An ominous presence stalks the dark places within the souls of the residents of Collinwood, reawakening forgotten fears and insecurities in some, fueling hubris in others. For one man, a dormant curse has been reignited. The approaching full moon forces a long overdue moment of reckoning for Quentin Collins, one that threatens to destroy the new life he's built.
The next morning, Maggie woke to a dull pain in her head. Her neck ached when she tried to move it. A near empty bottle of brandy and two snifters with the dregs of their night's consumption still sat on the table in front of them. She extricated herself from her husband's embrace, and pushed herself to sitting. "Quentin?" She gave his leg a gentle shake. "Quentin? It's time to wake up." She shook him a bit more forcefully.
He murmured something she couldn't understand. But in a moment, he opened his eyes, and he too pushed himself to sit upright on the couch. "You're still here?" he said. He fixed her with a gaze that held both a question and desire.
"Where else would I be?" she responded, an edge in her voice.
"I thought that after what I told you last night, you might have packed your bags and returned to the Great House," he said in a tone intended to inspire her pity.
"You should have told me sooner, Quentin," she continued her refrain from the previous night.
"We agreed to leave the past in the past. You said you wanted that too," he accused her.
"I did, but we didn't have to live here. We could have taken another house on the estate, or got a place in town," she argued. "How can you stand to be here day after day, living with such dreadful memories?"
"I knew how much you loved this place. I wanted to make you happy," he said. He went on, "And in all honesty, how could I explain it … and what it represents?" He wanted to add, "What I'd done here" but he hadn't the heart to tell her the worst of it—at least, not yet.
"You're not that man—that thing—anymore, Quentin. I truly believe that. I trust you, Quentin," she said, as much for herself as for him. "Now I understand your moods and the darkness that takes you sometimes. I really believe it will bring us closer together." Noting that the sun now fully illuminated the sitting room, she added, "I should get dressed or I'll be late, but we can talk more tonight."
He shook his head miserably. "There's something else I have to tell you—something you have to know before the sun sets."
How? Maggie wondered. How can he go to the mill and behave as though it were any other day? How—knowing that if the curse was reasserting itself, when the full moon rose into the night sky he would transform into a mindless beast—how could he go on? She knew that she could not. She had to do something.
Quentin showered and dressed for the day. He looked rough from a night spent drinking, explaining his past to his trusting wife, and trying to answer her myriad resulting questions. He went to the window and looked out on the farm that Maggie loved so much. His eyes came to rest on the entrance to the root cellar. He needed a plan.
He'd told Maggie that he intended to go the mill as usual, leave early, and return to the farm to wait for Julia. He thought at the mill he might obtain a length of chain to restrain the beast. Then he thought perhaps it would be best to drive to the hardware store in Bangor to buy some chain. Either way, he decided, it might draw suspicion, especially if the beast somehow got free and hurt someone.
No—the best plan was to ask Julia to meet him at the root cellar, administer the sedative there, and then lock him in.
Maggie skipped having breakfast with Quentin. She had no appetite anyway. She arrived at the Great House earlier than usual. The family would still be in the small dining room having breakfast. She went to the drawing room. Finding it empty, she closed the doors and went to the phone. She dialed a number she now knew from memory. "Hello, Professor Stokes? It's me, Maggie Collins."
"Hello, my dear. I recognized your voice. How are you?"
"I'm okay—thanks. And you?"
"Never better."
"Professor, there's something important I'd like to speak with you about—something I'd rather not discuss over the phone. I'm wondering whether you're free later this morning."
The professor's distinctive voice returned, "Of course, my dear, anything for you. I'll be here all morning. Stop by at your convenience."
Maggie hung up and adjusted her plans for the day. David and Amy would probably be happy about it, she thought. She opened the drawing room doors to find Julia Hoffman in the foyer, putting on her coat—her handbag and medical bag sat on the entryway table.
"Good morning, Julia. Heading over to the Old House?" Maggie asked as she tried to tamp down her anxiety.
Julia offered Maggie a smile, as she buttoned her coat. "Actually, I was called to Windcliff to consult on a case. If I leave now, I can be there in time for morning rounds, and back by mid-afternoon."
"Julia …" Maggie began. Then she reconsidered, and said simply, "I'll see you later."
"Don't worry, Maggie. I'll be back in plenty of time to meet Quentin at the cellar."
Maggie's eyes widened. "At the cellar?"
"Yes. He called a few minutes ago to say that the plan had changed and I should meet him there before the sun sets."
"Oh," was Maggie's dejected response. Her husband had turned to someone else, once again leaving her in the dark.
The older woman went to her and patted her shoulder. "Don't worry, Maggie. I've dealt with far more challenging situations than this. After tonight, I'll have the information I need to work on a cure," the doctor told her disingenuously. When Maggie appeared ready to pursue it further, the doctor added, "Well, I really must be going."
"Do we have to go visit Professor Stokes with you, Maggie?" David whined.
"Do we, Maggie?" Amy joined in, following David's lead as she often did.
"Actually, I thought you two could go to the library on your own this morning—return the books you checked out last week, and select five new ones," Maggie told them, as she pulled her car into a parking space on Collinsport's main street.
David perked up. "On our own?"
"Yes, while I visit Professor Stokes, but …"
David sighed dramatically. "But what?"
"But two of the books have to be non-fiction, and at least one of the fiction books can't be from a series," Maggie said as they arrived at the front steps of the Collinsport Library. "I won't be long—maybe an hour," she continued. "If you finish picking out books before I return, go to the reading room, and begin reading one of your books."
"Yes, Maggie," David said. Whether because Maggie was more authoritative, or because David was maturing, he was more cooperative and less argumentative than when Maggie first became his governess. "We'll see you in an hour. Come on, Amy," the boy said, tugging at the younger girl's sleeve.
Maggie walked from the library to Professor Stokes's home in a matter of minutes. She pressed the bell then shoved her hands in the pockets of her pea-coat to ward off the morning chill. A moment later the professor opened the door and ushered her in. He was wearing a handsome dark grey three-piece suit. The wide, patterned tie was his only concession to modernity.
"Please come in, my dear," he said as he showed her into the cozy sitting room. "Have a seat." He motioned to a small couch. She sat, but he remained standing. "I'd offer you a sherry, but it's far too early in the day for that, but may I offer you a cup of tea instead. I've just made a fresh pot, so it won't take but a moment."
She opened her mouth to decline, but instead said, "Thank you. I'd like that."
When he returned, he placed a tea service on the coffee table in front of her. He poured her a cup of tea, and then one for himself. He eased into an armchair across from her. "So, what brings you here this morning?" he asked.
"Now that I'm here, I hardly know where to begin," she lamented. He waited as she took a sip of tea. She rallied to the task and began, "It's about my husband, Quentin. Well, you know how he came to be here."
"Yes, of course. I could never forget such a singular set of circumstances," he said in response.
"In his own time—in 1897—a gypsy put a curse on him. And before he came to this time—before he threw the I Ching wands—a powerful sorceress removed the curse." Maggie recounted Quentin's history as he had explained it to her. "But now—now, he believes the curse has reemerged or been rekindled somehow. Professor," she said as fear and urgency blended in her eyes, "he told me that when the moon is full, he'd transform into a terrible beast—a wolf that walks like a man. I know it sounds insane …"
"On the contrary, I find it not only credible, but very interesting." He rose, went to the bookshelf, and began searching for a volume. "Please go on."
"You find it credible?" she asked.
"Yes, of course. Don't you?" he returned. "With all that you've seen and know of life in Collinsport, is lycanthropy so hard to believe? Ah, here it is," he said as he removed a volume from the shelf—Case studies in lycanthropy. He handed it to her. She opened the cover and flipped through the opening pages. He went on, "Some believe that lycanthropes physically change form—actually becoming a wolf-like creature; others believe that it is a form of mental illness—one that frees its sufferers from the constraints of social norms and mores and allows them to express the animal nature that lives within all of us."
"And what do you believe, Professor Stokes?"
He resumed his seat across from her. "I believe that both exist—with the latter, perhaps, drawing inspiration from the former."
"The moon will be full tonight, Professor," she said in a forlorn tone.
"And what arrangements have you made?" he asked with such practicality that she closed the book and looked up at him.
"He's asked Julia to administer a powerful sedative—and to lock him in the root cellar on our farm."
"I see—a very reasonable approach. Will you excuse me a moment?" he said as he rose again.
She glanced at her watch as she heard him rummaging through drawers, in what she assumed must be his bedroom. When he returned, Maggie was already on her feet. Despondency, so palpable it was almost physical, radiated from her. "I'm afraid I've already taken up too much of your time, Professor," she said.
"Never—think nothing of it," he replied.
"May I borrow the book? I don't have time to read it before the sun sets, but perhaps I can get through a few chapters later."
"Yes, please take it, but …" She noticed he held a small jewlery box in his large hands. "But there is something I'd like you to do for me."
"Of course, if I can—name it."
"I'd like you to wear this." He opened the box and from it he took a silver pendant on a silver chain.
"What is it?" she asked. He held the chain in his hand and the pendant dangled and twisted back and forth.
"It's a pentagram. You must humor me and wear it as long as the moon is full. Do not take it off. It will afford you some protection."
"Protection?" she repeated.
"Yes. Werewolves—lycanthropes—fear silver above all else, and the pentagram holds some special meaning for them. It's said that a pentagram will stop one where it stands."
"Why?"
"Honestly, I don't know, nevertheless, it's more than just folklore. May I?"
Maggie turned her back to him and pulled her long hair up, exposing her neck. The professor put in his monocle in order to see what he was doing. Still, he struggled for a few moments, trying to open the small clasp on the necklace, with large ungainly fingers. At last, he achieved his goal. "There you are," he announced proudly, letting the monocle fall from his eye.
Maggie turned to face him. Her hand went unconsciously to the pendant. "Thank you, Professor Stokes—for everything." She rose to her toes and delivered a small peck on the professor's cheek. The usually unflappable academic felt a flush of embarrassment suffuse him. She offered him a shy smile—her first since learning of her husband's affliction.
Before returning to the library to pick up David and Amy, Maggie went to her car, and put the book in the glove compartment. It was more than she cared to explain to her inquisitive young charges. Her hand went once again to the pentagram pendant. She slipped it inside the collar of her blouse.
Then she went to meet David and Amy at the library with a few minutes to spare.
All the way back to Collinwood, David and Amy exuded the kind of energy children have when released from routine. Maggie had taken them to the diner for doughnuts and hot chocolate as a special treat following their trip to the library. Now, in the car, they were proudly telling her about their solo efforts to find books in keeping with her instructions. Maggie worked to stay focused on their excited chatter, and enjoy the brief respite from worrying about Quentin and what was to come later when the sun set.
Maggie parked the car on the drive, and the three made the short walk to the Great House. Opening the front door, a surprise awaited them in the foyer.
"Joe!" Amy dropped her books and ran to her cousin. Throwing her arms around his waist, she said, "I knew you'd come. I knew you'd come to see me."
Maggie noticed how stiff Joe looked—almost rigid. His arms hung at his sides. Their eyes met then Joe awkwardly embraced his young cousin. "Of course, I want to see you," he began. Then he added, "Just not right now. Right now, I need to speak to Maggie."
Amy looked crestfallen. "What?" Tears formed in her eyes. "I've been waiting patiently to see you, just like Maggie told me to. Isn't that right, Maggie?" Amy appealed to her governess for confirmation.
"Yes—yes, you have," Maggie said, confused by Joe's behavior.
"I'll come see you some other time," Joe thoughtlessly told the child. "Right now, I need to see Maggie on an adult matter—one that can't wait."
Maggie intervened before any more damage could be done. "Would you two please go to the library and continue reading one of your books?" She was already gathering Amy's books from the foyer floor. Amy gave her a look that conveyed her hurt feelings mixed with bitter envy. "I'll be along shortly," Maggie said to her charges, though her eyes never left Amy's.
Amy took the books from Maggie and practically ran from the foyer as her tears threatened to flow. "She's not going to be any fun today," David whined and then followed her.
"We can speak in the drawing room," Maggie said. "Come in." Once inside, she began, "Really Joe, how could you treat Amy like that? She's been dying to see you. You could have given her five minutes of your time."
"This is important, Maggie," he began. Then he caught himself. "Yeah, yeah—I'm sorry about that. I'll apologize to her next time I see her. But this really is important, Maggie."
"What, Joe? What's so important?"
"Your husband—Quentin …" Joe paused dramatically.
"What about Quentin?" Maggie felt her pulse quicken.
"He threatened me, Maggie," Joe said. He let the words pour out. "He told me he was going to kill me."
Maggie turned away from him. "That's not possible, Joe. Quentin wouldn't …" she began then fell silent.
He was quick to fill the void. "He told me that when the moon was full, he would hunt me down and kill me." Maggie turned back to face him. He went on. "You know something, don't you? Something about what happens when the moon is full. Come on, Maggie. I know you. I can see it in your eyes."
"It doesn't make any sense," Maggie said.
"What doesn't?"
She went on, as though speaking to herself. "Why would he try so hard … if he meant to … it doesn't make any sense."
Joe went to her and took her hands in his.
Maggie Collins, née Evans, had always thought of herself as a sensible person. Her circumstances in life dictated that she be practical. Her mother died when she was young. Her father, an artist, drank too much. He'd made terrible choices and, as a result, accumulated debts that limited her future. There was nothing romantic about her life.
When she met Victoria Winters, a young woman with a fixation on the past, Maggie mentally remarked on the differences in their temperaments. Vicky, in spite of her difficult circumstances, was a true romantic. Maggie was anything but … then she met Quentin Collins.
When the I Ching brought Quentin to 1968, Maggie was there as a witness to it all. She had tacitly agreed to help Quentin adjust to life in a new era—the places and locales were the same as his life in 1897, but everything else had evolved around him. She had been his guide. So it seemed natural one day when the spark between them ignited into something more. She was not romantic, like Vicky—and she would not describe what she had with Quentin as romantic—she would call it passionate.
Now she understood the meaning of besotted. She wanted Quentin, and he wanted her—their passion was mutual, and at times, palpable. But in the process, she'd thrown practical concerns aside. In the process, she'd told herself that his past didn't matter—just as he'd accepted her without a full accounting of hers.
They had agreed to leave the past in the past. And for the most part, this worked. It was only in those times when his behavior was inexplicably moody and distant—inexplicably coarse—that she allowed the doubts to creep into her consciousness. It was only then that she entertained the fear that she'd married a virtual stranger—a man with an unknown past—and no one left alive to attest to his true character. It was then that she feared that she was like so many other lovers who had deluded themselves into believing what they wanted rather than facing the truth.
Then with a touch, or an embrace, or even that look of desire that came to his eyes, he would dispel her doubts, as nothing else could.
"Maggie, I'm telling you, he threatened me," Joe said, still holding her hands.
She suddenly thought how this might seem, if someone were to walk in and see them. She pulled her hands away and paced away from him.
He went on, "What do you really know about him, Maggie? The guys in town say that he showed up one day and even he didn't know who he was—some kind of amnesia. He spent some time at Windcliff."
"You, of all people, shouldn't judge him for that," Maggie retorted angrily.
"I don't," he adopted a conciliatory tone.
"Besides," she continued in an angry tone, "Tonight when the full moon rises, Quentin will be locked away in our root cellar where he can't hurt anyone. Would he do that if he intended to carry out some threat against you?" she blurted out. She felt a flush of indignation that she was finding difficult to tamp down.
"So, there is something," Joe asked.
"I just told you, Quentin would never intentionally hurt someone," she said with conviction, as she regained her composure. "If he said something to make you think otherwise, then I apologize on his behalf."
"I'm sorry, Maggie. I didn't mean to upset you," Joe said disingenuously. She looked at him through pained eyes. "It's just that all the time that I was at Windcliff, I imagined coming back to you. And now … well, I'm having a difficult time accepting things as they are. I promise, I'll try harder to accept that you're a married woman now—married to someone else," he said with convincing sincerity. "I hope we can be friends—all of us—you, me and Quentin."
Quentin was pacing the floor of their sitting room when Maggie arrived home late that afternoon. She could see at once that something was wrong. He ran a hand through his unruly hair. He turned when he became aware of her presence. His eyes had the same haunted look they always did as the full moon approached, only intensified.
She went to him. "Quentin, what is it? What's wrong?"
"It's Julia—she's been delayed at Windcliff. She won't be here in time to administer the sedative." His words rushed out in a barrage. "Maggie, you'll have to lock me in the cellar."
"Of course I can do that," she told him.
He went on as though he didn't hear her. "I had hoped the sedative would spare me the pain of the transformation. Maggie—it's too horrible to describe." He buried his face in his hands. His body shook. Maggie wound her arms around him. "I don't want you to see me like that. I'm so afraid that if you do, you'll never look at me the same way again," he whispered.
"No, Quentin—no. Whatever happens tonight, I'll still love you—I'll always love you." She took his hands in hers then led him upstairs. There, they spent the hour until sunset trying to forget what was to come.
After Maggie raised the ladder and secured the door to the root cellar, essentially marooning her husband inside, then she returned to her car and retrieved the book that Professor Stokes had loaned her, from the glove compartment.
She made a pot of tea, and took it and the book on lycanthropy to the sitting room. She curled up on the couch, prepared for a long, anxious night.
Maggie had never noticed how preternaturally quiet it was living on the farm. As she sat reading, she was aware of the creaking and settling noises of the old farmhouse's joints and floorboards. Everything else was quiet and still. She opened the book and began reading it. She was little more than a few pages into the second chapter when she began to find the case studies and accompanying sketches too disturbing for this particular night. She closed the book, and looked out of the window. The full moon had risen into a crystal clear night sky.
That was when she heard it. At first it was an indistinct moan, muffled by distance and the heavy doors of the cellar. Her heart was in anguish as she thought of Quentin all alone in the dark cellar, and of the torturous pain he knew he would endure.
Joe stood at the entrance to the root cellar on the old Peabody farm. He knew it well, as he and his friends had visited the farm numerous times as kids looking for fun and adventure, and finding the abandoned farm sometimes provided it.
He had watched from the edge of the woods as Maggie accompanied Quentin to the cellar. He turned away from their emotional embraces, but turned back in time to watch Maggie raise the ladder and secure the door with a heavy bar of some sort. Then he watched as she returned to the house. She'd gone upstairs and left a light on there, and another in the kitchen. But he guessed the light in what must be their sitting room represented where she would be. He waited until the sun sank low in the sky, and the lights in the windows of the farmhouse were the only illumination. Then the stars began to sparkle and the moon rose.
He'd pulled the metal bar from the doors and stood listening to the angry snarls from within.
"Help me!"
Maggie heard it distinctly.
"Help me!" The cry shattered the quiet which only moments before enveloped the farm.
Was it Quentin? How could it be? Maggie was on her feet, pulling on her pea-coat, and grabbing the flashlight. She scanned the farmyard with the flashlight, but there was really no need. She knew it came from the direction of the cellar.
Joe drew open the doors and let the ladder drop to the cellar floor. He scrambled down it, screaming "help me," as he went.
He was barely halfway down the ladder when Quentin pounced, dragging Joe from the ladder as he alighted it, tossing him to the cellar floor. Joe was surprised to discover how much his muscles had atrophied during his time at Windcliff. He was no match for Quentin, who easily pinned him to the floor, bared his teeth, and viciously attacked his neck. Joe struggled to fend off the attack—pushing back at his attacker, keeping the bared teeth at bay with his forearms and fists.
The light from Maggie's flashlight illuminated the scene below. "Quentin!" Her husband stopped and looked at her, but didn't free his prey. He responded with a guttural noise that was more beast than man. "Please, Quentin, it's me—Maggie." Her eyes never left him as she climbed half way down the ladder.
"Run, Maggie," Joe screamed, bringing a halt to her efforts. "He'll kill us both."
With madness in his eyes, Quentin turned back to the man cowering beneath him. He drew Joe up off the ground and shook him violently.
Reaching the bottom of the ladder, Maggie screamed, "Quentin! Stop! Please stop!" Holding the flashlight in one hand, she frantically fumbled with the collar of her blouse. In the end, she pulled so hard, the top button popped off, giving her access to the chain underneath. She pulled the silver pentagram out and held it up for Quentin to see.
He dropped Joe roughly to the ground, whelped like a wounded animal, and scurried to the corner of the cellar. He turned back and made an angry, snarling noise.
"Go now, Joe!" Maggie said, as Joe struggled to his feet. Quentin advanced a few steps toward them, only to retreat again at the sight of the pentagram. "Go!" Maggie said again. Joe brushed past her and scrambled up the ladder. Maggie followed, slowly, carefully making her way, all the while holding the pentagram where Quentin could see it.
Once outside they struggled to raise the ladder, as Quentin, no longer deterred, was trying to hold onto one of the lower rungs. They held fast to the thick rope and Joe braced himself to get better leverage. In the end, they secured the ladder, and slammed the doors shut. Joe inserted the rod, effectively locking Quentin in the cellar once again.
Sweat dotted Maggie's face from the exertion. In between the short puffs of breath, she asked, "What are you doing here, Joe? Why did you go down there?"
"I was worried about you, Maggie. I came to check and make sure you were all right. I came through the woods, and when I got here, I could hear noises coming from the cellar. I don't know—I guess I thought you might be down there. I just wanted to make sure you were all right."
"He could have killed you, Joe."
"But you see it now, don't you, Maggie? He's mad."
The full impact of everything that happened began to set in. Maggie felt tears welling up in her eyes; her legs suddenly felt weak. It was too much to take in.
"You shouldn't have come here, Joe," was all she could manage. "You have to leave—now."
"I'm not going to leave you here alone with him—like that."
"I'll be fine," she said. Only now did she realize that she was tightly clutching the pentagram in her hand. "I'll be fine as long as I have this. Besides, I won't be alone. Professor Stokes is on his way over. He should be here any minute."
"Maggie…" he began.
But she cut him off. "Please, Joe—please just go." She took a retreating step away from him, her tears still threatening. "I can't bear much more of this," she cried.
"All right, Maggie. If you're sure you'll be all right."
"I am."
"I'll call you later to make sure you're okay," he said.
"All right—sure," she responded to encourage him to leave.
Maggie watched as he made his way back toward the farm's gate, lit only by the now-bright light of the full moon. When he was gone, she went back inside the house and called Professor Stokes.
Maggie eschewed her stemmed sherry glasses in favor of two whisky tumblers, which she filled with generous portions of amontillado—Professor Stokes's favorite. "I'm sorry to bring you out here so late, Professor," she said as she handed him a glass.
"Think nothing of it, my dear. In fact, I feel quite ungallant. I should have offered to come when we spoke this morning. But I was under the impression that Dr. Hoffman had things well in hand, and I know how she hates it when I interfere with her plans." He raised the glass and took a long, slow, appreciative sip. He sat at one end of Maggie and Quentin's sitting room couch. Maggie had tucked in at the other end.
"I'm afraid our plans went awry," she said in dry understatement. In the time between her call to the professor and the time he arrived at the farm, Maggie had gathered herself—washing her face, brushing her hair, and generally making herself presentable. These simply acts had helped to still the shaking that had overtaken her.
"If you don't mind, I should like to hear all about it. I don't want to pry, but sometimes the retelling of traumatic events actually helps one place them in the proper context—and it was traumatic, wasn't it?" he probed gently.
"Yes, it was. He would have killed us both, had it not been for the pentagram you gave me." Maggie gave Professor Stokes a grateful look. Then she recounted the events that transpired that evening. The professor listened attentively and did not interrupt. When she reached the end of her tale, Maggie said, "There's one thing I've been struggling to make sense of."
"Oh?" The professor raised an eyebrow—his curiosity was piqued. "Do go on."
"When I first reached the cellar and looked in, I saw … well, I know how this is going to sound, but given everything else that happened … his eyes—they glowed—they were red—and unnatural."
"So, your husband did transform in some way then?" Stokes asked.
"That's just it, Professor. It was Joe. His eyes were glowing and … and malevolent. It was just for a moment—and perhaps I imagined the whole thing." Maggie paused and sipped deeply from her glass. "Do you think I imagined it? Or that it was a trick of the light?"
"On the contrary, I find it very interesting—illuminating even."
"And how am I going to tell Quentin that his lycanthropy is all in his mind … that he's …" She broke down and let her tears fall. Professor Stokes produced a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.
"Let's not be hasty, my dear. You must tell me everything," he said.
"But I just did," she responded as she blotted her eyes, and tried to regain her composure.
"You must go back farther. You must tell me everything you know about Joe Haskell's return to Collinwood."
"Joe?"
"Yes, of course."
"Then you believe I really saw something—something unnatural in his eyes?"
"I do. I believe Joe Haskell may be possessed. All that remains to determine is by whom and to exorcise it," Professor Stokes concluded. "Now, tell me everything you know—everything you remember. No detail is unimportant or too small—you must tell me everything."
