Chapter 4

He pulled his flashlight from his coat pocket and placed his fingers over the beam again to dim the light. The first room he walked into was the kitchen. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Pots and pans covered the old walls, and recently-washed dishes were left on the drainer to dry. Despite the condition of the shack itself, it was arranged quite nicely. The table was clean and the floors well-kept.

The wallpaper was thin and of an unattractive pattern, but it was laid evenly and flawlessly. If this was where the girl lived, she took care of what little she had and made it look nice. The interior was nothing like one would expect from looking at the outside. The small shack had only three rooms: the kitchen, the bath, and the bedroom. As small as the shack was, it did feel cozy inside and smelled very pleasant.

He walked toward the bedroom and shined the beam around both sides of the mattress on the night stands. He saw different papers and a newspaper called the Collinsport Star dated January 1, 1947. A large circle of ink encased the title of an article: "Retired Servant of Collinwood Found Dead"

His eyes strained to focus on the article and skim over the contents. According to the paper, a former servant of the great house of Collinwood, Benjamin Hanscombe, was found dead in a ditch by the roadside. While no members of the Collins family could be reached for comment, matriarch Elizabeth Collins-Stoddard issued a statement of public sympathy for the man and appreciation for his many years of loyal service. While Constable Jonas Carter has been unable to confirm or deny these allegations, groundskeeper Matthew Morgan told reporters that he watched Hanscombe leaving the Blue Whale after dark, and that he was unsteady from excessive consumption. His injuries showed signs of massive blunt trauma, and the constable has ruled that it was most likely a vicious attack by a wild animal. Furthermore, the constable stated that Hanscombe "probably never saw what hit him."

After setting the paper down, he looked around the room. Instinct told him to check all dresser drawers and look for some kind of clue. Whether this was caused by the vial of Benzodiazepine or something else, he felt his heart racing again. Stopping to clutch his chest, a twinge of pain started burning there all the way into the fingertips of both hands. His vision began to blur again, and focusing was becoming more and more difficult by the minute. He held tightly to the top of one of the dressers, and, as soon as he let go, collapsed against the wall next to an old wooden sitting chair and slid down to the floor.

Using the chair to lift himself slowly back to his feet, he looked back and noticed something peculiar just behind the dresser. There was an 8x10 photo frame that seemed to be protruding slightly from the wall. He slid the portrait open gently and found a hollow space about eight inches deep and six inches high. Inside was a small book bound with a rubber band-like seal. The black bindings were worn as if the book had been treated quite roughly. After sliding the band back, the pages flipped open. Knowing he was on borrowed time, he wondered where he should start first.

As he skimmed through the pages of the diary, he shined the flashlight on the pages in front of him. Inside, he read through the writer's personal thoughts. At first it seemed like typical "diary banter," but he noticed something recurring throughout the pages he was flipping through. There were several mentions about a man at Collinwood who kept coming to her room secretly.

December 17, 1945

I've lived in this house with my mother and father my whole life, secluded from any other friends or any places outside these walls. We stay in the house as part of our position in the family, but it's been boring and lonely. I've read so many stories of other girls going to school and having friends. I am thankful for the education my mother gave to me before she died, but I know that my life will, at best, follow theirs and be the life of a servant. He promised me more. He told me that he understood how lonely I was, and that he felt lonely, too. It all seems so strange to me. I was only fifteen when he and the mistress of the house were married, but something about him always fascinated me. I always pictured falling for a reckless scoundrel like him. He is so impetuous and charming. How could someone like Mr. Stoddard be lonely? He is married to a beautiful woman, a RICH beautiful woman, with a mansion and an entire town beneath her feet. Maybe that's why. Maybe he feels like he's in her shadow. Maybe like the same way I feel that I've lived in a dark shadow beneath my parents' place in life. Is there a chance that I can be happy? Is there life for me beyond these walls as a servant or maid? I'm a fool. Of course not.

He pinched a section of pages and skipped ahead.

January 30, 1946

Mrs. Stoddard was at the cannery all day again, and he promised to take me riding again. We went to the stables after he told my father that he was taking me to show me how to properly tend to them. We went on a ride across the estate and Widows Hill. I haven't been this far out in my entire life. It was a beautiful day. He told me of all kinds of wild stories and dangerous situations that he and his closest friend, Jason, used to be a part and often the cause of. How I longed to live their lives and be right in the middle of where the action was. We spent the morning riding across the estate, and he told me had a surprise for me. When we returned, an artist named Sam Evans was waiting for me. Paul had commissioned him to make a sketch of me. He had picked out a dress for me to wear while I posed.

Knowing that time was not on his side tonight and that every odd was stacked against him, he flipped ahead toward the middle of the journal to see if anything he could find any clues. He stopped in the middle of another entry.

March 22, 1946

I didn't mean to make him angry. He had to know. I haven't even told Father. I begged Paul to help me. If Mrs. Stoddard finds out, my father will have to leave. All he and my mother ever knew was life inside this house, and for them, it's been good. The Collins family were so kind to him when Mama passed away. I've been so selfish! I just wanted to be happy! He told me he loved me and that I was beautiful. He said he would let me live in the house overlooking the sea, and that he would come to see me and bring me flowers and nice things. He told me I would never be lonely again. Now I have someone growing inside of me, and I've never felt more alone.

His fingers ruffled through more pages, passing over the halfway mark and stopping at a page that was folded over.

July 3, 1946

I'm so sorry, Father. I have brought so much misery and embarrassment to you and ruined your life. I can't take back what I've done. I don't deserve you giving up your position before Mrs. Stoddard could find out the truth. I never should have believed that he really loved me. My foolishness has destroyed us both, and it's all my fault. I won't burden you with the responsibility of taking care of my baby, and I won't even ask you to ever forgive me. I don't deserve it and I never will. I promise to take good care of wherever we live and do everything I can to make your life as happy as I can. My own happiness doesn't matter anymore. I made a bad choice, and now I have to suffer the consequences. I'm done feeling sorry for myself. I have to make this right and protect my child, even if it means that she never knows her father.

There was a five-month gap between this and the next entry. He examined closely and no pages were missing.

December 2, 1946

After five months of burying my thoughts, I feel like I have to let them out here. My baby girl, Victoria, is my only happiness. She's such a good baby. She's so quiet and nothing ever seems to scare her. I knitted her another romper today, but she's growing so fast after only one month! I want her to have a normal life, but I'm too scared to take her out into the world right now. I got a letter from her father today. The first one in two months. He dared me to take her out into town, and he threatened that if I did, he would hurt my father and me even worse than we have suffered since leaving Collinwood. I don't know what to do. My life doesn't matter anymore, but I can't stand thinking of Father spending his last years as a prisoner to protect me. I don't want my baby to live like this. I'm doing all I can to make our lives happy and normal, but on every happy moment walks Paul Stoddard. I don't care about what happens to me. I don't care at all to tell Mrs. Stoddard what a lying pig her husband is, but, if I did that, my father and my baby would suffer the most. My Victoria would grow up as 'that illegitimate baby that Paul Stoddard had with that servant's daughter out of wedlock.' In a small town like this, she could never be more than that. No matter how smart she'll be in school or how beautiful she will grow up to be, she'll never be rid of that shame. She deserves so much more than that.

December 27, 1946

"It's not fair. It's so unfair! Just when I thought I couldn't hate myself even more, now I have to give up my only reason for living. Things have gotten out of my hands. I was foolish to think I could ever beat the mighty Collins family. He came by in a drunken rage on Christmas Eve and struck me as soon as he saw me. He told me to take Victoria and leave Collinsport immediately and never return. No doubt, Mrs. Stoddard is beginning to suspect that he has been unfaithful, and he wants to cover up all trails that lead to my Victoria. He told me I had to give her up, and that she would have no one alive to raise her if I didn't. I broke my silence and told my father. He's going to meet Paul at the Blue Whale tonight. Father agreed that I should take Victoria somewhere far from here that's safe. We argued all afternoon about it, but I have to protect her until this is all settled. Father told me of a foundling home in New York that was highly praised by guests that would frequent parties and events hosted at Collinwood, and the guests often made donations there on a regular basis. It's only temporary until this is settled. Maybe in just a few months, if that long, I can get her back, and she won't have to know what happened. Father told me that I can't say anything about who I am because it could lead back to Mrs. Stoddard, which would let Paul know where my baby is. Father suggested writing a nameless letter to keep her identity secret. How can I do this? What do I write? How cold-hearted is it to just write something as empty as:

"Her name is Victoria. I cannot take care of her."

What have I become? I've caused so much pain, and now my baby girl is paying for it. When will this all end? When will I wake up from this nightmare? I just want my father and Victoria to live happily and untouched by what I've done. Father left an hour ago, and my train leaves in thirty minutes. I can't do this. I have to, but I just can't.

He shook his head as the loud droning began to reverberate sharply in his head as vibrations of pain pulsed through his temples. Falling back against the wall, he loosened his collar as he struggled to catch his breath. Sweat poured down his forehead and blurred his vision. The words on the last page blurred in and out of focus as pain began to flare underneath his ribs and circulate throughout his body.

February 3, 1947

It's all over! I've won! I have evidence that Paul had Father murdered and covered it up! Mrs. Collins hired someone to follow him, and he's got nothing left but to tell her the truth! Now with my evidence of Father's murder and my baby safely far away from here, he's got nothing to hold over me! He tried to buy me off for $500 to leave town, but I knocked him to the ground! During our struggle, a notepad fell out of his pocket and he left before he knew it was gone. Everything I need is on it! He just called me here and I told him I had it! I'm on my way to Collinwood to expose this scum to Mrs. Stoddard. No threat from Paul Stoddard's mouth will stop me now.

To whomever may be reading this, if I didn't hand this to you in person, it probably means that something happened to me. You have to take this to Mrs. Stoddard and tell her everything for me. Please, Victoria, your Mama loves you and did the only thing she could do to keep you safe. I hope one day that you'll understand that having you in my life has been the happiest time for me, and I hope you know that I love you more than anyone in the world. Father and Mother, you always taught me to be humble and obedient all my life, but I just want you to know that your little girl, Betty Hanscombe, died a fighter.

His trembling hands opened his coat and tucked the journal inside his inner pocket. He stumbled across the floor, and the rooms swirled and spun as he passed through them. His legs shook as they struggled to support his weight. He made it to the front porch step, but he fell hard on the concrete below. Stunned from the impact, he was unable to get up. Stiles, looking over at his patron lying on the ground, jumped out of his cab and ran to him.

Holding him up and supporting him with one of his shoulders, Stiles carried the dead weight of this man's body. With a quick throw of the door, he set the ailing body of the man inside and quickly jumped back in the driver's seat. Sweating profusely and struggling to breathe, he spoke to Stiles. "Wh...where...are you...taking me?"

"I gotta get you to a hospital, Mac. I'm takin' ya the quickest way I know!" Stiles exclaimed. "I can't let nothin' happen to ya, mister! You need a doctor or you're gonna die!"

"No... You...you can't...They won't...understand. I've been drugged..." he slipped his hand inside the trench coat pocket and held the vial of Benzodiazepine as high as he could, only to drop it on the floor in front of him. "There isn't time to...take me..." His voice trailed off with a moan as he slipped into unconsciousness and stopped moving.

Stiles slammed on the brakes and looked back at the stranger sprawled out on the back seat, barely breathing and motionless. Turning back around with his eyes wide in fright, he wondered what he should do next. Is there time to get him to the hospital all the way back in Collinsport? Why didn't he want to go?

In the distance, a dim street light illuminated a sign on the corner:

Longworth's Drug Store

With a quick spin of the tires, the old cab barreled forward. Stiles leaped quickly from the driver's seat and ran up the steps, looking back through his backseat window to see if there was any response or movement from the stranger in the backseat. The stranger had not moved a muscle.

Banging on the door with all of his might and shouting loudly, Stiles called out the name on the sign repeatedly as he knocked. "Longworth! Mr. Longworth!"

There was no answer. He looked back and found a rock on the sidewalk in front of the lamp post. With all of his might, he hurled it toward the window above him, shattering the glass. He ran to the door again and began knocking and calling out Longworth's name, hoping that someone who could help would come.

(DISCLAIMER: I do not own the rights to Dark Shadows. This story is a creation of my own within the universe of Dark Shadows with the sole intention of entertaining the reader. I do not profit or receive any royalties from the owners of the property, Dan Curtis Productions)