Disclaimer: Dark Shadows is a Dan Curtis Production and not mine
CHAPTER 29: A NEW CHANGE ON THE WITCH'S PORTRAIT
Joe laid flat on his back on Carolyn's luxurious bed in her bedroom. He allowed the touch of comfort to ease him, feeling the softness of the fluff pillows and the velvety bedspreads.
A far cry from the hard floor in front of a dying fire. For the first time in days, he even had his boots off.
The lack of sleep had clearly caught up with him. To Joe, it felt like his body was sinking deeper and deeper into the mattress.
Carolyn stood beside the bed, affectionately gazing down on the haggard young man. "Have a nice long sleep, Joe. Since everyone is caught up with Uncle Roger's party, no one should bother you in here."
"Even without the party, you'd still find a way to keep this secret." Joe smirked up at her with drowsy eyes.
Carolyn smirked back. "I'll leave you to rest. In the meantime, no worrying. Mother made it perfectly clear to the caterers that they are not to wander into this Wing." She gently stroked Joe's dark hair. "I'll check in on you in a bit."
"Let me know when the professor is here," Joe mumbled as his eyes closed.
"Will do." Carolyn slowly crossed to her door. With one last look, she couldn't help but to scold, "Don't you dare get out of bed until I get back." With that, she left, granting Joe privacy.
Joe continued relaxing. The warm softness was welcoming but also slightly exotic. It really had been a while since he'd slept in a bed. And it wasn't like his own was anywhere near as soft as this one.
Before he drifted off, he felt a warm tingling sensation coming from his right arm.
Sam wandered the endless paneled labyrinth that was Collinwood. Ancient unused furniture, better suited to museums, crowded every corner. Galleries of dead faces hung on the walls.
Sam had no intention of going there, but surely, this was what hell was like.
"If I had known I needed to make an appointment just to speak with some dead guys, I would have called ahead with my undertaker," the painter quipped to the empty corridor.
In truth, Sam had arrived only twenty minutes earlier. Malloy had taken his leave as soon as they crossed the threshold.
"I don't know how long it will take them all to gather up," Bill had said. "But when they're ready for ya, I'll come find you. Have a look around. I swear, the stuff that goes on in this place is better than those soaps on television."
"I don't know what program he was talking about," Sam grumbled. "Days of our Cobwebs?"
But as Sam turned a corner, (he wasn't ready to start casually walking through walls yet) he overheard a faint trickle of scandal.
"Don't you dare get out of bed until I get back."
"Oh-ho!" Sam mused.
Hurrying his pace, he came upon the figure of a young woman silhouetted in a bedroom doorway.
"I suppose I should have figured it would be Carolyn," Sam glumly concluded.
Kids running around behind their parents' backs was far too mundane to pique the painter's interests. He was hoping for something interesting, like stolen Nazi gold or Abraham Lincoln's corpse.
Still, Sam was a little surprised to find Joe shacked up in Collinwood.
"Maybe I was just putting him up on a pedestal, but I never thought Joe was the kind to run around."
Sam had come around to Willie. (Eventually.) But it was hard not to think of Joe as the ideal man for his daughter.
"Excuse me, can I help you sir?" a flighty yet refined voice questioned from behind.
Propelled by shock and fear, Sam whirled around with lightning speed. Floating in front of him, by all appearances, was Carolyn. Never mind that Carolyn was also directly behind him.
"What?" was all he managed.
"Carolyn" scrunched her face up a bit. "I mean, good sir, why are you spying on a young man and woman in a bedchamber?"
"Um, hello, my name is Sam," he introduced himself awkwardly.
The dainty ghost nodded in appreciation. "Millicent Collins. Pleasure to make your acquaintance."
After what may have been a tenth of a second, she continued. "Why are you spying?"
Sam was never one for subterfuge. And he wasn't sure he cared about appearances. So, he responded, "An old sailor told me it would be fun."
There was a lull in the conversation when Carolyn stepped through them and continued down the corridor.
Millicent recovered first, saying, "Well, I suppose it may be fun for some. But this young man happens to be a close friend of mine. And is in a bit of a bad way."
"There's something wrong with Joe?" Sam asked, now properly concerned.
Millicent's translucent form jolted, as though she just remembered something.
"I have to check on him. That pretty little living girl doesn't know what he needs."
"Pretty?" Sam echoed.
But Millicent had all but forgotten him, rushing past him to Joe's bedside.
Sam tagged along, gingerly streaming through the door, still concerned for his daughter's ex.
"He has done it again," Millicent whispered scandalized. "His soul has left his body."
"Come again?" Sam asked, tilting his head.
"Those horrible witches are toying with him," Millicent bemoaned to herself. "No telling what becomes of his soul."
Sam more or less had just been murdered by a warlock. So, this got his attention.
"Wait, do you mean he is dead?"
"Cousin Millicent." Another ghost materialized in the bedroom. The hard grizzled presence of Joshua Collins revealed himself. "I am glad to find you out of hiding."
"I was not hiding, Cousin Joshua." Millicent raised her snooty nose. " In fact, I have been awfully busy."
"Yes, yes, I'm sure" Joshua said steadily. "But we need you to make yourself useful. We are holding a gathering."
"A gathering?" Millicent canted her blonde ringlet head.
"Excuse me," interjected the painter. "I hate to rudely interrupt a conversation so politely, started without me, but can you please explain what's wrong with Joe!"
Joshua regarded Sam as he would an unwanted solicitor. "I'm afraid I am not acquainted with this Joe or with you for that matter."
Sam took on a condescending tone, casually waving hello to the dead aristocrat.
"My name's Sam Evans. And this sleeping, possibly dead young man here is Joe. And if it's not too much of an inconvenience, I was hoping that perhaps Millicent could finish explaining to me about the witches and his soul."
"Is this terribly important?" Joshua asked. "Millicent has family matters to attend to."
"I must decline, Cousin Joshua," Millicent piped up.
Joshua shot the evil eye at the young man lying immobile on the bed.
"You'd place the welfare of this soulless witch servant above your own family?" Joshua sneered affronted.
"He is not soulless, Cousin Joshua!" Millicent said appalled.
"His soul certainly does not appear to be present." Joshua coldly observed Joe's body.
"He does have a soul and it is worth saving," Millicent defended.
"Come to the gathering, Cousin Millicent," Joshua almost pleaded, gentling his voice. "What good are you for this vagabond? Leave the living to care for the living."
"No, I shan't!"
"Millicent," Joshua scowled. "He is obscene. Those witches have tainted him. He is as dangerous as they are now. Stay away from the witches and stay away from him."
"Dammit, is Joe alive or not!" Sam was furious. He was trying to feel for the boy's pulse, but his fingers merely slipped through his wrist.
"His soul travels somehow," Millicent answered, as though she just remembered Sam was there. "I believe the witches are at fault."
"Do you have any idea where his soul goes?" Sam asked with forced politeness.
"He does not inform me of the details of his out-of-body carousing," said Millicent. "But I feel his soul moving towards the Old House."
Without another word, Sam left Collinwood through the bedroom window, determined to find the wayward soul.
"Millicent, I really must insist you see to your family duties." Joshua grabbed her arm, making to leave. "You'll find it's just as easy to endure the company of your family, as it is a slave to a witch."
"I have stayed away from the witches!" Millicent cried. "But I refuse to stay away from him! He is my dear friend!"
With far more strength than Joshua could ever guess, Millicent tore away from his grasp, shooting herself through the same window Sam used.
Her soul soared through the icy air, gliding through the snow-capped evergreens. Millicent looked over her shoulder, half worried she'd find Cousin Joshua giving chase. He wasn't.
However, up on the high-pitched roof of the Great House, a swell of ghostly energy was assembling.
Millicent assumed that was where the important gathering was taking place.
"They'll likely abandon the Old House for a while," Nathan's disembodied voice crept up on Millicent. "The perfect opportunity for you to confess your troubles to a man of the cloth."
"No, Nathan!" Millicent growled.
"But darling, your sailor's soul is all in tatters," Nathan's voice reasoned. "All thanks to vile witchcraft. Now, you may have mastered the art of throwing abandoned carpentry tools at handsome devils. But you cannot fight against witchcraft with a dusty old hammer."
Millicent paused, absorbing his words. She didn't want to listen to him. She really didn't want to agree with him. But she knew deep down that she alone could not defeat the witches.
Not in her current state.
Sam flew through the woods, literally through the trees, but it wasn't so much as flying as it was stumbling. This wasn't exactly his first time flying, but all those other times had just been Malloy or his wife Mary Poppining him around.
Sam stared passed his own feet, towards the ground fifty feet below.
"Well, I'm not falling, so I technically know how to fly already."
Sam tried moving forward, hoping some sort of dormant ghost instinct would take over. And he moved. Incredibly slowly. Bobbing along like a buoy at low tide.
Just then, a golden streak of colonial clothes zipped by.
"Excuse me," Sam called.
What's her name? – Millicent – halted and turned around.
"Yes, what is it? I do not wish to be rude; I am in a bit of a hurry."
Sam tried floating over to where Millicent had stopped, but it was slow going.
"Are you having trouble?" Millicent asked puzzled.
"I suppose that depends on whether or not being dead counts as trouble."
Sam's glib retort only puzzled Millicent more.
At her confused frown, Sam added, "I'm having a little trouble getting around. It's still pretty new to me."
Realization dawned on Millicent's bright face.
"I take it you are recently deceased?" she asked delicately.
Sam nodded in confirmation. "Corpse is barely cold I'd imagine."
"How ghastly." Millicent softly gasped.
Sam genuinely felt a little guilty. Millicent's delicate sensibilities didn't feel pretentious or artificial.
"Well, I suppose it's nothing to worry about now," Sam awkwardly amended. "I don't suppose there was a trick to how fast you were going."
On theme for the conversation so far, Millicent seemed confused.
"Do you mean how I was flying?"
Sam nodded, which made his body wobble clumsily in the open air. "I don't seem to have the hang of it."
Millicent flashed a vacant expression, her eyes darting off to the side. "I suppose I never thought of it."
Sam winced. Maybe this wasn't a good idea after all. He'd just have to try explaining himself better.
"You see, whenever I try to fly like you were a moment ago, it feels sort of like I'm a party balloon being tugged around by a string. But that doesn't make sense, because I can walk just fine, even though my feet don't touch the ground anymore."
"Your feet are gone." Millicent remembered Cousin Joshua's earliest lessons right after her passing. "Your whole body is gone, I'm afraid. You think gravity holds you to the earth, so it does so.
"Traveling for a spirit is much easier than it is for the living. We do not have to haul our bodies everywhere we go. Rather than tugging on your spirit, as though it were a balloon, think about where you want to go and imagine that gravity is pulling you there."
Sam gaped at the wispy spirit. "That sounds pretty good. I'll give it a go."
Instead of trying to fly up to Millicent, he tried to think of it like he was falling towards her. As though gravity was naturally pulling him to the waif. He was still moving in slow motion, but he had a lot more control. And it felt like he was getting the hang of it.
Millicent giggled and floated aside, as Sam kept going forward.
"Very good, Mr. Sam. Though, I think you may be close enough now."
Sam, who was within arm's length of Millicent, willed himself to stop "falling."
"Say, there's a bit more to this than you'd think," said Sam. "Being dead, I mean."
Millicent nodded solemnly. "I have heard it said that it can be even more dangerous to exist as a spirit than it is as a living being. Though, I fear I have been more sheltered than most."
As Millicent spoke, Sam refined his newly acquired flying skills. He found that if he thought of it as falling, his body would tend to just move in any direction he wanted. Not quickly or precisely. But he was moving.
Millicent floated over to him, placing her hand on his shoulder. "I know where Joe is. If you would like, I could escort you to him. Maybe you could practice along the way."
Sam flashed a grateful smile. He didn't think he would ever be a Collins kind of guy, but this Millicent seemed all right.
"Thanks, I'd like that," he answered.
Millicent and Sam streamed through the plastered walls of the Old House. To Millicent's annoyed surprise, Nathan had been telling the truth. It was mostly devoid of ghosts.
A startling rarity.
Even Ben Stokes was absent.
"Cousin Joshua's gathering must be of great importance," Millicent commented. "The Old House is unoccupied. But it is not completely devoid of energy. Joe is close, now."
The woman doctor Cousin Barnabas associated with was also present, but hardly worth mentioning. Millicent sensed her drinking coffee in the dreary kitchen. She had no idea where Cousin Barnabas was presently.
However, Millicent sensed a malevolent force centered in the basement. It wasn't a phenomenon she was familiar with. But with everything Barnabas and the lady doctor were known to get up to, that was more than likely normal.
Still, Millicent couldn't help but find it repellent. She had never sensed such a twisted energy. It was most definitely wicked.
Millicent opted to keep out of Cousin Barnabas' affairs.
Fortunately, a much kinder presence was also quite prominent. A broken and troubled soul, but kinder all the same.
"So, no one's home?" Sam asked.
"Cousin Barnabas' lady friend is in the kitchen," Millicent replied. "But the living makes for terrible company, really."
"And here I've been exclusively socializing with them my whole life," Sam remarked.
"Oh, it's different when you're alive, I suppose," Millicent glibly responded. "Now, Joe, he's special. It's as if he can see me for who I really am. Honestly, he is such a sweet boy."
"He always struck me as a nice guy," Sam agreed. "Are you sure he's okay?"
"I have not conversed with him recently," Millicent fretted. "But he is being cared for. That pretty little descendant, I apologize, but I could never remember all of their names, she has been looking after him."
"Carolyn, you mean?" Sam offered.
"Perhaps," Millicent hedged. "She has lovely blonde hair."
"So, do you know where Joe is?" Sam decided to get their incursion back on track.
"This way," Millicent directed.
Floating into the foyer, she waved him hither as she streamed into a tight crawl space beneath the staircase.
Sam followed, sighing heavily before walking through the paneling.
Millicent was fretting over a ball of light, hysterically fluttering around the tight dusty space. Somehow, Sam knew in his gut that the ball of light was Joe. But then again, Millicent was repeating that name over and over, as she flailed about the crawl space. That also could have tipped him off.
It wasn't transparent like them. It didn't even have a proper form. It looked like a small ball of light. It was what Sam would call "Joe Energy."
The Joe Energy was transfixed by a portrait emitting a dark red illumination. Nothing else seemed to hold its attention.
The portrait was of a blonde woman, stoic and beautiful. Sam appreciated the skill and technique demonstrated in the piece. The use of color was also quite exotic. Still, the portrait only stirred one feeling in Sam.
To Millicent, he asked, "Isn't she a bit of a shrew?"
Millicent froze, taking note of Sam, apparently forgetting about him for the fourth time that day. "Oh, forgive me, I was preoccupied. I apologize. I so seldom make new acquaintances. The portrait is of a woman named Angelique Bouchard. While your description is apt, I'm afraid her character flaws are far in excess of a typical shrew."
Sam didn't know what she meant, but he nodded like he did.
Millicent leaned into Sam, whispering conspiratorially, "She has sold her soul to the devil."
Sam's eyebrows shot up as he whistled under his nonexistent breath. "Yeah, that's pretty bad all right."
Millicent's face took on a mournful expression, gesturing toward the Joe Energy. "He is her slave."
Sam had been a little bemused up to this point. Everything still seemed novel to him since his murder. The flying, his wife, going through walls. All of it seemed so fantastic. But Joe was just a kid. What the hell was she even talking about?
"Slave?"
Millicent nodded in confirmation, her eyes downcast. "The witches took him."
Sam moved to the ball of light. He didn't know what he was going to do. But a part of him needed to reach out to Joe. When Sam's body, or whatever it was now, collided with the ball of Joe Energy, the painter felt a strange wrenching pull. Like falling down, except into your own belly button instead of on the floor. And just like that there was Joe.
Sam didn't know how to describe it. It wasn't like touching or talking or anything. More like Joe was just another hand, a part of him that he just instinctively understood.
At the moment, he could honestly say he knew Joe's mind better than his own. And God if this boy wasn't a wreck. He had been pushed over the edge and climbed his way back up. Now he was falling down again. It was heartbreaking.
Still he was fighting. Sam could feel it.
"Mr. Evans?" A faint, distant voice echoed.
"Joe, is that you?"
"I think so. Who are you?"
"I'm Sam, like you guessed."
The painter couldn't see anything at the moment. Just more of that blinding light he was growing accustomed to.
"What are you doing here?" Joe sounded confused.
Sam thought Joe was actually rather calm given their circumstances. But through their connection, he could tell that Joe only thought of this as a dream.
Joe's mind felt sluggish. Exhausted, perhaps. It was hard to believe, but something else was monopolizing the boy's attention. And it wasn't the dead artist sharing his spirit ball.
With this revelation, the blinding light thankfully cleared, revealing the focal point of Joe's fixation. The portrait of the shrewish blonde woman he'd noticed earlier. The skill of the artist who created the piece was still obvious. The colors just as bold. And in Sam's opinion, her expression was every bit as crabby as he remembered.
Only now, he was seeing it through Joe's eyes. He worshiped this woman. He could hardly bare to look away from her.
As an artist, Sam could almost understand. Obsession and creativity went hand in hand. But Sam couldn't find one ounce of warmth or love for this woman in Joe's soul. It reminded him of how he felt when painting a frozen landscape, or a stark craggy mountain. He didn't want to live there. But it was glorious to look upon.
"Exactly!" Joe excitedly exclaimed.
It dawned on Sam that Joe was just as connected to him as he was to the boy. He apparently could read Sam as well.
"She's so achingly beautiful," Joe said pitifully. "But I want to get away."
"Terribly beautiful, I'd say," Sam commented. "Maybe if her expression was actually pretty."
Joe seemed confused. "What do you mean?"
Sam thought for a moment. "Well, for starters, there's her mouth. People say that eyes are the windows to the soul. But your mouth says a lot, too." Sam chuckled at the quip that he knew went over Joe's head.
"What's wrong with her mouth?" Joe balked. "It's lovely."
"Oh, to be young again," the dead painter said to himself. "What I meant to say is that her lips are too tightly pressed together. A subtle sign of aggression."
Joe contemplated this for a moment. "You're right. She should have one of those mysterious smiles like the Mona Lisa."
"Um, sure." Sam shrugged. "Just something less severe overall."
"What about her eyes?" Joe asked.
"Way harder," the artist absently commented.
He was still looking at the subject's jawline. He readily agreed with Joe's assessment, however.
"They should be softer. But not too unfocused. Or she'll end up looking vacant." Sam thought for a moment longer. "Maybe reduce the eye shadow, too."
Joe was getting excited. "Yeah, she'd look a little younger, too."
"Hmm," the painter considered for a moment. "You know, this really is a beautiful portrait. I can't imagine why the artist would waste such a beautiful model. A painter as skilled as this would have noticed how her expression ruined the feel of the piece."
"I wish you would've painted it, Mr. Evans," Joe expressed.
"I don't know, I think the original painter had an eye for..." Sam cut himself off. "What the devil!"
Sam didn't really understand ghost terminology. The only way he could describe Joe's energy would be to say it caught fire. It had gone from being a relatively placid lump of Joe's essence into a fireball that rivaled the sun.
"Can I used your hands?"
Sam was already reaching for the portrait. It wasn't exactly that Joe was making him. It was just that what Joe wanted suddenly seemed much more important. Still, Sam had never been a follower. His own force of will slammed into the boy's. The artist could tell that Joe had some notion of stealing this painting.
But Sam was far too affronted and worried to just go along with it. To his credit, Joe seemed to realize what was happening and recoiled.
"I'm sorry, I was just..." The lost boy seemed confused, still convinced he was dreaming.
Sam wasn't listening, he could feel something in Joe's soul. It felt like a compulsion. But Joe's mind was so scattered, Sam couldn't tell what was going on.
Sam's hands, such as they were, were now just inches away from the portrait. A strange prickly sensation traveled down his spine.
Somehow, the portrait felt wrong. "I couldn't get closer to it even if I wanted to."
The painting seemed to repel Sam. As soon as he realized this, fire shot up his arms, nearly blinding heat, but no pain. Whatever barrier surrounded the portrait instantly burned away.
Inexplicably, Joe seemed to be reaching through Sam. It was impossible to believe that so much power could come from such a broken soul. But even as the painter marveled at this new experience, something changed on Joe's end. His mind snapped into focus and the power flowing through Sam recoiled with frightening force. Pulling the dead painter along for the ride.
When it was all over, Sam finally managed to extract himself from Joe. Only to find himself right back where he started – Carolyn's bedroom.
In the house by the sea, Cassandra, draped in her black silken robe, sat on her knees in the parlor, stoking a new blaze to life in the fireplace.
Her wide blue eyes were fixed on the licking red flames.
Angelique had a peculiar relationship with flame. She feared it more than anything. It was her only true weakness. (Well, that, and a certain brooding philanderer.)
But it also provided her a window into a far grander world than the material one. Unfortunately, Diaboles was far from a kind master. Forcing her to stare into flames rather than a crystal ball or a mirror was likely quite amusing to him.
The witch's flames revealed Barnabas Collins trudging along a path in the woods, near Collinwood. He was dressed, as always, in his black cloak.
He used his cane to break up the snow in his path.
He was out in the light of day. That sight alone boiled the witch's blood.
That cheating lech! Lacking the decency even to remain dead.
Just then, out of the blue, Angelique felt deathly ill. Something was wrong with her heart. She clutched at her chest horrified. A warming glow was spreading like a poison in her chest. Feelings long forgotten stirred to life. Like embers in a cold hearth.
Just like that, her thinking pattern shifted.
Why am I having these vicious notions about Barnabas? I – would nev –
"Where's Haskell?"
A thoughtlessly demanding voice barged into the room.
Nicholas Blair strode in, wearing his gray smoking jacket.
Cassandra looked up at him surprised.
"Oh – um – watching the Collins family for me."
"Of course," Nicholas said snidely. "When he returns, send him to me."
"What for?" Cassandra asked.
"It's important," Nicholas imperiously replied.
He took notice of Cassandra, his face scrunching up in distaste.
"Your looking rather saccharine, my dear. Your eyes are glimmering softly, and your cheeks are flushed in a most nauseating manner. Like some ingenue. I don't know what sort of glamour or spell you are using, but to fool my eyes is no small feat. Maybe you should save this for that puffed-up idiot you married. Either way, fix yourself before I see you again. This is unsightly."
With that, Nicholas strode out of the parlor.
Cassandra was left shaken.
She placed a frantic hand to her unusually warming heart.
What is this feeling?
Millicent streamed out from under the stairs' crawl space. She'd no longer sensed Joe's energy in the Old House. Her recent acquaintance had similarly disappeared, leaving the often-confused ghost utterly perplexed.
She understood social customs changed over time. But disappearing into a ball of energy, abandoning and ignoring your escort in the process, seemed unconscionable.
"Joe is under the influence of those terrible witches. One would expect a lack of decorum. But, really, Sam Evans, how dare you!"
Millicent was used to being left out of the loop, but this stung. Joe had certainly never tried to pull her into his ball of energy. She may even have allowed it.
Millicent floated briskly back and forth in the foyer, as though she were pacing, thinking aloud to herself.
"Of what use could a recently passed fledgling be to Joe?"
Millicent recalled how helpless the older looking gentleman had seemed. She could scarcely remember her own fledgling days.
"Even experienced elders know better than to involve themselves with witches."
If Joe was counting on Mr. Evans for help, they were both surely doomed.
Millicent's "pacing" quickened as she began to panic.
"Is your newest trick to keep time by imitating a pendulum?" Nathan's disembodied voice mocked the waif. "Better than throwing hammers, I suppose."
"Not now, Nathan," Millicent replied without any concern for Nathan's true whereabouts. "I am already troubled, I do not require another nuisance."
"I thought it was your sailor who was troubled," the cad goaded. "Not that I'm concerned, mind you. But is it not sad how that poor lost boy has to turn to a neophyte, fresh out of the body?"
Millicent could only stare at the floor in shame.
"If only someone around here had experience fighting witches. Perhaps, he could be saved."
Millicent's eyes were still glued to the floor. Only now, in her mind, she was staring through it into the basement.
"I mustn't," she whispered. "This is madness."
With a sharp gasp, Joe shot up, his eyes bulging. He was back in Carolyn's bedroom, sitting up in her bed.
"Joe, are you alright?"
Carolyn stood beside her own bed, watching Joe with concern.
Joe took a deep breath. It took him a moment to find his voice.
"I'm okay, Carolyn."
He let out several labored breaths.
"I just got back and I found you like this," Carolyn explained.
"Like what?" Joe asked, though his breathing was still labored.
Carolyn scrunched up her nose playfully. "You're practically soaked."
Joe took stock of the state he was in. He was literally dripping with sweat. But even more shocking, every muscle in his body ached with fatigue.
"What happened to me?" he croaked.
Carolyn smirked playfully. "Want to confess anything about your dreams, young man?"
Joe blushed bashfully. But hazy memories of Sam Evans of all people were beginning to bubble up in his addled mind. "I don't think you need to worry about that," he mumbled. "Sorry about your sheets, though."
Carolyn rolled her eyes. "Mrs. Johnson knows better than to ask questions." She visibly paled. "Unless Maggie is on laundry duty now. I must remember to thank Mother for hiring her."
Joe chuckled, though he didn't think it was much funny, either.
"Maybe I should get up." Joe tried to push himself out of bed, but caught himself short and leaned back against the headboard. "Whoa, dizzy."
Carolyn gently laid him back down. "Lie down and relax. You're obviously exhausted."
Lying on his back, resting his head on the fluff pillow, Joe said softly, "You're probably right."
"Don't make any noise," Carolyn said as she crossed to her door. "I'll be right back."
Joe watched as she slipped out of her room, quietly closing the door behind her. He let out several more labored breaths he'd been holding back for her sake. His ribs ached just as they did on the beach.
But that was not what was worrying him. The wand still stuffed up his coat sleeve felt different somehow. Depleted. It took all of his focus to feel even a little magic in the apple wood twig. It was there, flickering, but weaker.
What the heck happened to all of my magic? And why can't I get Sam Evans out of my head?
"Standing" off to the side, Sam watched over the drowsy young fisherman. It made him feel like a traitor to his own daughter, but those two were a cute couple.
Still, even a blind ghost could tell that Joe was in over his head.
From upstairs, Carolyn entered the foyer, thinking fretfully.
Oh, Joe, is any of this really helping you? I hope Prof. Stokes thinks of something soon.
She descended the staircase.
The foyer was crowded with caterers bustling in and out, carrying in boxes of table cloths, napkins and whatever else they needed.
When Carolyn reached the bottom landing, she spotted Barnabas standing outside the opened doorway of the Great House. The caterers likely left the double doors wide open so they could carry in their boxes. Barnabas politely knocked on one of the doors anyway.
"Cousin Barnabas," Carolyn said in greeting. "Come in."
"Thank you." Barnabas passed through the doorway. "And, good morning, Carolyn."
"Barnabas, what a surprise." Elizabeth stepped out from the study.
"Hello, Elizabeth," Barnabas replied. "I see the house is being readied for the festivities tomorrow evening."
Another group of caterers hurried pass.
"Yes." Elizabeth was careful not to sound like she was grumbling.
"Is Vicki home?" Barnabas asked, somewhat awkwardly.
"I'm sure she and Burke are around here somewhere," Elizabeth answered. "Though, Vicki will likely be tutoring David right now."
"Are Willie and Maggie available?" Barnabas inquired.
That pique Carolyn's interests.
"Yes," Elizabeth replied. "I suppose you've heard the terrible news about Sam Evans."
"Yes, I'd like to offer Maggie my condolences," said Barnabas.
"What happened to Sam Evans?" Carolyn asked.
"He was found last night... dead, I'm afraid," Barnabas delicately informed.
Carolyn was honestly taken aback. "How awful. What happened?"
"His body was found in a fishing shack," Barnabas explained.
Carolyn was speechless.
"Maggie is likely near the Great Hall," Elizabeth told Barnabas. "Willie is always in there, helping with one of Roger's notions."
"Thank you, Elizabeth." Still wearing his cloak and clutching his cane, Barnabas headed for the side door.
Carolyn watched the mysterious cousin leave the foyer.
Maggie tried to keep her mind blank, her heart numb, while she polished some ancient vase on an antique side table just outside the Great Hall. Mrs. Stoddard had given her a fairly light workload. Maggie couldn't help but notice that Willie was keeping her within earshot as well.
It was heartwarming how much they cared for her. She was grateful.
But little bittersweet memories of her Pop laughing over coffee in the morning – painting next to his favorite window – refused to leave her mind.
Maggie tried vainly to prevent it from slashing her heart. She tried to be disciplined, but whenever her mind wandered for even a moment, the grief returned with so much force, that it nearly smothered her.
Putting down the rag next to the vase on the side table, Maggie wiped her eyes.
A gentle hand touched her shoulder. The touch startled her slightly, but she found it was just Willie.
Maggie leaned her head against his chest as he held her.
"Maggie, Willie." A loud cultured voice called down to them in the corridor.
A voice they knew all too well.
Barnabas, with his signature cane and black cloak, came striding toward them.
"Dr. Woodard informed me about your father earlier, Maggie." They'd never seen Barnabas looking so openly regretful. "I'm sorry for your loss."
Maggie and Willie looked at him wordlessly.
"Is there somewhere we can speak in private?" Barnabas requested.
Caterers were hurrying in and out of the Great Hall. Almost all of them were staring.
Maggie and Willie shared a quick glance.
In silent understanding, the pair lead Barnabas to the conventional, non-great dining room, which was abandoned due to Roger's party.
Barnabas slid the pocket doors closed.
"Maggie, Dr. Woodard seemed somewhat reticent this morning. I'm afraid I do not know the details. But I assure you Sam Evans will be avenged."
Maggie could only stare at the former vampire blankly.
"Barnabas, what are you even try – "
"Oh, no Barnabas, this one isn't your fault," Willie cut in.
"Certainly not." Barnabas looked affronted. "I can hardly be blamed for the actions of Angelique and her cohorts. I meant only that I sympathize. I, too, have lost a father."
"Your ex didn't murder my Pop, Barnabas," Maggie said evenly. "This was a personal matter involving an acquaintance of his. It's horrible and I hate it. But it has nothing to do with you."
Now Barnabas stared blankly. "It has nothing to do with your association with me?"
Maggie heaved a deep sigh, gentling her tone before she spoke. "No, Barnabas, this isn't your fault. And I shouldn't take my anger out on you."
The dark man considered for a moment. "I am still a resourceful man, Maggie. I have every confidence that I can locate the guilty parties."
For a moment, his eyes were as black and dead as any vampire Maggie could imagine.
"You have my word I will handle those responsible." Barnabas assured.
"There's nothing to be done about it now," Maggie said heavily. "The police are already investigating."
"But still..." Barnabas interrupted.
"Josette warned us all to keep you out of trouble," Maggie reminded.
"Mr. Evans had a lot of friends in this town," Willie chimed in. "Best you stay out of this one."
It was almost sad how crestfallen Barnabas appeared. "You're certain this doesn't involve the witches at all?" he asked feebly.
Maggie couldn't bear to lie, so she deflected. "We both know if Angelique were involved, she'd be gloating by now."
Barnabas remained silent but looked unconvinced.
"Barnabas, you have to keep your eyes on Angelique," Maggie interrupted. "Your concern is... 'touching'. I'm glad to see you have grown more caring... at least in your own way."
As a man from the colonial era, Barnabas was horrified by her observation. But as a gentleman, he could not bear to upset a young lady in mourning. Mortifying as it was, he could only nod in confirmation.
Maggie was relieved to see her former abductor relent.
"Very well."
"But – seriously – thank you," Maggie said awkwardly. "For your sympathies."
"We'll see you later, Barnabas," said Willie. "At the Old House."
"Very well."
Slowly, Barnabas turned back to the closed pocket doors and slid them open. With his cane in hand, he stepped out of the dining room.
Not long after Barnabas' shadow dissolved into the inky blackness of the corridor, Willie and Maggie departed the room as well, returning to their work.
Unnoticed by all, Carolyn hid in an alcove just off from the dining room. She had eavesdropped on their conversation. Her ears especially pricked at the word "witches."
Joe was right, Carolyn thought. Somehow, Barnabas got himself tangled up with those witches, too. This is wild! Does that mean he's really her lover? Maybe he's working with them after all. But where does Maggie and Willie fit in with all of this? And why do witches have so much to do with my family?
With Joe's soul safely returned to his body, Sam had little reason to haunt Carolyn's bedroom any longer. Naturally, he'd gone looking for Maggie, finding her having a brief talk with Willie in the crowded Great Hall. The specter felt his daughter was handling their shared tragedy both strongly and feebly.
She was only human. She was not made of stone.
For now, Maggie was faking it. She'd put up a front, pretending to be a determined heroine. And it's not like he wasn't proud of her for even trying. But as her father, Sam could tell that all she was doing was hiding from the pain. Sooner or later, she would have to face it. He couldn't help but wonder if he would still be around when that happened.
"So, what do you make of Collinwood, Sam?"
Bill Malloy materialized beside the artist.
"It's everything I imagined it would be," Sam admitted. "You have my condolences."
"As it stands, this house might be the safest place for your daughter," Bill warned.
"I'm hoping after today we'll know how we're going to rectify that," Sam said dryly.
"Glad to have you on board," Bill said just as sardonic. "The bigwigs are ready to meet you now."
Sam raised his brows. "Really? So soon? It's only been two hours. Surely, you're mistaken'."
"No, they rushed just for you." Bill chuckled, even though Sam was clearly annoyed with him.
"Where?" Sam asked.
"Up top." Bill jutted his chin up toward the ceiling.
But Sam had a feeling that Bill wasn't gesturing toward the rafters.
Abandoned and alone at the Old House, Millicent floated down into the basement, her unearthly feet brushing through the cold, musky stairs. That lady doctor was still in the kitchen.
The wispy ghost ignored the cell and whoever was locked inside. He was not the prisoner she was looking for.
She came to the brick wall near the staircase, freezing directly in front of it.
She stared at it warily, reluctantly.
Before long, a gentle voice slid through the hard bricks.
"It has been so long since a wandering lamb last sought out guidance from this humble shepherd."
Next Chapter: The Gathering