Shadows on the Wall Chapter 18: Waiting on the Edge by Midnite If you can find it, the music takes place in a grotto, a great hole in the earth. You must wait outside the mouth hole for hours while the Egyptian boatman howls the password and the sea keeps booming and booming. At that point you will be in a state of terror, moaning, "How can we?" for you will see only the unreliable chain that is meant to drag you in. It is called Waiting on the Edge. ~Anne Sexton, from "To Lose the Earth" David Selby: "The sun sits high over the Great Estate that dominates this coastal edge of land, her white hot glow lengthening the days, changing the shadows below, and illuminating secrets that dare emerge from the darkness." Quentin rose impatiently from his bed to begin hunting for the sleeping pills Julia had given him. "Alcohol in excess can have an opposite effect," she had admonished, but to him it was just a matter of balancing the drugs in your system depending on what you needed at the time. And unlike other men, he never had to worry about any kind of hangover for very long; it had been this way since the previous century thanks to the painting that matched his suffering and kept him well. But C.D. Tate's marvel in oils didn't do anything to change the fact that Quentin's body now desperately needed sleep. He fondly recalled like an addict the previous night's secret birthday celebration with Karen Goodbar-- or Miss Goodbody, as he liked to think of her-- but snapped out of it to continue his search. He slid open the desk drawer to reveal both the amber-colored bottle that contained the pills and the tattered reminder of a gypsy's bizarre visit. Its Tarot name was "La Maison de Dieu"-- The Tower of Destruction. Of course coming from her it couldn't have been any other card... Magda appeared often in his dreams to leak her prophecies of doom like a broken faucet. But this last time was different. That visitation left him with an actual souvenir. "Just be clever, Quentin," she had told him. The Count had yet to show himself (fear blew down Quentin's throat at the mere thought of him), but the witch-- ah, that was as good a place to begin as any, and with a resolve bolstered by booze, he decided that now was a good time to start. Cassandra rested trance-like on the olive green divan, oblivious to any other sounds in the house. Suddenly she was aware of the long, slender fingers that lightly stroked her shoulders and then massaged them more firmly. The sensations inspired memories of two lovers joined in a breezy cottage on long-ago summer evenings, the curtains sucked against the window sills as those same August-tanned hands caressed her. "You once told me that my touch drove you wild, Miranda," the voice said. "Or should I say ANGELIQUE?" As the pitch rose, Quentin's fingers clutched at her throat and began to squeeze her windpipe. Unable to speak, her arms rose in protest as knobs clicked nearby, and relief came for her just as the large oak doors were thrust open. "I didn't mean to intrude," Vicki told Quentin's back as Cassandra sat stroking her neck. The young woman's jealousy was replaced by concern when she noticed that Roger's wife seemed deathly pale-- even more so than usual. "Mrs. Collins, are you all right?" "Yes, I'm ... I'm all right. It's just this heat. I'm not used to it." The irony of that statement was lost only on the governess. "I hate to see you so uncomfortable," Vicki lied as she sailed across the room. She slid open a window, then quickly turned her attention back to Quentin. "I'm so glad that you final- ... that I found you. Amy is visiting David, and she's been asking for you." "I'll be sure to see her." he replied gently. "Thank you." "She'll love that." Vicki declared, but her expression grew serious. "Both children have been through so much lately. They've experienced more pain than most people in a lifetime." "A lifetime," he repeated. "I'll go tell Amy the good news. Excuse me." The doors closed behind her with a sarcastic snap "Now that she's gone, are you going to attack me again?" Cassandra sniped. "I know what I should do-- what I did 70 years ago," he said as he circled the sofa to face her. "How'd you get free this time? Did you use the boy?" "You're mad." "That must be how you did it. Using children has always been your style." "I don't know what you're talking about," she retorted while averting his gaze. "I know you're responsible for the way David was acting before Vicki and I found him in the cemetery," Quentin told her angrily. "I saw your portrait among the things he had with him." "I've never..." "Your hair is different now, but in the painting it was just as I remembered. And the face was YOUR face, Miranda. Let's take our gloves off, shall we?" "I'm afraid I don't much go in for accessories." "You want to make jokes, fine, but I know you remember how I was willing to do anything to save Jamison from you, and I swear I would do the same for David." "I don't understand. This is all so confusing!" She stood and gave her short skirt a tug. "But I assure you that we both have David's best interests at heart," she said as she moved closer to the fireplace. "Heart? You don't have a heart!" he shouted. "You're vile and cruel and incapable of caring about anyone but yourself." She turned to glance at him sympathetically. "Someone must have hurt you very deeply that you would think so poorly of me," she said, her lashes fluttering. "But it's not the first time I've been misunderstood. Yet even though you and I aren't related by blood, I shall continue to hope you'll someday come to accept me as part of your family. And family is very important to you, isn't it?" "Family is everything," he declared. "Then perhaps you should investigate the commotion in the next room?" Cassandra made no effort to hide her obvious pleasure. This was almost too easy. She's right, he realized-- he hadn't noticed the muffled excitement until now, so he hurriedly pulled open the doors just as Roger shouted, "Vicki! Vicki, come down... Quentin, I thought that was your voice. Help us," he pleaded as he and Willie stood supporting a sickly pale man between them, causing Quentin to turn away from the ghastly sight. "Let's get him to the sofa," Roger barked. "Cassandra, I'm sorry you're here to see this." "Who is it?" she asked. "It's Tom Jennings, a handyman that does work for the family. Where'd you say you found him?" he asked Willie as they struggled to carry him into the drawing room. "In the woods," Willie answered while trying to gauge everyone's reaction to his statement. "I was walkin' by and saw him lyin' there." Together they set Tom's body down as a kneeling Quentin supported his cold neck, and as he let go it fell to the side revealing two gashes clotted with blood. "Those wounds on his neck!" Vicki cried from behind them. "They're just like the ones on the women that were murdered in town." "There isn't anything we can do for him. He's dead." Roger announced as he released Tom's forearm. "No! No! NO!" Quentin sobbed as he bowed onto the carpet. "Pity," Cassandra countered, but no one heard her over the high-pitched scream that traveled in from the doorway, and by the time Quentin rushed past, Amy had fallen silent for what would become a very long time. Huddled near the mantle, Barnabas and Julia halted their whisperings as soon as Quentin burst into the Old House. "What happened?" Barnabas asked as his cousin gazed frenetically with swollen, bloodshot eyes. "Ju--" Quentin began, then swallowed hard. "Julia, Amy needs you." There was something in his voice... "I'll get my bag," she said without hesitation. As she disappeared up the staircase, Barnabas heard Quentin utter a low growl, and then the taller man was upon him. "I'll kill you!" Quentin shouted. Both toppled, one never losing his firm hold on the other's throat. First his instincts had failed him, and now Barnabas struggled unsuccessfully to extricate himself. Only a few days before, he could've cast the other man off like a pile of rags, but the cure had left him exceedingly vulnerable. "Why'd you do it?" Quentin wailed, his face contorted with rage as Barnabas' head began to loll. "Tom didn't deserve it!" "No!" came as a shrill cry that originated above them. "He didn't do it, Quentin!" Julia shouted while hurrying toward them. "He's not responsible for what happened to Tom. I swear it! Now stop, you're killing him!" Barnabas' tongue fell forward, but Quentin didn't waver. "No more lies!" he told him. "I saw the wounds on his neck. And I know what you are, and how you can be destroyed. No more lies!" he repeated. "Look out the window," Julia told him. "It's daylight out, Quentin. Please, I beg you," she sobbed miserably. "See for yourself." But he didn't have to. His back had been to the sun as he ran here from Collinwood, and the realization made him retreat from both of them as Julia rushed over to prop up Barnabas by his shoulders. "He's still alive!" she cried out. "Thank God!" "This doesn't make any sense," a confused Quentin told her. "I've been working on a cure for his affliction. This morning he looked at the sun for the first time in over 170 years," she explained. "And you nearly ended it for him." "A vampire killed Tom. I saw the wounds on his neck. If not Barnabas, then...?" "An-," Barnabas rasped. "Ange-, Angelique." "Angelique? What do you know of her?" Quentin snapped. "My curse," Barnabas choked out before succumbing to a fit of coughing. "I know how it is to be cursed," Quentin reflected. "But I had hoped things would be different for Tom. I thought my great-grandson had by nature escaped the curse," he added tearfully, inspiring Barnabas and Julia to exchange confused looks. ~~~~~~~~~~ Willie tossed his fourth cigarette onto the ground, this one just beyond his long shadow, and checked his watch. It was 7:40 in the evening. Soon it would be sundown (at 7:48 p.m., if Dr. Hoffman's newspaper was correct), yet the last worker still hadn't exited the funeral parlor. There must be a back door, he realized, and considered that the mortician had probably used it. "He's halfway across town on the bus by now," Willie mused. He picked up his leather bag, swung it onto his back, and headed for the front porch. The neatly trimmed shrubs and colorful flower beds that lined the ordinary-looking building gave him the willies. For an operation whose business is death, its outward appearance was depressingly cheerful. Willie tried the door but found it locked. He decided to ring the bell, and tried to invent a plausible story should he need it, but no one answered. He glanced at his watch again; it was 7:43. The last sliver of sun would disappear in 5 minutes, but he added another five as a grace period ... because as any schoolkid can tell you, vampires don't rise until the sky is completely dark. Along the building's side, hidden behind a hearse that shined like a black jewel, was an uncovered double window that looked onto a large room partially lined with file cabinets and containing some high-reaching equipment in the center. He set his bag down and yanked out a large crowbar. After several attempts, the lock was snapped and the sash was easily pushed upward. Willie dropped the heavy crowbar, returned the bag to his shoulder, and lifted himself up and in. A small light burned in one corner of the room, but it was hardly adequate for finding his way around. He started to cross the room while still fumbling in the bag for his flashlight, but suddenly his left foot made contact with a large, soft object that blocked his path. He fought to maintain his balance, but instead slid backwards on the slippery (wet?) tiles, his hip slamming into a stainless steel table that clattered into the wall. In a reflex move, he grasped at the table for something to keep him from landing on his backside, but came up with only a sheet as he hit the floor with a thud, yelling "Ow!" and spilling the contents of his bag onto the floor. When he was sure there were no sounds other than the pounding of his own heart, he pulled himself up and set the bag onto the empty table to begin replacing the items as he found them-- a mallet, a cross, a pack of Winstons, and a stake. The flashlight that had been stripped away by the fall continued to blaze underfoot. As Willie reached for it, his eyes froze over the chart that dangled from a silvery chain at the foot of the table. Across its top, in bold letters, was the name "Thomas Jennings". (TO BE CONTINUED BY THE FABULOUS COLLINSKID! YAY!!)