vicki thought he was dressed like a stereotypical groom.
The names Desmond and Leticia Collins were elegantly carved into the ornate frame.
"This is it," Vicki breathed.
Finally starting to collect his bearings, Burke stepped up beside Vicki, closely eyeing the portrait.
"The happy couple, huh?" He found his voice. "I guess these things are always in the last place you look."
"I found David hiding in here once," Vicki recalled. "Must be why I have a faint recollection of these two."
Vicki stared at the blonde bride. "She looks so much like Carolyn."
Burke studied the bushy haired, gray-eyed groom. "No wonder those ghosts possessed Willie and Carolyn. They almost look to be the same people."
The ghosts of Desmond and Leticia Collins did not haunt the Great House of Collinwood. Until circumstances had recently changed, they had been banished from the Collins grounds entirely.
Judah's curse of time and shadow festered on the ancestral estate, warding off the decapitated warlock's enemies. This included the spirits of Collinses who knew his secrets. They could only haunt a forgotten house shrouded from the rest of the world.
A once beautiful house known as Rose Cottage. They were not alone, however. A small posse of united spirits accompanied them.
Desmond's beloved mother Flora, and Desmond's cousin Quentin. And Quentin's beloved Daphne.
The five ghosts lounged in the cobweb infested parlor. The once beautiful furniture now covered in over a century of dust. The windows were beyond grimy, blocking any view of the outside world.
Quentin and Daphne sat on the dusty sofa together. Or rather sitting in pantomime since gravity didn't really affect anyone currently gathered.
Desmond and Leticia conferred with Flora up near the ceiling.
"Leticia, when do you think you can slip out again?" Flora asked hopefully.
"If only they have another séance," Leticia replied. "The plump one with the lispy voice. I swear love, his soul is like a lighthouse on a moonless night."
"I would have never dreamed we could contact the Great House so quickly," Desmond added.
Flora nodded sagely. "It was such a struggle, even to establish ourselves here. Now that Judah's back, I suppose it only gets harder from now on."
"I still cannot believe they actually summoned him," Quentin brooded in frustration, tightly folding his arms.
"I do find it fascinating that we have a vampire in the family," Desmond commented with a sigh. "But I wish he had a better head on his shoulders."
"We have to reestablish contact with Collinwood," Quentin piped up.
"My psychic powers can only slip through the curse for a teeny while," said Leticia.
"That old house with the pillars," Daphne expressed from the sofa. "Doesn't your family's reformed vampire live there?"
"Why?" Flora asked from the ceiling.
Daphne searched for words. Finally expressing, "I can't explain, but I think that's where the curse is weakest."
"Oh?" Flora gazed down at her from above.
"Last night I felt myself drawn there somehow," Daphne confided. "It was only for a moment, but I couldn't feel the curse at all."
"You left Rose Cottage?" Desmond asked.
"Yes," said Quentin. "It was an accident. After we finally broke through and made it here, Daphne and Flora were supposed to search the grounds."
"Yes, we were seeing how far we could push the boundaries of the curse." Daphne nodded in confirmation. "I must have gotten lost in the trees. But when I came upon that pillared house, it seemed as though the curse was gone entirely."
"Did you go inside?" Flora asked.
"Only for an instant," Daphne replied. "I heard two men calling my name. But as soon as I went looking, I somehow ended up back here."
"Have you been back since, love?" Leticia asked.
"I can't seem to find my way back," Daphne apologized.
"Two men?" Desmond pressed. "Was it a séance?"
"I don't think so," Daphne replied.
"I've been out in the woods with her myself," said Quentin. "We searched for hours, but all we found was the curse. However she got there the first time may have just been a fluke."
Desmond, Leticia and Flora deflated a little as that sunk in.
Daphne thought to herself before she continued.
"I heard Judah's voice. And Gerard's, too. I'm certain I did."
The other ghosts shared alarmed looks.
In his cell in the Old House's basement laboratory, Judah laid flat on his cot, willing his jumbled mind to order.
But Gerard would not give him any peace.
"You know it's true, old boy," the scoundrel's voice echoed between Judah's ears. "You cannot deny it. You saw her with my own eyes. We did not simultaneously hallucinate."
Impossible. My curse would block her entry onto these blighted grounds.
But deep in what passed as Judah's heart he knew that was a lie.
Next Chapter: A New Change on the Witch's Portrait