Disclaimer: Dark Shadows is a Dan Curtis Production and not mine
CHAPTER 31: CHANCE ENCOUNTERS
"Mr. Fenn-Gibbon, correct?" Elizabeth regarded the bushy stranger.
"Yes, precisely." Fenn-Gibbon grinned delightedly.
"Dammit, Liz," Bill's gruff voice whispered in her ear.
Fenn-Gibbon let out an amused chuckle for no apparent reason, something that made Bill nervous.
Alarmed even. "Wait, can he hear me?"
Elizabeth, however, was undeterred. "I gather you're here to visit Collinwood?"
"Oh, yes, I'd like to present to you my evidence," Fenn-Gibbon said pleasantly.
"Evidence?"
"Of my friendship with Quentin Collins," Fenn-Gibbon reminded.
Elizabeth nodded. "Oh, yes. However, I'm afraid the Great House is presently indisposed. We're preparing for a Christmas party tomorrow night."
"Oh, that is quite all right," Fenn-Gibbon said, not a bit offended. "I came primarily to speak with you."
With a black-gloved hand, the peculiar old man politely handed her the yellow envelope he'd been clutching.
With her characteristically stoic expression, Elizabeth opened the envelop, pulling out an old photograph. So old it was practically an antique. It was a faded sepia colored picture of Fenn-Gibbon sitting at a table with a handsome young man with mutton chops. It looked as though the photo was taken around the turn of the century.
"A photograph of myself with the immortal Quentin Collins," Fenn-Gibbon proudly boasted. "It was taken at The Collinsport Inn in October of 1897."
Elizabeth examined Fenn-Gibbon's appearance in the old photo. Despite the quality of the image, his likeness was unmistakable.
"You haven't changed a bit," she remarked.
"No, no, it is simply because the image is so faded," said Fenn-Gibbon. "Were the image still pristine, you would be able to tell how dashing I was back then."
"I'll take your word for it," Elizabeth said stoically.
"You may keep it," Fenn-Gibbon allowed.
"Thank you," Elizabeth replied.
"I have another present for you," Fenn-Gibbon added. "But I am having it delivered."
"Oh," Elizabeth responded simply.
"I hope next time to visit Collinwood directly," said Fenn-Gibbon.
The slight longing in his voice hadn't gone unnoticed by the matriarch.
"Yes," she responded. "Good day, Mr. Fenn-Gibbon."
Fenn-Gibbon smiled broadly, flashing his large teeth. "Good day, Mrs. Stoddard."
The two went their separate ways, walking in opposite directions.
Elizabeth trailed back the way she came.
"You have a real talent for drawing in creeps. You know that, Liz?"
The matriarch formed a wry smirk. "At least I don't have to worry about where my enemies are. Most of them can't stand to be apart from me."
"You take this whole keeping-your-enemies-close strategy way too literal, Liz," Bill's voice griped.
"Being a cutthroat is the only strategy I know," said Elizabeth. "I want to know more about this Mr. Fenn-Gibbon."
Fenn-Gibbon enjoyed a leisurely stroll in the wintry forest. He was most pleased by his progress with the reclusive Mrs. Stoddard.
He was also intrigued with the army of ghosts buzzing around the grounds like insects.
The dead were apprehensive.
That brought Fenn-Gibbon much bemusement.
In the icy shed nearby, a dead monster hunter raised pointed brows.
"The smell of corruption and brimstone is trailing near," Trask announced. "I shall cleanse this impurity."
As he moved to stream through the frigid walls, Millicent roughly grabbed his shoulders from behind.
"You shan't!" she cried. "I do not know what that is, but it is not our witch!"
"I shan't leave the wicked to their foul works, young girl!" the sham reverend retorted. "I have not forgotten my Christian duty."
"Not with my family about!" Millicent argued. "I shall show you to the appropriate witch when my family are not so about."
"But the wicked's rank is so putrid," Trask petulantly protested, struggling against her grasp.
"Assist me and my family and I will give you all of eternity to smite the sinful," Millicent promised. "For now, we must hide."
Trask slipped out an irritated growl but stopped struggling all the same.
Floating near the frozen wall, absently swaying the tools back and forth on their hooks, Nathan let out an amused chuckle. "I must say, dear Millicent, you indeed have a wild one to tame."
Millicent snatched Nathan's wrist tightly, glaring. "Releasing him was entirely your suggestion, Nathan Forbes! With that, you shall help me tame him!"
Nathan was both impressed and surprised by how strong Millicent's grip was on his wrist.
The opposite of that frail girl she was in life.
Prof. Stokes stood in a wood paneled storage room on the second floor of Collinwood. Victoria Winters had directed him to the underused space, displaying something of great interest.
Her fiancé Burke Devlin had also joined them.
The couple showed the professor the portrait of Desmond and Leticia Collins.
"The lovely couple who spoke to us in our séance," Prof. Stokes said pleased, marveling at the portrait.
"That's how the frame's labeled anyway," Burke grumbled.
He wryly thought that no one but this professor would find a cryptic ghost couple to be lovely.
"Finding this was quite the coup, Miss Winters," Prof. Stokes said excitedly. "This should help our research tremendously."
"Yes, but there is something else you ought to know," Vicki said wearily. "Burke and I were in the West Wing this morning."
"Yeah, looking for these two," Burke added, gesturing toward the offending portrait.
"Another shadow attack?" Prof. Stokes guessed.
"No," Vicki said reassuringly. "It was just ghosts."
"Yeah, it was a lovely morning," Burke explained. "They played some old saloon music. We danced a little bit and got to know one another." His tone darkened as he continued. "Of course, they spoiled it a little when they wrenched me around the room and scared the wits out of my fiancée."
"One of the old portraits turned ghastly." Vicki shuddered. "Gabriel Collins' face decomposed, and his skeletal hand threatened me with what turned out to be a gag gun."
"Fascinating," Prof. Stokes responded. "Was this 'saloon' music the same as you remember from the past?"
"No! Way less classy," Burke remarked. "What we heard in the past was composed and mournful. This music just wanted to trample us with its whimsy."
"I think we should keep out of the West Wing for a while," said Vicki. "We should concentrate on research for now, then figure out what to do with the West Wing."
"That is possibly the most sensible option," Prof. Stokes conceded, though there was a note of regret in his voice.
Burke folded his arms. "The ghosts have all but declared war. I want to have a plan before we go back in there."
Prof. Stokes nodded in understanding. "Your caution is admirable, Mr. Devlin."
Burke nodded back, a little relived the professor hadn't protested.
"Perhaps you and Miss Winters could escort me to the study now?" Prof. Stokes requested.
"Certainly, professor."
The three filed out of the spare room.
Before they could make it to the stairs, a voice echoed down the corridor.
"Prof. Stokes?"
The three froze, looking over their shoulders.
Unfortunately for the professor, it was not a ghost calling out to him. It was just an anxious looking Carolyn.
"May I speak with you alone?"
Prof. Stokes read her face. He could already tell what this was about.
Young Haskell.
"Certainly, Miss Stoddard."
He shifted his attention to the engaged couple. "I will meet you downstairs. I should only be a moment or so."
"All right, professor," Vicki replied, sliding a confused glance at Carolyn as she left.
Joe blissfully slept on Carolyn's bed, feeling warm and comfortable.
He was dreaming – or at least he thought he was.
He found himself facing the portrait of his mistress. Only, it was not hidden away beneath the stairs in the Old House. It was hung prominently in a large room, seemingly comprised entirely of white curtains.
The gilded frame and vivid colors of the painting stood out painfully amidst the featureless ripples of fabric.
"It's her again," Joe murmured to himself.
He looked at the portrait more closely. It was ravaged by time. As though it were so old, the paint had dried out completely, cracking and fading over the course of centuries. He couldn't even make out her features.
"It might have been beautiful in its heyday." A voice snuck up on Joe. Spinning around, he found Sam Evans by his side.
"B-Beautiful?" Joe stammered. "But her face is gone."
"It's impossible to know what it looked like originally." Sam studied the faded portrait, tapping the aged smudge where her face should be. Flakes of dry paint fell from the canvas, destroying whatever may have still been visible.
"Her face!" Joe almost shrieked.
"Long gone," Sam nonchalantly replied.
"We have to try and fix this, Mr. Evans," Joe pleaded. "She needs a face."
"Can't fix what isn't there," said Sam. "How do you think she should look?"
Sam suddenly grabbed Joe's right arm, violently thrusting it at the portrait, which further crumbled at the hard impact.
Panicked terror flashed through Joe's soul. Just as quickly, warm energy rose up to meet it, coursing through Joe's extended arm, illuminating the portrait in blinding light.
"Can we make the portrait better?" Joe wondered.
"Joe," a distant voice reached him. "Joe, it's time to wake up."
With a sharp gasp, Joe's eyes flew open, finding himself in Carolyn's bed. Carolyn herself stood beside him, looking down on him with a worried frown. She was the one calling his name.
"Hello, Mr. Haskell," a cultured, yet raspy voice, intruded on the intimate moment. Standing at the foot board, Prof. Stokes towered over the bed. "Welcome back."
Joe yawned sleepily.
"Have a nice nap?" Carolyn asked Joe.
"Uh," Joe groaned, running a hand through his sleep tousled hair.
He took in a few painful breaths. His lungs were burning. It felt like he'd run laps in his sleep. But his ribs didn't ache nearly as bad as they had. The wand still felt a little off, though.
Whatever Sam Evans and that crumbling portrait had been doing in his dreams certainly hadn't been restful.
To his further confusion, Prof. Stokes was looking at him with the same excitement he usually reserved for dead people.
"Incredible, truly incredible."
Joe was more than a little uncomfortable being the center of the large man's excitement.
"What?"
"I have misjudged your capabilities, young man," Prof. Stokes exclaimed ecstatically.
"Huh – " Joe said groggily.
Carolyn looked at Prof. Stokes equally as dumbfounded. "Professor, what are you – "
"How did you astral-project?" Prof. Stokes questioned Joe.
The younger man was still flummoxed. "Sorry?"
"How did you separate your soul from your body?" Prof. Stokes hastily rephrased, apparently frustrated with Joe reticence to explain himself.
Carolyn understood enough to be alarmed. "What!" She tenderly thread her fingers through Joe's hair. "Joe, are you alright?"
"It's fine, Carolyn." Joe still sounded groggy.
He looked up at Prof. Stokes. "What are you talking about, professor? My soul is right here."
"Yes, yes, but not exclusively," said Prof Stokes. "It's a phenomenon I have witnessed before. You looked as though you were almost dead. Your breathing was both slow and shallow. When we found you, you were laying absolutely motionless. Even the typical telltale eye movements, plainly visible beneath your eyelids, were absent. However, after some effort on Miss Stoddard's part, you woke up rather dramatically."
Joe glanced up at Carolyn for confirmation. The heiress merely nodded.
"What did I do?" Joe asked.
"I thought you were sick," Carolyn murmured.
"You began speaking incoherently," Prof. Stokes chimed in. "Something about a face, I believe. And of course, there was the sweating and panting to be taken into consideration."
"It looked like you were having a heart attack," said Carolyn.
"Naturally, I have experimented with astral-projection myself," Prof. Stokes continued. "So, I reassured her that your soul was merely returning to its rightful place."
This concept really spooked Carolyn. "Look, professor, I don't really care about any of this. Is Joe okay or not?"
"I just need to catch my breath," Joe insisted.
"Seriously," the professor pressed, ignoring Carolyn. "How do you do it?"
"I-I don't know," Joe said breathlessly.
"Is this because of her magic?" Carolyn fretted.
"There's nothing to worry about," Joe tried to reassure her.
Prof. Stokes eyed Joe closely.
"As far as I know, a witch can't force anyone to astral-project, Miss Stoddard," stated the professor. "Even your family's time shadows abduct both the body and the soul. The only conventional way to force a soul out of a living body is murder. Safely untethering one's soul from its vessel requires an act of will and a fair bit of power. It is not something even a witch would take lightly."
He looked down at Joe more levelly. "What are you hiding up your right coat sleeve?"
Joe's eyes bulged. "I'm – I'm not hid – "
"I can see a pointed little lump poking out from inside your sleeve," Prof. Stokes cut him off. "Is what you are hiding serving as your focus?"
"Professor," Joe stammered helplessly.
"What are you hiding from us, Joe?" Carolyn asked.
With a defeated sigh, Joe pulled the wand from his sleeve.
"Is that the stick you had at the beach this morning?" Carolyn was flabbergasted.
"Oh, I see." Prof. Stokes eyed Joe's item. "This is no mere stick, Miss Stoddard. This is a wand."
"Wand?" Carolyn frowned. "It's just a stick, professor."
"It's a fallen limb from an apple tree," said Prof. Stokes. "Have you shown this to your mistress?"
"She doesn't like it," Joe said gloomily.
"I imagine she wouldn't," Prof. Stokes said thoughtfully. "Apple wood tends to be especially virtuous. This limb in particular has been blessed to serve as a wand. A minor repellent to our witch. But tell me, Joe, how did you connect with it?"
"I don't know," Joe struggled to explain. "It just somehow called to me."
He darted his eyes up to the mystified Carolyn. "I'm sorry, I just don't know how else to explain it."
"What have you been doing with this wand, Mr. Haskell?" Prof. Stokes inquired.
Joe examined the wand in his hand, feeling it under his palm. "I've been using it to go to her portrait."
"Her portrait?" Carolyn queried.
"Barnabas Collins hides it under the stairs at the Old House," said Joe. "I tried to steal it for her. But I can't move anything when I'm like that. She's desperate to get it back."
"This portrait is very important to her?" Prof. Stokes asked.
"I-I guess," Joe stammered.
Of all things, the professor was beaming.
"Why do you look so happy?" Carolyn asked.
"I believe Mr. Haskell may have come upon an ideal strategy for declawing a fearsome witch."
"What makes you say that?" Joe asked.
"You have unrestricted astral access to her portrait," said Prof. Stokes. "This portrait may be a totem to extend her life or enhance her powers. The witch could be far older than we hoped. There are documented cases of individual witches surviving for centuries. To sustain themselves over such long spans of time, they need something like this portrait of hers. I'm willing to bet that is why she is so determined to get it back. If we can manage to destroy the portrait, we may very well destroy her, too."
That's the opposite of what I'm going for, Joe thought. I've been trying to help her.
"Tell me, Mr. Haskell," Prof. Stokes said curiously. "Have you noticed any changes in the witch since you began going to her portrait?"
"I-I don't know," Joe replied hastily. "I can't really question her."
"When next you meet, please note if there are any changes in her," Prof. Stokes advised. "No matter how subtle."
"I'll try," said Joe.
"In the meantime, I think we should freshen our makeshift enchantment," said Prof. Stokes. "And I advise you to continue practicing with that wand."
"Professor," cut in Carolyn. "If Joe is using a wand, doesn't that make him a good witch like Samantha?"
"I suppose," Prof. Stokes replied noncommittally, missing the reference.
"But I stole it from your classroom," Joe pointed out. "Doesn't that bother you?"
"On the contrary," the professor said brightly. "The apple tree could accuse me of stealing it as well. What is relevant is that you connected with the magic in this object. Spreading magic, and the understanding thereof isn't in my job description exactly. But it is one of my greatest passions."
Joe only nodded, but he was actually relieved. "Thank you, professor."
"I always intended for my collection to tempt the imagination of my students," Prof. Stokes added. "But until now, no one had the initiative to help themselves."
Hiking through the woods, Nicholas returned from the village. Tedious as it was, the locals were easily coerced into sharing the banal prattle that passed for gossip in their boring little village. Of course, today all anyone could talk about was Maggie Evans' father.
It certainly explained why she terminated their romantic interlude prematurely.
Nicholas brooded; he just knew this would complicate his plans regarding the wholesome, but alluring Maggie.
Of course, the fat drunk that sired her had to go and die. Nicholas was certainly capable of killing his lover's parents. But it was wildly inconsiderate for that scruffy bearded barfly to go off and die of his own accord.
Now, that scurvy laden ferret posing as her boyfriend was likely "comforting" the poor girl, while Nicholas was stuck spinning his wheels.
He couldn't help but to heave at the thought.
Trudging back to the house by the sea, Nicholas stepped inside, finding his not-so-dear-sister moping by the fire in the parlor, staring blankly at the dancing red flames.
"Useless," Nicholas sneered under his breath.
Here was another annoyance. He had grown tired of this dull sight. She had become such a disappointment since he'd sprung her out of the netherworld. He wouldn't expect one of their kind to serve as a loyal and happy subordinate. But now, she lacked even the motivation to betray him.
She was rapidly becoming a liability.
"Is this how you plan to make Barnabas Collins fall to his knees? Moping by the fire all day like a mangy dog?"
Cassandra glanced across the room.
"Nicholas."
He strode into the parlor. "You have done nothing but gaze into that fire day in and day out. If you weren't immortal, you'd have gone blind by now. Don't think The Master has failed to notice."
His eyes locked with hers as he finished his veiled threat, making her flinch a little. In truth, The Master was not in contact with Nicholas or Cassandra. Neither witch knew their master's will at the moment.
"The Master has said nothing to me," Cassandra defended. "You know as well as I that these plans take time."
"The Master is tired of your excuses, and I'm inclined to agree with him," Nicholas said scathingly.
One of the benefits of serving a Prince of Darkness was that he seldom cared if you lied or deceived, even about Diabolos himself.
"My vengeance will manifest," Cassandra promised. "Collinwood will be mine. My slave is perfectly placed. I need only wait for the right moment."
"You'd better hope your little fisher boy reels in a big one, my dear," Nicholas warned. "Otherwise, it's back to the netherworld for you."
Cassandra looked horrified. "The netherworld?"
"That is where I found you, wasn't it?" Nicholas gloated.
"That's not up to you to decide," Cassandra tried to assert herself.
"The Master has informed me that if you are not the mistress of that cursed pile of plaster and paneling posing as a castle, he will have no further use for you. You'll be dragged right back into the netherworld."
Nicholas felt nothing but giddy delight at her mortified expression.
"He expects to hear word of your victory by midnight tomorrow, my dear. After your sham husband's shindig, I believe. And you, as of yet, haven't even dealt with the dead French debutante barring you from the premises.
"My dear, you are in quite a pickle."
Cassandra stared at Nicholas, her wide blue eyes carrying a mixture of anger and fear.
Shooting up to her feet, she briskly passed by the gloating warlock without saying a word.
She grabbed her bright red winter coat in the foyer and went out the front door.
Nicholas laughed uproariously as he watched her leave.
Surely, this would finally stop her from being dull.
Barnabas, sporting his black cloak-like coat, used his cane to beat aside some of the snow in his path.
He journeyed through the woods with his supposed ally Gerard Stiles.
The arcane ghoul in question was hardly dressed for winter. He was traipsing around in his usual, some-what form fitting, nineteenth-century suit.
However, Gerard seemed unaffected by the cold.
Barnabas knew well the benefits of being undead. He remembered being impervious to Maine's infamous weather.
Since Julia returned his humanity, many such benefits were now lost to him.
Nevertheless, Barnabas was used to the harsh cold.
With his cane in hand, Barnabas whacked his way through the snow.
The ghoul behind him made Barnabas apprehensive. Something about the creature just felt off.
But the former vampire supposed that summoning the damned from hell was never going to be the best way to find good help. The least their specimen deserved was a chance to learn about the enemy.
But still, uncertainty plagued him.
Though he hadn't noticed at first, thick fog was billowing through the gray frosted trees.
Swiveling his head back and forth dramatically, the ghoul made a show of appearing dismayed and confused. "It's a bit foggy, isn't it?"
"I suppose," Barnabas answered.
As they continued forward, the thick fog completely shrouded the two men. It was so dense; Barnabas was starting to lose his path. He couldn't see Stiles, or even hear him.
But Barnabas knew these grounds well. He could navigate this forest blindfolded if it came to that.
Thankfully, the fog was thinning out a little.
He spotted the vague outline of a human figure. Barnabas assumed his ghoul had gotten ahead of him.
As Barnabas drew closer to the shadowy outline, the fog all but dissipated completely.
Up close, he could tell the figure was draped in a red hood and stood a good bit shorter than he initially guessed.
It wasn't the ghoulish warlock.
It was her.
Barnabas was face-to-face with Angelique – or Cassandra – or whatever she was calling herself.
She still had that unflattering short brown hair. (Much of which was covered by the hood.)
The witch looked just as shocked to see him.
"Barnabas."
"What are you doing lurking about?" Barnabas tried to sound dismissive to cover his panic.
"I don't have to justify myself to you," Angelique defended.
"Actually, you do," Barnabas said sternly. "I am no longer under your curse. You are a mere vagrant on my family's estate."
"My curse is eternal," Angelique breathed.
Barnabas noted that her statement lacked its usual venom. There was also something strange about her. Her features almost seemed gentle. Vulnerable, even. It brought to mind the girl he met all those years ago.
"Angelique, are you... unwell?"
She turned away from him.
After an uncomfortable silence, the witch spoke. "When I saw you up at Collinwood, as Roger's wife, it was special."
Barnabas was dumbfounded. "What...?"
She turned back around to look squarely at him, her blue eyes gleaming. "It was special, Barnabas. After all these centuries, we fatefully crossed paths here. While still walking this earth."
"We were both abominations," Barnabas said evenly.
"Why should that matter? Few people have ever experienced such a special moment," Angelique insisted. "Rather they be lovers or enemies – or both."
"Angelique – "
"Curse or no curse, we will always be drawn back together, Barnabas," Angelique said eerily. "It was fated from the moment we met on that beach in Martinique."
"Angelique," Barnabas sounded unnerved, even to himself.
"My curse will find you again," the witch said serenely. "Our passion, our hatred and our bond will always live on."
As she spoke, Angelique bowed her head almost as if in prayer. Thick plumes of gray fog began swirling around her, like a vortex in slow motion.
"Our curse will live on forever."
"Angelique!"
The fog swallowed her. Barnabas lunged for her but grasped nothing but air.
When the fog cleared, Angelique had vanished.
"ANGELIQUE!" Barnabas bellowed. "I'LL BE DAMNED IF I LET YOU CURSE ME AND MY FAMILY AGAIN!"
"There is something different about her, Barnabas." A demur woman's voice spoke through the now fogless forest.
Barnabas looked around. He was seemingly alone.
But he had heard someone.
More specifically, he smelt a lovely fragrance.
Jasmine.
Rather than churning gray fog, a delicate white mist signaled the arrival of the ravishing spirit of Josette.
"Josette," Barnabas breathed reverently. "You haven't shown yourself to me in quite some time. I've smelled your scent. And you whispered to me when Vicki informed me of her elevated status as a Collins. But I haven't really seen you."
"When you are the ghostly matriarch of the Collins estate, you tend to keep busy," Josette said lightly.
"Oh, of course," Barnabas responded.
He raised his dark eyes to the gray sky. "The ghosts have been preoccupied lately; I suppose."
"The matter of Angelique." Josette patiently veered away from time shadows or anything to do with the main house. "Did she seem different to you, Barnabas?"
"She always has," Barnabas snipped. "She might have seemed more desperate."
"I agree," said Josette. "Moreover, I think someone made her like this."
Barnabas raised an arched eyebrow. "Are you saying she is under someone else's power?"
"She may come to believe so," Josette replied. "But I do not believe it is quite so straightforward."
"I wonder who torments her now," Barnabas pondered. "Is this individual friend or foe?"
"Barnabas," Josette said gently. "Your acquaintance from the netherworld has an eccentric definition of the word 'following.' He is wandering off at some speed."
Anger and embarrassment coursed through Barnabas.
"What!? I didn't realize. He was right behind me."
"I shall help you retrieve him," Josette offered sweetly.
Through the dense fog, Judah stalked the woods. He wasn't wandering aimlessly. He was trailing down an old familiar path.
"I know you only conjured up this fog to sneak away from that dark man," Gerard's voice haunted. "With a body as attractive as mine, you couldn't want to hide yourself for any other reason."
"Curious, isn't it," Judah retorted. "How that woman had as little affection for your handsome face as she did my own."
"You're looking for Daphne. Do you think you can possibly find her in these woods?"
"I am not looking for her," Judah retorted.
"I hope not," Gerard's voice said candidly. "Your excuse for even coming out here was painfully thin."
"I caught a glimpse of Miranda," Judah said smugly. "She seemed even more pathetic than I expected. However, now is not the time to reunite with my wayward pupil. I intend to wait until that viper posing as a doctor fails miserably at murdering her. Then, once Miranda is weakened, and Hoffman is dispirited, I will kill them both. Or perhaps I'll kill Miranda in front of that red-headed crone. Just to show her how it's done before I inject acid into her veins."
"Careful not to get a big head. It's already fallen off once," Gerard quipped.
"I recognize this path." Judah wasn't even bothering to respond anymore. "Are we going to Rose Cottage?"
Judah had more important things to do than trade jests with the preening fool he was possessing. If Daphne was anywhere on these cursed grounds, it would be Rose Cottage.
"Perhaps," was all the ghoul would say.
As Judah confidently journeyed down the obscured path, he spotted a structural silhouette through the trees.
Curtains of dense fog billowed past as he walked. Finally, he came upon the neglected exterior of Rose Cottage.
A once handsome mansion that had since fallen into disrepair. It now appeared dilapidated. Thin shoots of withered gray ivy were tangled all over the walls of the forgotten house. His fog effectively accentuated the mansion's natural dreariness.
"Are you thinking of buying me a house?" Gerard's voice asked wryly. "It's only fitting since you rudely barged into my old place."
Judah tuned him out.
He trained his attention – his senses – on the property. Hoping deeply to find any trace of Daphne. To catch a glimpse of her, a whiff of her perfume.
His cold heart leapt when he caught sight of a spirit just outside the house.
Through the billowing fog, Judah found, to his disappointment, that the figure was not Daphne.
But he recognized the individual.
It was a man with puffy blond hair and sideburns, in a green nineteenth-century suit.
"Desmond Collins," Judah whispered in disdain.
Another man joined Desmond. They both appeared to be on watch. Or perhaps they were testing the limits of the curse eternally plaguing these grounds. As the man turned and came into view, both Judah and Gerard felt a sharp spike of anguish, but for very different reasons.
The dark-haired man trained his piercing gaze through the fog, looking directly into Judah's stolen eyes.
"No, Quentin," Judah whispered.
The fog thickened again, rushing to protect its master.
Obscuring Rose Cottage once more.
"My old friend." Gerard forced the lament from Judah's throat. "It has been far too long."
Judah fought back fiercely, regaining control of the stolen body. "Presumptuous half-wit."
Judah felt a painful whack on his shoulder.
"An apt description, Stiles."
Judah winced, turning to face his assailant.
With his cane in hand, Barnabas Collins regarded the warlock narrowly.
Judah immediately tried to save face.
"Oh, there you are," he said with a nervous laugh. "We must have gotten separated in the fog."
"Where have you been?" Barnabas demanded.
"I honestly do not know," Judah said innocently. "I was looking for you."
"We must return to the Old House," Barnabas said sternly.
"Very well," said Judah. "I believe I may have seen the house by the sea you referenced. That's the witch's refuge?"
"We are nowhere in sight of that house," Barnabas said firmly. "Or the sea for that matter."
Barnabas roughly took Judah by the arm. "Let's be on our way."
"I also caught a glimpse of a woman wearing a red hood," Judah added, as Barnabas dragged him the opposite direction. "Is that your wicked woman?"
"That is her," Barnabas growled, tightening his grip.
"She looked lovely," Judah remarked, unruffled by the harsh treatment.
"Let's just get back," Barnabas said stiffly.
"Of course," Judah agreed.
As the two men carefully maneuvered through the fog, Josette's voice sweetly whispered in her old lover's ear. "Your new acquaintance is no ally, Barnabas. Do not trust him."
As the afternoon wore on, the winter skies began to darken, complementing Collinwood's gothic architecture.
Prof. Stokes sat at his favorite desk in the study, the same exquisite piece of furniture he'd rhapsodize with Mrs. Stoddard about. He was cross-referencing several historical tomes about the Collins family from their personal library.
It felt quite marvelous for the professor. Here he was perusing obscure historical records belonging exclusively to the Collins family. He was even reading them in their ancestral haunted house. It was a dream come true.
With his monocle firmly lodged in front of his right eye, Prof. Stokes read whatever he could find about the late nineteenth-century Collinses.
Miss Winters sat on an armchair by the fire, skimming through a stack of faded birth certificates. She glanced up at the professor. "There are no records of Quentin and Jenny having any children, at least officially. Did you find anything?"
"The Collins Family of the 19th Century recorded rather tersely that our Quentin moved to Paris toward the end of 1897," Prof. Stokes said, his eyes glued to the page.
"Yes, I read that, too," said Vicki.
"But subsequent records do not document his further activities," said the professor.
"You think that's suspicious?" Vicki asked.
"If his ghost is haunting Collinwood, he most likely returned at some point before his death. Bear in mind that in ninety percent of hauntings, the subject in question died at the scene. It seems far more likely that Quentin's living relatives lied about his fate, rather than Quentin's ghost behaving statistically abnormal. So – "
"So –" Vicki verbally followed.
"– So, the passage about Quentin Collins moving to Paris is likely pure bunk," Prof. Stokes said bluntly. "There is something these documents and records are not telling us."
Vicki swallowed, looking away slightly.
She looked squarely back at him. "I think you are right, professor."
"Is that so?"
"Yes," Vicki explained. "You see, when I consulted the books to learn about Quentin's wife Jenny, I found nothing on her. But during our time in the past, Burke and I watched Quentin introduce her as his wife."
Prof. Stokes nodded.
"So, it's proven that certain persons and events were withheld from these books," he surmised.
"It seems so," Vicki agreed.
"Fascinating," Prof. Stokes said bemused.
As the caterers hurried in and out of the foyer, Elizabeth retreated to the drawing room. She was reduced to this solitary sanctuary after giving over the study to Prof. Stokes and Vicki.
She'd left the doors open so Maggie and Willie could check up on her, which they currently were.
"Do you need anything, Mrs. Stoddard?" Maggie asked politely.
"No, Maggie," Elizabeth replied.
"I'm takin' a break from all the caterin'," Willie drawled. "If ya want somethin' done, I'm your guy."
"Can you throw out the caterers?" Elizabeth asked wryly.
A little bit of the rabble rouser he once was showed in his smile. "If that's an order, Mrs. Stoddard, ya bet I can."
Maggie faintly grinned at his quip. Even Elizabeth cracked something resembling a smile.
Before she could verbally respond to Willie, a sturdy knock came from the front doors, forcing a hesitant sigh from the matriarch. Even more people? Did Roger hire an actual circus?
"I'll get it, Mrs. Stoddard." Willie promptly crossed to the doors.
Elizabeth and Maggie looked on from the drawing room's entrance.
Willie frowned when he found no one outside.
Glancing down, he noticed a large squared-shape package had been left on the front doorstep.
Willie picked it up and carried it inside, shutting the doors with his hip. Examining the package, he found it had no address, it was simply labeled Mrs. Stoddard.
He sauntered back to the drawing room. "Ya got a package, Mrs. Stoddard."
Elizabeth approached Willie, looking over the package. It was a plain cardboard box about three feet wide, but not very thick.
"Do ya need help openin' it?" Willie offered.
"I'll get a letter opener." Elizabeth crossed to the polished desk and retrieved an elegant gold-handled blade from the drawer.
She returned to Willie and sliced the tape sealing the package. She handed the letter opener to Maggie, who was also curious about the mysterious package.
Elizabeth neatly opened the box, finding the back of a gilded frame.
Turning it over revealed a portrait of a tall nineteenth-century gentleman. Lean and handsome with mutton chops and distinctive blue eyes.
This must be the package Mr. Fenn-Gibbon told me to expect, Elizabeth thought.
Willie and Maggie gaped at the portrait as the color drained from their faces.
"Is there something wrong?" Elizabeth asked.
"This is Quentin Collins," Maggie explained. "The man me and Willie saw in our shadow attack."
Maggie paused before she continued. "This was Pop's last painting."
Next Chapter: Quentin's Outreach