The moon waxes over the great estate of Collinwood—a harbinger of certain change. For Quentin Collins, the approaching full moon renews his fear of a dreaded curse, one that will come to fruition when the moon completes its cycle to full. But even as it brings fear to one man, it brings opportunity to another.
The moon was waxing. Soon it would rise full into the night sky over Collinwood. Joe felt ascendant. He felt as though the coming full moon empowered him—fueled him. He sat at his desk in his office at the cannery; his eyes fixed on the scenery outside its large window.
On the night of the last full moon, he had made his play for Maggie. It had not gone as he had planned. She avoided him now—that much was clear. She not only avoided him, she had been drawn into whatever plan, Professor Stokes and Julia Hoffman had been concocting. If he could separate her from their influence, he felt certain he could rekindle in her the feelings for him that once animated their relationship.
But he'd seen her only a few times—mostly from afar. Once she was walking down the town's main street with David and Amy in tow. He trailed them several steps behind, watching her dark hair swinging back and forth across her shoulders. When they turned to enter the library, he rounded the corner of a cross-street, lest they see him. Another time, she had entered the Blue Whale with Quentin, and upon seeing Joe, grabbed her husband's arm and pulled him out of the bar. She was different since the night of the full moon.
But Joe was different too. His conversation with Carolyn had reminded him of what he wanted. He had taken more and more from Roger Collins—and it had been easy. Every time Roger seemed poised to question Joe's increasing profile at the cannery, Joe would take him by the hand in a show of faux bonhomie, and then know exactly the right thing to say or do to quell Roger's concerns. In recent days, Roger had been largely absent. The rumor of his new romance was the talk of the cannery. It had planted the seed that Joe didn't necessarily need to build a fishing fleet to rival the Collins family. He could simply take the fleet and cannery from them. The more he thought of it, the more convinced he became that it would be the culmination of his desires in that regard.
Roger was easy. The men at the cannery were less so. He could not reach every one of them, could not influence each of them. And he knew that while some were his friends of old, others were jealous of his rise to be Roger's right hand, and of his place in the company. He could read the envy in their eyes. They too would fall in line when he became the man at the top.
And then of course, there was Maggie.
It was hubris that led to this place … to this state of being. Long, long ago It had been human—a man—and he had dared to want more, to let his desires exceed his position. He had challenged those who wielded the secret power—those who had studied it, and were the keepers of it. Only those anointed by birth were allowed to study the texts, and harness the power of nature itself.
He had had an innate ability to read and influence others. When he was young, the touch of his hand was all that was needed to understand what motivated those around him. As he grew, so did his ability. So too did his envy of those who were the keepers of the secret knowledge. He read their fear—fear that his innate ability combined with the secrets they held close, would make him formidable in his own right.
It was then that he decided to act. Against all tradition and the ways of their society, he had sought the power for himself. And for that, he had paid dearly. He had read only their fear, but not their resolve. Those who wielded the power passed judgment on him for his transgression. He had been stripped of his corporeal form and existence, and confined to a wooden vessel for all time … at least that was the intent.
The vessel was entrusted to a guardian. Each guardian in turn chose a successor, someone to ensure the vessel's safekeeping. Over the decades and then centuries, the punishment's object and cause were all but forgotten—all that remained was the knowledge of the corrupted spirit inside the wooden box. Every few generations, the guardian would relax or be distracted long enough for It to escape the confines of the vessel into a corporeal host.
The last host had been a woman. She had long been on the fringes of the social circle of which the guardian was an established member. The guardian was a worldly man—a man of means and appetites. He was senior to her in the ways that mattered most in that society—in age and status. Though she was not well connected or wealthy enough to earn a spot on his arm at the most fashionable salons and soirees, she was good enough to share a meal and then take to bed.
In the guardian's fashionable townhouse, the morning after he had bedded her, she encountered the vessel. By now, the guardian carelessly treated the vessel as a decorative piece, displaying it on a shelf with other small trophies of his wealth. While he lay among the pillows, sleeping off his evening's exertions, she became entranced with the small wooden box. She turned it again and again in her hands. One of the wooden panels gave slightly as she turned it. She gently slid it to the side. It was a puzzle-box.
She sat at his writing table and worked at sliding the panels of the box—first one way, then the other—searching for the right combination to open the box and reveal what was inside. She silently mused that perhaps it contained something of great value—why else would one design such an elaborate box? Yet it made no sound when shaken. What she lacked by way of the best education and worldly experience, she made up in perseverance and determination. Before long, she slid a panel and heard a small click that signaled that she had found the sequence to open the box.
Her hands shook a little in anticipation as she opened it. To her disappointment, the box was empty, but then from within its dark wooden interior, a plume of smoke emerged, then another. Her eyes widened. How could such a thing be possible? How could a box hold vapors inside? A moment later she would have her answer. Plumes of smoke invaded her eyes and nostrils, as It entered her mind and body.
When the guardian woke languorously, he found she'd left. Several hours later, he discovered that she'd taken the puzzle-box with her.
She had left Bath and relocated to London with the box as her traveling companion.
Part of the punishment, It discovered, was that It must bond with the host in order to be free. Its will could only be expressed through the host—Its own desires must be directed in service of the host's. When Its host was a woman, It must live as a woman. In that time and place, It … she could not do as she liked. Instead, she must work within the norms of the time and place, but It drove her, pushed her to pursue her desires with more ruthlessness, more ferocity, than she thought possible. She had used her friends, male companions, her body, and her wiles—whatever it took to move into a better circle of society.
And she wished to remain there, but eventually, as was always the case, the guardian found her. She saw him coming for her. He had aged. He looked tired and shabby. Perhaps Its hubris lived on, because she underestimated the old man. Until the moment when he removed the box from his pocket, she believed she was beyond his reach. How he had managed to secure the box, she did not know—she would never know. The old man opened the box, invoked the power of the rising full moon, and returned It to the vessel.
Another hundred years would pass before It was released once again. It spent a hundred years in confinement and darkness before the panels slid and the box opened. This time its host was a man, as It had once been in its long-forgotten corporeal form. Now, It had bonded its will and determination to a man in 1969. It enjoyed the taste of bourbon and a decent cigar. It enjoyed the freedom—the ease with which its host could move—transport and communication made life rich and accessible.
It could have given the host anything, taken him anywhere. If only he weren't bound to life in this provincial town, to ordinary desires and wants—they could have gone anywhere. To be a man in this time and this place … there was so much potential, if only the host saw that potential too, but once again, It was limited by the reach and desires of its host. That, It found, was the real punishment.
When Angelique woke that morning she could feel the power of the coming full moon coursing through her. She knew that every supernatural being must feel it—some, like Quentin with his werewolf legacy, must dread it; others, like her who drew upon the elements, felt its potential and power. It drew everything to the surface—even mortals felt its pull. Only those like Barnabas—those who walked only at night regardless of the phases of the moon—were heedless of its pull.
She finished styling her hair—removing bobby-pins to free two perfect tendrils to frame her face. She had piled the rest of her blond hair on top of her head in a complex up-do, which she finished by spraying it stiff with hairspray. It was one of the marvels of this time, and she had missed it during her stay in 1897. She slipped off the silk dressing gown she purchased courtesy of her "Uncle" Eliot. Then she donned a purple shift dress. Its simple sophistication suited the role she played as Stokes's niece.
This morning she thought that she'd prefer the company of her faux uncle to that of Roger Collins. Roger was already starting to bore her. Stokes, though he lacked Roger's charm, intrigued her, and she, him. He was surprisingly well versed on all manner of the supernatural and occult. One would expect a self-professed expert on the occult to be so, but Angelique was amazed by how many people considered to be experts, in fact, knew very little. She had visited the professor many times now, sometimes to simply pour over his extensive collection of books. That was part of what kept her from simply taking what she wanted from Maggie, and leaving them to deal with the demon on their own.
The other part, she had to admit, was that she felt she belonged in Collinwood. She wanted to claim her rightful place there. She was ready to return to 1969—this time, without the subterfuge of pretending to be Cassandra—without having to link her life to the likes of Roger Collins. She was ashamed to admit that she wanted the same things that mere mortals wanted—a sense of place and belonging. If, in the short run, passing time with Roger were the price to be paid for walking its grounds, she would pay it—though not always gladly. Fortunately, this morning, he had called to say that business matters would claim him all day. He asked her to join him for dinner. She was happy to tell him that she was otherwise occupied assisting her uncle with his research.
She was enjoying her respite from the humiliation of loving Barnabas even as he would forever love another. She had come closer than she ever had before in making him love her. Next time would be different. For though she enjoyed the attention and admiration of others, in her heart she knew that Barnabas Collins was the only man she would ever truly love—and more, she believed that he would come to feel the same way about her. Why else would forces bring them back together again and again? One day soon he would see that too.
She surveyed herself in the mirror and found her reflection satisfying indeed. She would take breakfast in the dining room of the Inn, and then make her way to Stokes's home to finalize their plans for the evening.
Maggie woke before the sun had fully crested the horizon—it was still little more than a glow enlivening the morning. Still, the cool space where her husband should be, told her that, in spite of the early hour, Quentin was already awake.
She pulled on her robe and headed downstairs. She found him in the sitting room, looking out of the window in the general direction of the root cellar.
He startled when she walked up behind him and put a hand on his arm. "I hope I didn't wake you," he said in a tone that was flat and affectless.
"Not exactly. I missed you—that's all. It's so early, why don't you come back to bed?"
"How can I sleep, knowing what's to come?" he asked, finding the emotion that was lacking only a moment before. "When the moon rises, I'll turn into that thing." She slipped her arms around him from behind. He took her hands in his and held them tightly. He went on, "I know that I'll be confined—unable to hurt anyone—but the pain, Maggie. I can't describe it—I wouldn't even if I could," he concluded in a near whisper.
She was tempted to tell him the truth about the last transformation—the whole truth. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth as she considered. Would it help him to know the truth? Would it help to know that the transformation was a belief planted in his mind? Would he feel angry and betrayed that she'd not told him sooner? After tonight he'll never have to face the transformation again. What good will it do to tell him the truth now? She rationalized her lie of omission in her mind. If Angelique double-crossed them, or if the demon proved too strong to succumb to her powers, if the night ended as it began, then she would tell him the truth and they would face it together.
"Come on. Let's go back to bed," she said as she extricated her hands from his and released him from her embrace.
"I told you. I can't sleep," he said as he turned to face her.
"Who said anything about sleeping?" she whispered in response then led her husband upstairs.
Elizabeth Collins Stoddard was in the family dining room, enjoying her morning repast and perusing the Collinsport Star, when her brother Roger appeared in the doorway.
"Good morning, Liz," he began, as he went to the sideboard to get his breakfast. He was impeccably dressed in a rich, lord-of-the-manor tweed suit.
"Good morning, Roger. It's rather early for you to be up and about, isn't it?" she asked, disapproval implicit in her tone.
"And what's that supposed to mean?" he snapped back at her, over his shoulder.
She waited until he turned toward her. "Only this, since Miss Bouchard arrived in town, you've barely gone to the cannery. Even before that, you seem to have completely ceded running the cannery to Joe Haskell."
"Delegated, and Joe has been doing an excellent job, Liz. Everybody says so," Roger huffed in response.
Elizabeth gathered herself. "Do you know what else they're saying? They're questioning whether it's still a Collins family business, when no one named Collins is ever there and since no one named Collins is making decisions."
"You're being ridiculous," he shot back. "I've always entrusted the day-to-day management of the businesses to a manager."
"But Joe was never a manager," she began.
"And have you heard something to make you think he isn't capable of managing the responsibilities I've given him?" he challenged her.
"He's only recently been released from Windcliff."
"Yes, and you were instrumental in bringing him here to Collinwood."
"But not so that he could take over the cannery bit-by-bit," she said.
"I don't know who your sources are, Liz, but I can assure you they're wrong," he fumed. "As to just having been released from Windcliff, if I recall correctly, it was not so long ago that you …"
Elizabeth stood suddenly and cut him off mid-sentence. "Stop before you say something you'll regret," she shouted.
"Well … well … how dare you question my fitness to make decisions about how to run the businesses," he stammered, reverting to the lifelong tone of frustrated deference to his older sister.
The siblings' voices carried into the hallway that led to the dining room and drew Carolyn toward them. As she approached, she saw Harry Johnson scurrying away, clearly surprised in the act of eavesdropping.
When she entered the dining room, her mother and uncle were facing off across the dining table from one another. Her mother's half eaten breakfast sat on the table in front of her; her Uncle Roger's plate appeared to be untouched. She closed the doors behind her to muffle the sound of their voices.
"What is going on?" Carolyn asked. Without waiting for a response, she continued, "David and Amy will be down shortly. Do you really want them to hear you arguing like this? To say nothing of the household staff—although it may be too late for that—I saw Harry snooping around."
When she finally paused and drew a breath, Roger said, "I'm sorry, Kitten. I don't know why things became so heated. I'm sorry, Liz."
"I'm sorry too," Elizabeth said in a tone that suggested the opposite.
The two siblings continued their breakfast in silence, as Carolyn filled a plate and then joined them at the table. Unwisely, she asked, "So what we're you two arguing about so early in the morning?"
"We were discussing Joe Haskell's role at the cannery," Roger began.
"Joe?" Carolyn murmured in response.
"Yes," Roger said. "I think he's doing a splendid job. He's handling the responsibility quite well."
Elizabeth interjected, "And I think it's too much, too soon, and that your uncle should spend more time there so that the men know that a Collins is still in charge."
"Sometimes I don't understand you, Liz. You were all in favor of bringing Joe to Collinwood," Roger began.
"For Amy's sake, but he seems more focused on you and the business than on Amy," his sister countered.
"I'm sorry, Uncle Roger, but I think Mother is onto something. Joe has been acting very strangely since he returned—grandiose, yet moody," Carolyn said.
"Say no more, Kitten. I see this is an argument I can't win," Roger said in a conciliatory tone. "I told Miss Bouchard that I am otherwise engaged today; I had already planned to spend the day visiting both the cannery and the mill. So you see, you needn't have worried, Liz." He rose, folded his napkin, but threw it with force to the table beside his plate. "If anyone needs me, I'll be at the cannery, and then in Bangor for dinner. Don't expect me back this evening." He strode from the dining room, leaving Elizabeth and Carolyn to exchange concerned looks.
Professor Timothy Eliot Stokes stood before a mirror in his bedroom and adjusted his tie. He placed his monocle chain around his neck, donned his suit jacket, and tucked the monocle itself into his breast pocket. He was now ready for the day ahead. And what a day it would be—or perhaps more to the point—what a night it would be. The first night of the full moon—the moon would be at the height of its power. On this night, he would watch a sorceress of great power drive a demon—an actual demon—from its host.
He felt as though it would be the culmination of the Stokes family's involvement in the occult. Dating back to the time of his ancestor, Ben Stokes, his family had a long, sometimes unwitting, sometimes undesired, connection to things unnatural—indeed, supernatural. Although Ben had crudely documented these phenomena, passing the knowledge on to subsequent generations, Eliot Stokes believed he was the first to actively engage it. He had turned his academic interest in art and artifacts into a practical knowledge of the manifestations of the occult. Before long, he was a member of an established network of practitioners of the dark arts, but none so powerful as the sorceress he would observe that evening.
He went to his small kitchen and poured a cup of tea from his brown-betty teapot into a surprisingly delicate teacup. He took a sip and found it tepid and over-steeped to the point of bitterness. No matter—he would make a fresh pot when she arrived.
He had fallen under her spell. He hated to admit it. Yet, it was true. He knew it for what it was—something akin to a schoolboy crush, but that knowledge did nothing to suppress his feelings. He knew he was not alone. It seemed to the professor that his pretend niece, the sorceress Angelique, had an effect on men. Her manner, her eyes, and her smile, when she chose to bestow it, were disarming. He saw that Roger felt it, and believed that Barnabas must have too.
Having at last met the woman in the flesh, he wondered how his ancestor, Ben Stokes, could have resisted her—let alone battled her. Intellectually, he knew that she was the same Angelique that cursed Barnabas, and cast the Collins family into generation after generation of pain and misfortune. She was the same Angelique that drove Barnabas's fiancé and his uncle into one another's arms. She was the same sorceress who ultimately drove her rival to her death, and as Maggie's tale demonstrated, did not hesitate to do it again in another time, to another rival.
A knock at the door, which he knew to be hers, interrupted his train of thought. When he opened it, she stood before him, a vision in purple. The scent of lilac cologne surrounded her. "Well," she said as she removed her gloves and looked past him into the sitting room, "aren't you going to invite me in?"
"Of course, my dear," he answered, opening the door wider to allow her admittance.
"My dear uncle," she said loudly, though there was no one within earshot to appreciate the performance. She pecked his cheek lightly then swept into the room. She removed her coat, deposited her handbag and gloves on the side-table, and took a seat on the couch as though she owned the place. She made it her own simply by being there. He was struck by the fact that Maggie and Julia had visited him many times, but neither of them took possession of his home the way Angelique did.
"Would you like a cup of tea? I was about to make a fresh pot," he said.
"No, thank you. I've been up for ages and had an entire pot of coffee at the Inn," she responded.
He turned, went into the kitchen, and set about making a fresh pot of tea. He did it more to have something to do as he attempted to calm the excitement he felt being in her presence, than from any desire for more tea. While waiting for the water to boil, he went to rejoin her in the sitting room. He found her perusing his bookshelf. He watched in silence as she removed a book and scanned its table of contents.
"Is something wrong, Uncle?" she asked without turning around. "I can practically feel your eyes on me, Eliot."
He swallowed hard, but was spared from offering any response, by a knock on the door.
"Are you expecting someone else?" she asked, turning at last to face him.
"Why, no," he responded, his cheeks still ruddy from being exposed. He turned at once to the door and opened it to find Julia Hoffman facing him. "Julia," he said by way of greeting.
"Eliot," she said.
"Please come in," he said holding the door open.
"I thought I should stop by …" she began and then stopped when she caught sight of Angelique across the small room.
"Julia, how good to see you," Angelique said, slamming the book shut and taking a seat on the professor's couch. "Would you like to sit?"
"Angelique," the doctor greeted her with a suspicious raised eyebrow. "No, thank you. I'm not staying long."
Professor Stokes felt like a husband caught by his wife flirting with an inappropriately younger woman. Julia assumed the role of irritated wife in his personal morality play. "As I was saying, Eliot, I thought I should stop by before heading to Windcliff to ask if all of the arrangements are in place for this evening."
It was Angelique who answered. "If by arrangements you mean, am I still willing to cast the demon out of Joe Haskell, then yes, all of the arrangements are in place."
Julia fixed Stokes with her gaze. He colored, looked down toward his feet, and then finally looked up and met her eyes. "Yes, Julia, I believe we're ready."
"Good. I should be back well before the moon rises. I'll meet you …" Julia began.
Angelique interrupted her. "That won't be necessary. Joe will surely be suspicious if there are too many people present."
"I'm afraid she's right, Julia," the professor chimed in.
"Very well," Julia said, bitter disappointment on her face and in her voice.
"I'll call you when it's done," the professor said.
"Be careful, Eliot," Julia said, casting a wary eye in Angelique's direction.
The professor could not recall a time when Julia seemed more vulnerable. "Of course, I will," he responded softly as he ushered her to the door. A moment later Julia was gone.
He turned back to see Angelique occupying the corner of his couch; her arm resting on its back; her cheeks deeply dimpled from a smile that spoke of besting an opponent. He suddenly found that his ardor for the sorceress was abating.
By that afternoon, Roger had visited Joe's office at the cannery a number of times. Joe wondered what prompted this sudden renewal of Roger's interest in the business. Perhaps the new woman in his life had dumped him or left town. Either way, Roger's intrusions were unwelcome to Joe.
Joe had been feeling at the height of his powers. He'd been striding around the cannery, making an impromptu visit to the docks, as if he already owned it. When he returned to his office and found Roger waiting, he'd grown impatient. What does Roger want now? It was then that he realized he no longer needed to take Roger by the hand, or place a friendly arm around his shoulder, to see what motivated him or to plant the seed that he wanted to grow inside Roger's mind. He found he could cast out with his mind and extend his will beyond his touch. His powers were growing again.
"Ah, there you are, Joe. I'd like to speak with you about this," Roger began, dropping a file folder on the desk, as Joe sat down. Joe took up the folder and opened it. It contained only one item—the bill of sales for Peggy's Pearl. "We had an agreement, Joe, that you would run all major decisions by me," Roger said in haughty Collins manner intended to remind Joe who was in charge.
"The purchase of one boat hardly seems like a major decision," Joe countered.
"Look, Joe, it's a shame what happened to Jerry—missing, presumed dead. I know you want to help Jerry's widow …" Roger began.
Joe snorted a derisive laugh. "That's where you're wrong. How little you know me," he said. "I didn't do it to help Peggy Gerse. I did it because Peggy's Pearl should have been mine all along," he angrily spat the words. "We were going to buy it together, but it was my idea, my dream." Joe paused and drew a deep breath. Roger's shocked expression told him he'd said too much. He needed to focus.
"Joe, I …" Roger began, but Joe did not hear the words that followed. Instead he focused on the waves of insecurity radiating off of Roger. He focused on Roger's self-doubt.
"It's Mrs. Stoddard, isn't it?" Joe asked.
"I beg your pardon," Roger replied in confusion.
"It's Mrs. Stoddard who's made you question my role here, who's made you doubt the decisions you've made. She still treats you like a younger brother—not like an equal."
"You're right," Roger said, wearing his wounded dignity on his sleeve.
"It's her you should be speaking to," Joe exhorted him. "It's her you should be castigating, not me."
"Yes, you're right," Roger said, the flush of indignation on his cheeks.
"As to buying Peggy's Pearl, it felt like taking back what's mine," Joe said. "I'm planning to rename it too."
Their indignation fueled one another. "Go on," Roger exhorted him.
"I plan to call her, the Sweet Revenge."
Earlier that day, Maggie had called Joe's office to confirm that he was there. She'd asked his secretary if he was available. When the secretary confirmed that Joe was at his desk, Maggie had summarily hung up without leaving her name. She knew it was then safe to retrieve the box.
She'd told Mrs. Johnson that she forgotten something at the farm, and asked her to keep an eye on Amy and David while they did their math exercises. Mrs. Johnson had groused under her breath that married Maggie wasn't as reliable as Maggie had been before Quentin, but had agreed. What choice did she have?
All the way from the Great House, Maggie worried that Joe might have moved the box from its hiding place inside the base of the tree. She knew that they had been careful not to raise his suspicion, but she hoped that Amy's stew of truth and falsehood hadn't tipped him off. So, she was immensely relieved when she stooped to the base of the tree, reached in, and found the box still there. She brushed it clean of its patina of dirt and leaves, tucked it in her coat pocket, and practically ran back to the Great House.
Once there, she went to the governess's room. It had once been her room, and she had learned of the secret panel that, with the right touch, sprang open to reveal a hidden passageway behind. It would provide the perfect hiding place for the box until evening fell and it was needed for the exorcism.
With Roger on his way back to the Great House to confront his sister, Joe settled back into his desk-chair, feeling satisfied and in control.
The intercom buzzed and his secretary announced that Maggie Collins was on the line to speak to him. Should she put her through?
How typical—after weeks spent avoiding him, she would call now, before the full moon rose again, and her husband once again was subject to the curse.
"Of course, put her through." When the phone clicked and he knew Maggie was on the line, he said in a confident voice, "Joe Haskell."
"Joe, it's me, Maggie."
He noticed how her voice quavered as she spoke. He smiled, picturing her face as a supplicant. "I know, Maggie. And I can guess why you're calling."
"Really, Joe? I don't think you can," she said mustering her confidence. "I have the box," she said flatly.
Silence followed before he asked, "What box, Maggie?"
"Let's not play games, Joe—the puzzle-box that you brought with you from Windcliff. I don't know how it works," she lied, "but I know you used it to make Quentin believe that the werewolf curse has returned."
"You're bluffing," Joe said in a tone meant to convey confidence in spite of the sweat that pricked his brow.
"Go see for yourself. Go to the tree where you hid it. I found it, Joe," she said, her confidence growing as his waned.
"Where is it?" he demanded.
"Not at the farm, but it's safe."
"Where is it, Maggie? Tell me!"
"I would hardly do that, but …"
"But what?" he demanded in an angry voice.
"But I'll return the box, if you undo whatever it is you've done to Quentin. Meet me at the root cellar tonight when the full moon rises."
"Sounds like a trap, Maggie. I bet Quentin will be waiting for another chance to rip my throat out," came his sharp voice. Then he softened and added, "It's unworthy of you—unworthy of all that we shared."
For a moment, Maggie's mind filled with images and memories of the man she once loved and intended to marry. "It's not a trap, Joe," she said, as she pulled herself back to the present and the task at hand. "The box is important to you, and Quentin is important to me. It seems like a fair exchange." She waited while he silently considered.
She knew about the tree, so it stood to reason that she did in fact have the box. There was no doubt that she, Julia, and the professor, were in league together. But what they knew—how much they knew—it was impossible to say without … He spoke, at last. "Fine, I'll be there." Then his mind turned to the possibilities. He could arrive early and lie in wait for her. He could easily over-power her, take the box, and abscond. Even if the old man were with her, they would be no match for him, but what of Quentin? He still believed himself to be a werewolf. It was a dangerous gambit. He must be prepared—he must be appropriately prepared.
The sun's descent would bring all the principals for the exorcism together on the old Peabody farm.
It was imperative that Joe not find out about Angelique's presence on the farm that evening. Professor Stokes's idea was that Angelique should wait with Quentin in the root cellar until the sun began to set. Then before the moon rose, he and Maggie would retrieve the puzzle-box from its hiding place at the Great House, and give it to Angelique, so that she could exorcise the demon under the light of the full moon.
In the meantime, Angelique perched on a stool in the root cellar, watching Quentin pace nervously, as he awaited the coming full moon. They had left one of the cellar doors open, and the ladder lowered. So that when the time was right she could ascend the ladder and perform the exorcism.
Quentin gestured to a box of salt on a battered table in the corner. "Please use it to form a pentagram—there—on the floor. It will contain me during the transformation."
"How sweet of you to worry, Quentin, but I can protect myself."
"It's not you I'm worried about," Quentin replied.
"Oh Quentin, you do disappoint me," the sorceress said. "When we met in 1897, I had such high hopes for you. With your affliction cured, you could have become a skilled practitioner of the dark arts. I could see that you had much more potential than your friend Evan Hanley. You could have harnessed your talent and been formidable—if you applied yourself, of course. I would have aided you."
"More like ensnared me," he countered.
As though heedless of his response, she went on, "But like every Collins man, you were a fool for love—using the I Ching to chase it."
"And I found it," he said flatly.
"Ah, yes—with perfect little Maggie," she sneered. "Your perfect little wife."
"Stop it, Angelique."
"Do you know that your perfect little wife has been keeping a secret from you, Quentin?" she taunted him.
"I said, stop it!"
"But you don't really mean it. You want me to tell you her secret. I can see it in your eyes."
"Go on then," he spat at her. "Tell me. Tell me Maggie's secret."
Angelique threw back her head and rippled with laughter. "Very well, Quentin. That salt pentagram is unnecessary because you aren't going to transform tonight, just as you didn't transform under the last full moon. Sweet, sweet Maggie lied to you. She let you believe that the curse is back, but it isn't."
"What are you talking about?" he demanded.
"Just this—the demon didn't trigger the curse. It's cunning, but limited—limited to manipulating the thoughts and fears of others. It merely planted in your mind the belief that the curse has returned. It read your fears and drew that one to the forefront of your mind—it made you believe the curse was triggered. And your precious Maggie knew, but all the while, she's said nothing."
"She's trying to protect me," he said, though it sounded weak to his ears.
"She let you believe that the pain of transformation was real. She let you believe that you were dangerous—an animal. What a special love you two must share!" She laughed again.
In the fading light, he could see her blond hair move as she laughed. All at once he wanted to feel his hands around her throat—anything to silence her mocking laugh. This must be how Barnabas felt—overwhelmed by the contradiction of her beauty, her lyrical voice, and the venom she spewed. He found some empathy for his cousin, who both hated and loved the sorceress.
His hands went to his ears. He turned away from her. "Stop it," he heard a voice say. It was his, but it felt disembodied, as though it no longer belonged to him. He turned back to face her—murderous rage taking him. Even if the "transformation" had not begun, the dormant wolf within would no longer brook her cruel laughter.
The little daylight that found its way through the open cellar door had rapidly faded away.
The sun was merely a glow in the evening sky when Joe approached the farm. He had come on foot through the woods and waited on the far side of the clearing hiding among the trees. There were two cars in the drive outside of the farmhouse—Quentin's and Maggie's, but there were no lights on inside and no other signs of life within.
He crouched low and approached the house, peeking through the windows to confirm his initial impression. The house was completely still and dark.
The root cellar was next. He crept across the yard that separated the cellar from the house. One door of the cellar was open; he could hear voices inside below—a man and a woman—Quentin and Maggie? It must be, but if this was intended to be a trap, it was a poorly conceived one. It was he who would spring the trap. He would trap them together in the cellar, and released them as the moon rose into the sky. Even if Maggie wore her pentagram, the sight of her husband in the throes of his "transformation" would serve his purpose. She would give him the box and beg him to release her precious Quentin.
In the growing darkness, he looked around for something to bar the doors, but there was nothing at hand. Perhaps they'd had the foresight to take it inside with them. In any case, he found nothing suitable. He must double back to their gardening shed at the back of the farmhouse. There he'd retrieve a rake or shovel, and use its handle to secure the doors.
By the time he returned, the glow of sunset was history, and the full moon was ascending into the evening sky. Through the open door of the cellar he heard his rival groan in pain—the "transformation" was underway. He bent down, threw the door shut, and jammed the rake through the handles of the cellar doors. He rocked back on his heels and smiled in satisfaction.
"Listen to me, Quentin," Angelique implored, but it was too late. Quentin was no longer capable of understanding her. He believed he was in the throes of the transformation to the wolf.
It was terrible to behold. Quentin dropped to his knees, believing his body to be wracked with pain. His human voice dissolved into a guttural howl.
Angelique took a tentative step toward the ladder. "Quentin, you must listen to me," she tried again, to no avail. He was beyond the reach of reason.
The pain was subsiding. Quentin now believed he was the wolf; he believed the transformation was complete. He rose and turned to face the witch. He still looked like Quentin, but Angelique could see the animal madness in his eyes. His growl reverberated through the cellar. Angelique scrambled to the ladder, turned, and conjured the image of a pentagram in the air between her and Quentin. He took a step in retreat and bared his teeth at her. It bought her enough time to reach the ladder, but after two steps up, the door of the cellar slammed shut, barring her way out.
When Professor Stokes arrived at the Great House, he found Maggie already waiting impatiently. He saw her keeping watch even as his car made its way up the drive. She didn't wait for him to park and open the door for her. Instead, as soon as the car stopped, she opened the door and hopped in.
"Are you ready, my dear?" he asked, ignoring her demeanor.
"Yes," she affirmed, as she put on her seatbelt, and waited for him to pull away from the house.
Instead he killed the engine and turned to her. "May I see it?" he asked.
Maggie tamped down her impatience and drew the small box from her coat-pocket and handed it to him. The box seemed very small in his large hands.
As though reading her mind, he said, "It's smaller than I thought it would be—more delicate too." He used his index finger to slide one panel of the box. Then he slid the panel back to its previous position and handed the box back to Maggie.
"I hope Angelique will be able to open it when the time comes," Maggie said.
"I daresay she will," the professor answered. He turned the engine over and started the car. He glanced over his shoulder, though they were still on the front drive.
All the way on the drive to the Collinsport Road, and then as they headed down the road to the access lane to the farm, Maggie wished she were driving instead of the patient, careful professor. Maggie knew these roads inside and out. She had driven them at all hours of the day and night, and in all kinds of weather. She would have made it to the farm in half the time it took the professor—or so her impatience told her.
The professor seemed oblivious. "It's a rare opportunity for someone like me," he was saying. "I've studied such phenomena, even conducted simple exorcisms myself, but not a demon. One reads about them in books, but a real demon—to encounter one in corporeal form… to see it cast out …"
"About that, Professor," Maggie began. "Perhaps it would be best if you waited at the house …"
"And miss this rarest of opportunities, but why?"
"Because the demon is unpredictable. Angelique can protect herself and I … I know a part of it is still Joe, and Joe would never hurt me, but you …"
"I might be a source of vulnerability," he said. His voice dripped with disappointment.
"You know there's no one I'd rather have by my side at a time like this, but I couldn't live with myself if anything happened to you because of me."
"It wouldn't be because of you. It would be because of the demon, but I take your point," he concluded.
The car rolled to a stop behind Quentin's. Maggie led the professor to the door of the farmhouse, turned on the porch light, and then unlocked the door giving him access to her house.
Maggie laid a hand on the professor's arm. "Stay alert," she said in a calm, firm voice. "If things don't go as planned, we may yet need you."
"Of course, my dear. I'll be ready, if needed."
With that, Maggie offered him a tentative parting smile, took the flashlight from the entryway, and headed to the root cellar.
In the distance, Joe could see a small beam of light moving toward him. He stood. Perhaps it was the old man—he could be additional leverage to get Maggie to give him the box. And then what? He wanted Maggie as well as the box. He needed Maggie as well as the box. It made no sense to the part of him that was ancient—the part that had been confined for too long and wanted nothing more than its freedom. But it was the only thing that made sense to the part of him that was still Joe—to the part of him that was of this place, the part of him that had been deprived of the life he was building for himself—with Maggie.
As the light approached Joe, it moved side to side then illuminated the ground ahead. As it drew closer, he could see the figure was too small to be that of the professor. A breeze swept across the farmyard and Joe could see tendrils of dark hair fan out in response. He could see now that it was Maggie approaching. Whose voice, he wondered, had he heard below? Julia's perhaps. Was she there to keep Quentin calm by means he had personally witnessed at Windcliff?
Maggie traversed the farmyard in quick, efficient steps until she saw him. Then, even in the dim light, he could see her almost hesitate. Was it confusion? Their plan, whatever it was, had gone awry—been upended. She had not expected to find him here already. Or was it fear? Did he frighten her? Was that the reason she avoided him? In a moment, he would have his answer.
Maggie approached. "Joe," she said.
"I'm sorry it's come to this, Maggie. I really am." A smile played at the corner of his lips.
The beam of the flashlight followed her eyes to the doors of the cellar. "No," she whispered into the evening air.
"I'm afraid so," he said.
The conjured pentagram kept Quentin at bay as Angelique climbed the wooden ladder. The cellar was in darkness now. Still, as she glanced over her shoulder, she could see Quentin's wild eyes shining out of his silhouetted figure. She could hear him snarling in the darkness.
She turned back to the task at hand. She pushed against the door. It didn't move. She tried again, banging her hand hard against it. Someone had barred the door. She felt anger pushing its way up from the pit of her stomach. No one treated her this way. She stepped down one rung, extended her arms, and called upon the elements to execute her will.
"Maggie," Joe began. Then a loud crack that seemed to split the night itself filled the air.
The rake that barred the doors of the cellar cracked in two and flew apart. The doors blew open with force, and Angelique emerged—her blond hair as bright as a beacon in the moonlight.
"You!" Joe said, as he recognized a tormenter from his past.
"Yes, Joe. It's me." And then to Maggie, she said, "Give me the box, Maggie."
Maggie took a step toward Angelique then hesitated.
It channeled all of its energy into convincing the young woman before him—the young woman his host still loved. It looked at her through Joe's eyes—spoke to her in Joe's voice. "Please, Maggie. Give me the box. I promise I'll take it and leave Collinwood. I'll go someplace far away from here. You'll never see me again."
"Don't listen to it, Maggie. It isn't Joe—not really." Angelique implored her.
"I get it now, Maggie. It hurts, but I get it. You love Quentin. I don't want to stand in your way. If you give me the box, I'll leave."
"Don't look at him, Maggie. Don't listen to it. It isn't Joe," Angelique hissed in growing frustration and anger. How had she allied herself with such a weakling?
"Joe," Maggie said, turning toward him.
"I love you, Maggie. I love you enough to let you go, enough to see you with Quentin, knowing that he makes you happy. It's enough for me, Maggie," he said with passion and warmth. He extended his hand toward her, silently asking for the box that was his prison.
Angelique turned her full attention to Maggie. It was clear that the will of the so-called demon was at work. Maggie was not strong enough to resist it. "Don't be a fool, Maggie!" Angelique would take the box from her, if necessary.
With her full attention fixed on Maggie, Angelique lost focus on the pentagram she'd conjured. The wolf was suddenly released. Quentin climbed the ladder still snarling like an animal. Joe turned just in time to face the possessed man coming at him hard and fast.
In a moment, Quentin had tackled Joe. Forceful hands pinned Joe to the ground, as Quentin tried to attack his neck. Joe tried to fend off the attack with one arm; with the other he frantically reached for his jacket pocket.
As the two possessed men struggled on the ground, Angelique ran to Maggie, taking her by the shoulders and shaking her. "The box, Maggie, give it to me."
Maggie's eyes never left the two men. She stood for a moment in stunned silence. Joe had managed to pull a silver letter opener from his pocket. She recognized it at once. She'd seen it at the Old House long ago. How? When had he gotten it? She shook her head to clear her mind.
Joe drove the small dagger into Quentin—aiming for his heart, but he missed. Instead, he drove the blade deep into the small depression of muscle just beneath the left clavicle instead. Quentin's whelp shattered the night-quiet of the farm, finally breaking through the haze and silencing Joe's voice in Maggie's mind.
Maggie pulled the box from her pocket. "Here—take it!" She pressed it into Angelique's hands.
Quentin had fallen back—the dagger still in his chest. The noises he made were at once fierce and pitiful. Joe scrambled up to his knees, still winded and sore, but reinvigorated by having the upper hand. He bent over Quentin and drew out the dagger—ready to deliver the coup de grace.
"Stop demon," Angelique called out. She held the box out in front of her, relishing her command of the moment.
Joe's fingers went limp and the dagger fell harmlessly to the ground. He fixed his gaze on the sorceress. He felt trapped, and yet his instinct for survival was strong. After all, there was no history, no disagreement between the two of them. She might yet let him walk free.
"We're the same—you and I," It said. "Alone and in the dark … and then animated—brought to life—and desperate for the one we love."
It was true. The times that she was away from Barnabas, Angelique did feel alone and in darkness.
"He's unworthy of you. You offer him everything—the world—still he spurns you—and for what?" It went on.
It was right, of course. It had read her thoughts—her fears. Alone and in the dark—how long had she dwelt there waiting—waiting to be summoned—to be of service—but never wanted, never loved!
She held the box out in front of her, balanced on her left palm. The demon took it as an offering and moved toward her. Then she raised her right hand and held it above the box. A panel slid to the right, another to the left. Now the panels slid seemingly of their own accord, until the box popped open.
"Do you think you can manipulate me, demon? Do you think me as weak-minded as these mortals? You are right—I have long dwelt in the darkness and seen creatures with power you can only dream of possessing. You cannot manipulate me, demon."
With Joe's influence over Maggie shattered, she ran to Quentin. Blood seeped through his tan sweater. She pulled the scarf from her neck and went to staunch the bleeding. Still, he growled at her in the wolf's voice. His eyes were not his own. He was still possessed. But she did not have the luxury of waiting to see whether Angelique could drive the demon out of Joe. Quentin's breaths came out in shallow puffs. Maggie went to him, raised his sweater, and pressed the scarf to the wound. He grabbed her wrists and held them so tightly she knew there would be bruising. She was undeterred though it was clear that he didn't recognize her.
Quentin's howl of pain had carried through the evening air and found its way to Professor Stokes, who was anxiously pacing the sitting room of the farmhouse. He'd been torn—conflicted as to what to do. He wanted to accede to Maggie's wishes and stay out of harm's way—indeed out of her and Angelique's way, but he wanted to see it through. He'd been riven until Quentin's howl decided the matter.
He went to the neatly organized entryway, with its pegs for coats and jackets, umbrella stand, and small cupboard for the miscellanea necessary for life on the farm—including, he found, flashlights. He took one, ensured that it was working, and headed out into the night.
The full moon afforded him some light. Supplementing it with the dim beam of the flashlight, he made his way toward the root cellar. He tried to move speedily, but he was slowed by his chronically arthritic knee and shoes singularly unsuited to walking fast. Still before long, he could see the tableau playing out at the entrance to the root cellar. The full moon now hung low in the evening sky illuminating Angelique's blond hair. Joe Haskell stood before her. Maggie knelt beside her husband who lay on his back on the ground.
Before he reached them, he could hear their voices like a cacophonous operatic quartet.
Maggie was pleading with her husband, "Please Quentin. It's me, Maggie. Let me help you." To which, her husband replied with animalistic growls, punctuated with whelps of pain.
Angelique, now bathed in moonlight, stood with the box in her hands. Her incantation formed the melody. "Light of the moon, pull of the tides, aid me in my task. Return this creature to the darkness from which it came. Light of the moon, pull of the tides, aid me in my task. Return this creature to this vessel."
Joe's staccato mocking laughter formed the counterpoint. "Do you think you're strong enough to force me back into the darkness?"
"Light of the moon, pull of the tides, I implore you, aid me in my task." Angelique's voice rang out.
"The last one to try it was old, but powerful. You're nothing compared to him, witch," the demon taunted. "He succeeded, but the effort ended his life. Do you want to end up the same way?"
Professor Stokes could see, even in the faint light, how the effort drained Angelique. But the demon's taunts seemed to rally her spirit. She seemed to relish the challenge. Her pride was at stake; her power was under threat.
"Silence, demon! Your words mean nothing to me." The sorceress was momentarily distracted from her incantation. It was what the demon desired.
"Focus, my dear," the professor called to her. "It means to distract you."
The light in the sorceress's eyes seemed to change. "You think I am like the others," she said. "I am not!" She extended her arm toward him; her fingers open wide. Gradually, she began to close her hand. Joe's hands went to his throat. He sputtered and began to choke. "You will be driven from this host, demon—one way or the other." Angelique said in a taunting tone. She tightened her hand as though it was around his throat, and Joe began to choke in earnest—struggling for air. "Your vessel awaits."
"Angelique, please …" the professor began. "You'll kill him."
But Angelique would not listen. The incantation was set aside in favor of her preferred methods. She would drive the demon from its living host, or kill the host and it would be forced to flee. It was no longer a matter of helping to free Quentin. It was a matter of her will against the demon's. She would prevail. "Your vessel awaits," she taunted the suffocating man.
"Angelique, please …" Stokes tried again.
"Silence!" Angelique freed her grip on Joe just long enough to cast her hand and her will toward the professor, sending him tumbling backward, falling to the ground with force.
The demon took that momentary distraction to advance toward the sorceress, and was now nearly close enough to touch her. But she turned back just in time and resumed. Joe's hand clawed desperately at his throat as he tried to free himself. He dropped to his knees and looked at Angelique through wide, angry eyes.
"You see now that I am not like the others. I will cast you out or I will kill him here and now. Either way your vessel awaits," she intoned. She tightened her grip until her hand formed a fist. She could feel her nails dig into her palm. The demon's will was strong. She might have been tempted to spare it if she thought she could bend it to her will. They could have forged a formidable partnership. But the demon was selfish and unpredictable. She had no desire to endlessly match wills with it. She was supreme—she had the demon on its heels—she would press the advantage—and end it. "Your vessel awaits!" she intoned. "Your vessel awaits!"
Joe struggled—mouth agape, eyes wide and wild. Though open, his eyes saw only darkness. The demon had underestimated her. What she lacked in mastery of the elements, she made up in sheer ruthlessness. She would kill the host if she had to—she was not like the others. It cared nothing for the now useless host, Joe Haskell.
It frantically thought to take another from among them for a host—the tired old professor—another woman—the man weak enough of mind to believe himself cursed. Its panicked mind surveyed the options, but the vessel had a will as well. The vessel called out to it—drew it to return. It could no longer resist. The pull of the tide was against it. The power of the sorceress had weakened it. And the vessel designed specifically to hold It and punish it for all eternity, called and beckoned it back. There was no resisting.
Professor Stokes watched in astonishment as plumes of red smoke poured out of each of Joe's eyes. From each nostril, dark plumes of smoke came out. Finally, from his mouth, still gasping for air, came yet another plume of dark smoke. The plumes came together. In a moment, they knitted themselves into a thick single strand. Then Angelique watched with evident satisfaction as the plait of smoke reluctantly sought its vessel. As its tail-end folded into the box, she passed her hand over it, and the panels slid back into place, sealing the demon inside.
It was done. Angelique crumpled to the ground. The small box fell from her hand and tumbled harmlessly away.
