Shadows on the Wall

Chapter 29: "Initiation," Part A 

by Gothick


Voiceover (Joan Bennett): The gray dawn that streaks the eastern
skies over Collinwood brings no light--for the night that is ending has
been a night of violent horror, a night that will remain infamous even in
the shocking annals of the Collins family. Four people have felt the
fearful touch of the living dead--but, of those four, the danger now is
greatest for one woman. She has survived a journey through time and
an assault upon her very soul by the powers of witch who has returned
from beyond the grave to seal a curse writ with letters of blood in the
devil's own screed. But will Julia Hoffman survive the most terrifying
ordeal of her life--as she is led down the dark shadows of the land of
the undead--and prepared to become ... the bride of the vampire ... 

i. reverie 

the waves fell upon the beach with a dull roar 
like the wolf falling upon the fold 
rrrrrooowwwwwwrrrrr.... 

Why'm I on the beach? I don't remember- 

*Juuuuuullllliiiiiaaaaahhhhh* 

Tom? Tom? Where ARE you? 

Why do I suddenly feel as if I had just been in a train wreck? 

*Over here ... Juuuuuulllliaaaaahhhh ... over here ... * 

Stumbling over the sand ... Gawd wearing high heels to the beach
must've been the stratospheric HEIGHT of stupidity ... 

Tommmmm! 

He lay nude on a narrow bed. His skin was very white, very taut, like a
pale thing laved and polished to a high sheen by the waves of the sea,
so iridescent the bones almost showed clean through, and she marveled
at the tracing of fine short brown hairs over his chest, and the twin
carmine blooms that were his nipples, and the way the head of his cock
flared an almost angry fiery red as it rose up hungrily between his
thighs 

oh and his lips were very red like lush ruby slices and oh so hungry too,
and his eyes dear gawd his eyes were red red the RED of blood and a
hideous shudder ravaged her body and her legs failed and she fell and
fell and fell, into the winnowing gyre of dark oblivion... and out of that
strange sensual gyre came a voice. He spoke. 

*You've healed me, Juuuuuulllliaaaaaahhhh ... your blood has made me
whole again. Soon, my darling, very soon, we're going to be together ...
in a world very different from anything you have ever known. But first
you must join yourself with the river of my blood, and taste the
nightsong that is to unite us forever and ever ... beyond the bounds of
life and death ... so that we bathe together in the blood of a new world
... and arise immortal ... newborn ... and perfect!* 

And as his voice ceased her clothes seemed to fall away and she felt
strong arms lifting her up and caressing her softly, and her tears were
flowing and her sobs were wracking her throat because her body hurt,
it hurt, it was like one huge gaping wound that no anaesthetic however
potent could ever heal. She felt him lay her down, and the pain was
almost unbearable, but his lips touched hers softly, gently (and the
restraint there stunned her, as she could feel the HUNGER simmering
with the merest brush) and his tongue licked hers and she felt a strange
dark elixir passing from it into her throat that ached from
unremembered screams ... and she felt him shudder with a sudden
inexplicable convulsion, felt his thighs swiftly straddling her shoulders,
felt his hands holding her bruised cheeks gently but firmly, felt the
intrusion of something warm and firm and potent between her lips,
became vaguely aware of the dark salty fluid trickling over her lips and
into her own bloodstream ... felt a mystic blanket slowly weaving
around her, cocooning her, as he crooned unknown syllables anxiously
and yearningly over her, his hands gently and patiently massaging her
flesh, the bitter fluid filtering down her throat as she heard him
whispering urgently over her, "Drink, my love ... drink ... drink and be
one with me ... drink and be flesh of my flesh ... mind of my mind ...
blood of my blood ... drink and be my bride!" The cocoon seemed to
gather mysteriously around her, and suddenly she grew AWARE ...
aware of his heartbeat, his sobbing gasps of pleasure, his thoughts that
told her oh yes my love, how perfect you are, and now my blood will
heal you of what I did to you in my frenzy as your blood healed me.
And now you will sleep and when twilight comes I will put on my dark
cloak and come to you on wings of night and exalt you upon the altar of
darkness, mine forever 

*I'll be with you always 
*Ever ... Together ... 
*Eternally bonded ... 
*Never apart 

*Always ... 

*Never apart ... 

The darkness swallowed her and she knew no more. 


ii. Season of the Witch 

When I look over my shoulder 
What do you think I see? 
Donovan, Season of the Witch (1966) 

Collinwood was in chaos, but Cassandra Collins was at her most
queenly as she sipped a mid morning cup of coffee alone in the
oak-panelled drawing room. In solitary splendor, she wore one of her
favorite silvery-blue Mary Quant trapeze dresses, a pair of smart
electric blue high heeled open-toed delmans and her spellcasting ring
with its enormous blue bezel that seemed to sizzle with satanic power
wherever the light caught it. Even her fingernails were painted a
creamy lilac and carefully manicured into sharp cat-like points. Cat-like
too was her smile, lips delicately frosted with Barely Pink, the new
best-selling Helena Rubinstein lipstick, which she'd bought in a little
expedition to Brewster's just a few days before. Her immense helmet
of black hair, landscaped and terraced into a high dome with the aid of
innumerable lashings of hairspray, rose militantly above her deceptively
bland, pale forehead. She really looked quite stunning, a fact she
revelled in. Not bad for an 18th century lady's maid, she would have
reflected, had her thoughts not been taken up with the day's startling
developments. 

Really, things could not be going better. She'd never dreamed how
ruthlessly efficient a fledgling vampire Tom Jennings would prove. Tom
was well on his way to proving the most glorious success of her witchly
career. (Why hadn't Barnabas simply given himself to the glory of the
evil, the way Tom had? Why did Barnabas ALWAYS have to fight
her? It justn't wasn't fair!) Roger had awakened her shortly after dawn
in quite a state, telling her that both David and Vicki were missing from
their rooms. It couldn't have been more than 2 hours later that he called
from the Collinsport Hospital with the news that David, Vicki and Willie
Loomis had all been found unconscious at the Old House. All three
bore the identical markings of the maniac who had terrorized the
community months before--the twin wounds on the neck, the
mysterious loss of blood, the inability of the victim to be roused into
consciousness. He had asked to speak with Mrs. Stoddard, who had
left the house in the company of Mrs. Johnson almost immediately
without a word to Cassandra. The witch smirked as she recalled the
panic on the faces of the two women, and she cackled aloud as she
reflected that Julia Hoffman was still missing. Perhaps Tom Jennings
had already dispatched that dried up old maid. She grinned wickedly,
and thought not for the first time that the meddling doctor should have
been put down for her own good long ago. She would have to see to it,
if Tom had not already taken care of the job for her ... 

"Cassandra!" 

The voice was rough, shaken with strong emotion, but still
unmistakable. She turned, her smile regal and smug. 

"Why, Mr. Collins," she purred seductively, "how ... unexpected! We so
seldom have the pleasure of a visit from you ... before sundown. I had
begun to think you something of a night owl." 

"Witch," he gritted between clenched teeth, and in one swift movement
seized her throat roughly and decisively between his large, strong
hands. "What have you done with Julia?" 

"Please..." she managed, gasping for enough breath to speak the words.
"You're ... hurting ... me ....!" 

"Not as much as you will be hurting if you don't tell me what I want to
know!" he bellowed at her. Her eyes swivelled wildly in their sockets
as she struggled to breathe. His face was bright red, his own breathing
coming in short, heaving gasps. She struggled to think. Barnabas had
always had a temper, and he seemed very close to the breaking point. 

"Dr. ... Hoffman," she gabbled, and he grunted and released the
pressure enough so that she could speak with less effort. "Dr. ...
Hoffman ... we've all ... been .. very worried about her ..." 

"You lie!" he spat. "You've hated her ever since you learned she was
trying to help me. Admit at least that much, Angelique!" 

"I--" she glared at hm furiously. "Stop calling me that! My NAME is
Cassandra!" 

"Such propriety," he commented acidly, "in one as old in evil as yourself,
suits you illl .. Cassandra. Now get to the point. Where is Julia? What
have you done with her? ANSWER me!" 

"I'm surprised you're so concerned about Dr. Hoffman, Mr. Collins,"
she murmured, as suavely as she could while massaging her neck and
nervously checking to make sure her hair was still in place. "I would
think you would be more concerned about Miss Winters ... and David
... and Willie Loomis. You did know that they have been hospitalized ...
didn't you?" 

"What are you talking about?" he demanded impatiently. "Is this yet
another of your tricks?" 

"It's no trick ... no joke," she assured him. "Roger called a couple of
hours ago from the hospital. Elizabeth and Mrs. Johnson went down
there to join him. I'm afraid they all had lost a lot of blood--Roger said
something about transfusions." 

"Blood ..." Barnabas sagged visibly. "Oh no ... dear God, no!" 

"Yes," Cassandra continued eagerly. "Roger said something about a
maniac who had been responsible for a series attacks earlier this year
... I frankly thought the wounds he described sounded more like
something a wild animal would inflict." 

"Where were they found?" he asked, dreading the response. 

"In the Old House," she sneered softly. "Shortly after dawn." 

"And Julia was not there?" Suddenly, in one swift feral movement, he
had closed in on her again. "It's Jennings, isn't it? He's under your
control, isn't he? What have you done with him, Cassandra? Answer
me or by the Queen of Hell who is your mistress I will burn you here
and now!" He clenched her throat tightly in one hand, manoeuvring her
towards the fireplace, and was gratified to see a tinge of fear creep into
her eyes. 

But suddenly the front door clattered, and Barnabas released her, and
they turned to see an exhausted Liz coming into the foyer, her head
bowed wearily. He went to her immediately, and she tried to smile at
him, but her face was drawn with concern. "Barnabas," she murmured,
as he helped her coat off and turned to hang it in the alcove. "Thank
Heavens you're here. Have you seen Julia?" 

"Dr. Hoffman? No," he said, turning so she would not see the worry in
his eyes. "I was just .. asking Cassandra if she had been in yet." 

"No word still?" Liz asked, and Cassandra shook her head mutely. The
matriarch of Collinwood paced into the drawing room, refusing the cup
of coffee her sister-in-law offered her, and stood anxiously before the
fire. "I wish we could find her. Thank God David and Vicki responded
well to the transfusions. I would feel so much better, though, knowing
Julia was there to look after them." 

"Did either of them regain consciousness?" Cassandra asked. "Did
either of them say anything about--" 

"No," Liz shook her head with tired concern. "The Sheriff's office
seems to think it was the same madman responsible for the attacks on
those poor girls down at the docks, but I find that hard to believe. How
could one man overpower two adults and a child? I just don't
understand it." 

"Is David going to be all right?" Barnabas asked gently. "And Miss
Winters?" 

The mistress of Collinwood frowned. "The doctors say they'll both
make a complete physical recovery." She looked at Barnabas sadly.
"They have no way of knowing what the psychological trauma from the
attacks may have been, of course. All three of them have been
sedated. Barnabas ... I'm afraid Willie was more badly hurt than Vicki
and David. He had been beaten ... savagely. The wounds ... I'm sorry,
I can't describe it ..." 

"Please don't try," he said gently, putting a comforting arm around her
shoulder. "I'm sure the doctors will do their best for him. I'm just glad
David will recover ... and Miss Winters." 

"I'm grateful too," she said. "Barnabas, could you do me a favor? Julia
sometimes goes for long walks on the beach. Could you go look for her
down there? I ... I haven't said anything about her being missing to
anyone else ... you understand." 

"Of course," he nodded. "The beach. An excellent suggestion,
Elizabeth. Thank you. If I do find Julia, we'll go directly to the hospital.
We'll call you from there." 

"Thank you, Barnabas," she said, looking at him with a sudden shrewd
understanding. "You--you've been worried about her, haven't you? Do
you ... suspect something?" 

He looked down furtively, then managed a short, tight lipped smile. "Not
really," he said. "Call it ... a premonition." He turned to leave, then
glanced coldly at Cassandra, and paused. "I look forward to continuing
our conversation later, Cassandra. I meant what I said to you earlier ...
about that bonfire. It IS a charming New England custom ... one we
must revive on the estate again, soon." 

He gave Liz's hand a quick squeeze, then turned without a further
backward glance, and left the house. 

"How odd," Liz said, watching the door shut beside him. "I didn't know
Barnbas was a fan of old New England customs. I wish I could get in
the mood for a bit of fun like a bonfire." She started as a priceless china
cup crashed shatteringly to the floor. "Cassandra, dear, are you all
right? You're as white as a ghost!" 

"I--I'll be fine," she said, quaveringly, sinking down onto the sofa. "I--I
just need to rest a moment." 

Liz turned, sighed, and poured herself a cup of coffee from the silver
pot that stood on the little table between the fauteuil and the sofa. She
seated herself and mused, "I can certainly understand why you would
feel overwhelmed with everything that's happened. Cassandra, I realize
we've had our differences, but I want to thank you for all the support
you've given Roger today. He said your sympathy on the phone this
morning made all the difference. It feels as if the whole world has gone
mad, doesn't it?" 

"It has all been rather a shock," Cassandra said. "Perhaps you should
go upstairs and rest awhile." 

"I can't," Liz moped. "I'll be too worried until David's regained
consciousness. I only came home because Roger insisted. I realized
after awhile that I was only making him nervous. You know, even
though he doesn't show it very well, he loves David very dearly. Oh,
good heavens." 

"What is it?" Cassandra asked. 

"I've just remembered that I had a date to have lunch with your brother
today. I really don't think I'll be able to manage it, under the
circumstances. I do hope he understands. He'll be back any minute, I'm
sure. We had planned a drive up the coast, and then were going to
come back into town to try that odd new establishment with the funny
name--the Lavendar Guppy, I think Nicholas said. Have you been
there? I saw Mrs Pettibone at the hairdresser's on Saturday and she
was simply raving about the place." 

"No ..." Cassandra really wasn't paying attention to the commercial
blandishments of beautiful downtown Collinsport, or the peculiar new
role of restaurant reviewer essayed by Mrs Pettibone, a rather dowdy,
hidebound old lady. A stubborn bit of mental arithmetic was slowly
beginning to cadge space in Cassandra's Barnabas/curse dominated
brain. 

"Elizabeth," she said abruptly, "this isn't the first time my brother has
taken you out, is it?" 

"No," Liz responded with what might have been taken for a droll little
smile had she been a little less haggard. "Should I be concerned? Your
brother doesn't strike me as exactly the Lothario type." 

"Oh, you would be surprised," Cassandra told her. "Not that he's
insincere ... He's just the sort of man who tends to keep ... a lot of irons
in the fire." 

"Ever the diplomat, my dear," a familiar, hearty, arch baritone voice
rolled gaily round the drawing room. Cassandra suddenly looked very
pale, and another coffee cup would have been in peril had she not been
sitting down. 

"I think what my dear sister is trying to say, Elizabeth," Nicholas
continued smoothly, stopping a moment to take Liz's hand in his own
and kiss it with a quick, debonair poise that had the mistress of
Collinwood smiling and blushing, "is that up till now I just haven't met
quite the right woman who would really absorb all my attentions. So, as
any bachelor who fancies the fair sex would do, I've played the field.
My sister is often charmingly .... old-fashioned in her attitudes. Aren't
you, my dear? You have certainly shown the most determined
...persistence in romance of any woman I have ever known." 

Cassandra's face had gone from ghastly pallor to bright red. "Nicholas!
I--" 

"I know what you're going to say, my dear," cooed her attractive
brother gallantly. "You've just remembered something very urgent you
have to do upstairs. I quite understand. I'm sure Elizabeth will be more
than happy to excuse you." 

"Well, I--I should go upstairs and try calling the hospital again,"
Cassandra said unwillingly. 

"Oh, I know Roger would appreciate hearing from you enormously,"
said Liz. "In fact, now I think of it, he might not mind having you join
him at all." 

"I'll see what he says," Cassandra murmured. "Take ... care, Nicholas."
A significant look passed between brother and sister, a look that might
have singed Liz's eyelashes, had she not been busy stirring her coffee.
Cassandra quietly left the room, her anger smoldering as she headed up
the stairs. 

How dare he, she fumed angrily. How dare he take that tone with me!
Romantic persistence, indeed. He thinks he can dance attendance on
Mrs. Stoddard AND keep Maggie Evans in his pocket for a little late
night entertainment. Well, we shall see about that. 

Nicholas had been meddling far too much in her affairs. It was time
that he was given something else to think about. (She might have been
just a little surprised to learn that he was thinking the same thing ) 

But first, Cassandra pondered, there was the matter of Julia Hoffman's
fate to consider. She had to learn where Tom had taken that interfering
doctor. And then she had to make sure that nothing interfered with
Tom's plans. Unknown to himself, Barnabas' frantic concern had
sealed the husky-voiced redhead's fate. Cassandra had never thought
of Julia as a RIVAL for Barnabas' affections, and she wasn't about to
let whatever bizarre obsession her husband had developed around his
physician go any further. Yes, Julia Hoffman had to die ... but it would
not be an ordinary death. With a dry cackle, the witch bustled down the
hall towards Julia's bedroom. With Roger, Mrs Johnson, Liz, and all the
others out of the house, the time was perfect for her plan. 

************************************************** 

"Oh great Hecate, Mother of Mystery," Cassandra incanted, slowly
brushing the scrying crystal with one of Julia's Hermes scarves, as she
touched the flame of a match to each wick of the seven black candles
in turn, "I call upon you to show me secret things, hidden things, things
known only to your boundless sight. Grant me the power of vision that
is yours. Show me where I may find her whom I seek. Show me where
Julia Hoffman has been taken. Oh dark Crone, you who ride in the fell
places and revel in your unholy ceremonies across the fields of the
damned, show her to me now! Reveal Julia Hoffman! Reveal! Reveal!
Reveal!" 

Though the windows of her bedroom were tightly sealed, and the
incense burned in a steady upward spiral, a sudden gust of wind from
nowhere extinguished each of the seven candles with a loud whoosh.
Cassandra's eyes widened as a flame ignited in the crystal. It slowly
grew brighter, until the light showed Julia's face, deathly white, the
cheekbones seeming to be sculpted in marble, her eyes shut. Only the
flare of her aristocratic nostrils showed that she was still breathing. 

"Reveal! Reveal! Reveal!" Cassandra's chanting was low, imperious.
The image grew in scope until she saw that Julia lay in a coffin. There
seemed to be an odd red film covering her body which Cassandra was
amused to see was nude--bereft of clothing. The coffin appeared to be
in a darkened room, filled with old sticks of furniture and oddments of
bric-a-brac. Suddenly she glimpsed an archway with a familiar motif in
the molding--a gargoyle (or griffin) seen in profile. 

"Of course! The East Wing!" Cassandra crowed. "It's brilliant! He
must have known about it because he was hired to do repairs there
years ago." With all due reverence, she made certain solemn passes
before the scrying crystal, and incanted, "Great Queen of Darkness,
Mother of Mystery, Regal Hecate, I thank you for your aid in this my
time of need! MANAS TE ADAMASTOR. So mote it be!" With a
little bow she leapt up from her seat by the fireplace and headed out the
door. 

Her lips curled eagerly into a vicious smirk. She was going to enjoy this.


*********************************************** 

The East Wing had lain abandoned for untold years. Unlike the West
Wing, which was under a strict ban from Mrs. Stoddard herself, the
East Wing had simply fallen out of use. No one was very sure why, but
modern plumbing and electricity had never been been installed in that
part of the house. It was a warren of cobweb-infested corridors,
decaying draperies, dusty alcoves and motheaten furniture. A perfect
hiding place for vermin ... and vampires. 

Cassandra moved with care, unwilling to let her lovely off-the-rack
couture clothing be smudged by any of the filth she passed. She felt
strangely excited. The thought of the fastidious, patrician Dr. Hoffman
exiled to this vile dungeon by day, to creep out and feed off her
unsuspecting victims by night, gave her a distinct frisson. She found
herself wondering whether the middle-aged doctor's vampiric union
with her revenant lover might possibly produce a child. She had read of
such children, and the strange powers they were reputed to possess.
The possibilities were endless... A low chuckle sounded in her throat.
Julia Hoffman, sworn by oath to alleviate suffering wherever she found
it. Mother of a race of vampires. The poetry of such justice made
Cassandra's head reel. 

She had reached the end of a corridor that felt vaguely familiar, and
moved the beam of her flashlight over the archway above her head. It
was the same arch she had glimpsed in the scrying-crystal, with the
image of a gargoyle (or griffin) sculpted in relief profile above the once
elegant plaster moldings. She moved eagerly into the room. A long
swathe of dusty grey velvet lay over a long, curiously carven trunk that
sat upon a peculiar looking plinth. Julia's coffin. Checking to make sure
that the adjacent windows were heavily shaded, Cassandra set down
her flashlight and, gripping the edge of the lid with both delicately
manicured hands, slowly raised the coffin lid. Ancient hinges groaned in
hellish complaint that rang to Cassandra's ears with the melodic
sweetness of the choir of the damned. She peered down into the
darkness. The reflection from the flashlight showed her the somnolent
features of Dr Julia Hoffman. Shrouded in a cocoon that seemed to
have been woven from blood. 

"Julia," Cassandra murmured softly. "Can you hear me, Julia?" 

There was no response. 

"Perhaps with a little help ..." Cassandra moved her fingers slowly over
Julia's face, and a tingle of muted aqua witchfire flickered briefly over
Julia's eyes. Julia trembled, then moaned, then with great difficulty
slowly opened her eyes. 

"That's better, my dear," Cassandra crooned. "Now you can hear me.
Can't you?" 

"Cassandra..." Julia's throat felt raw, and her head felt as if it had been
disconnected from her body. She hadn't a clue where she was, or what
was happening, and her vision was blurry, and everything looked
strangely red. "Is ... is that you? I can't ..." 

"Yes, dear Julia," Cassandra simpered. "It's me. Everyone else left.
Nobody bothered to visit you, except me. Don't you think that's
considerate of me?" 

"Where ... am I," Julia managed. It felt as if her mouth had been
gagged, and every word took a monumental effort. It was if her tongue
were the tail of a brontosaurus, wagging only endless minutes after her
sluggish brain had sent the signal for the words to be spoken. 

"You're in the East Wing, my dear," Cassandra informed her, "and I
can't imagine a lovelier home for you at the moment. The decor suits
you wonderfully well. It has that Gothic look that compliments those
regal cheekbones of yours. So don't worry that you're out of place.
Even in the nude, you belong here." 

"What .. has ... happened ..." Julia felt a slow, sickening sense of horror
gathering in the pit of her stomach. She wanted to scream, to wail, to
rage, to shake Cassandra and demand the facts at once, but so
insuperable was the lassitude that bound her, she found herself unable
even to lift a finger. Somehow all she could do was stare at
Cassandra's smirking face, and feebly hope that she didn't shine the
light any more directly onto her ... Light was her enemy now, and she
felt an instinctive, animal repulsion towards it. 

"You mean you don't know?" Cassandra's disbelief was quietly
mocking. "That is too bad. As a physician, I would think you would find
what is happening to you at this very moment ... extremely interesting.
You're in a kind of cocoon ... undergoing a sort of metamorphosis ...
into something that will fascinate the bored Collinsport locals no end.
Why, I think I'd pay real money to get a look at Mrs Pettibone's face
the first time she sets eyes on you after your ... transformation, my
dear. It will be too amusing!" 

Her bitter, vicious laughter clattered queasily around the room like
bones rattling in a gallows wind. 

"I--I'm going to die, aren't I," Julia managed, then, with the last bit of
her energy, "Please--Cassandra--help me ...don't let me die ... please
..." 

"Oh, my dear Julia, you aren't going to die!" Cassandra trumpeted.
"Don't you realize what is about to happen? You must be excited.
You're going to rise and walk the earth as one of the living dead. Why,
just think how close you'll feel then to Barnabas. How much more
deeply your bond with him will be. Of course," she continued with a
little sigh, "as the consort of Tom Jennings, it's unlikely that, in your new
persona, you'll have much interest in Barnabas... apart from as a
potential victim for your blood lust. Wouldn't that be too perfect, my
dear ... if YOU were the instrument of Barnabas' return to the night of
the living dead? What a proud moment it would be in your fledgling
careeer ... as a vampire." 

"Dear God ... " the words were a mere breath. Then Julia's eyes
narrowed, and her mouth pressed with what might almost have been
anger into a thin line, and she rasped painfully but with great
determination, "Barnabas ... hates you. You will never have him.
Never." 

"Won't I?" Cassandra snapped, more angrily than she would have liked.
"I wish I could say that you'll live to see the error of your ways, dear
Julia. But, I am afraid that, eventually, your coffin will have to be
discovered. And you will have to die again, this time for good, with a
stake driven through your ungrateful heart. But don't worry, my dear. I
plan to be there for the coup de grace. And I'll see to it that your
suffering is minimal." Another burst of cackling laughter, and
Cassandra's hands flew up to the coffin lid. "And now, farewell ... dear
Julia," she murmured. She pressed one hand to her own lips and then
lowered it inexorably onto Julia's dried, cracked mouth. Julia felt as if
she would throw up but there was nothing in her stomach except a
faint, sickening heave. And then the coffin lid came down, and Julia
knew only darkness. 

But not for long ... 


Barnabas Collins stood silent and alone, a mournful sentinel at the edge
of the stony beach, gazing sightlessly out to sea. *If only I could
become as lifeless and insensible as these stones*, he thought with
dazed sadness. He felt completely at odds with his own feelings, and
temporarily immobilized by the events of the past 24 hours. 

"Barnabas," the sharp tenor of Quentin's voice greeted him. So
preoccupied had he been, he hadn't even heard Quentin's approach. 

He looked sadly up at where his attractive cousin stood on a sort of
rocky promontory slightly above him. Barnabas' eyes, as Quentin
looked down at him, held all the infinite sorrows of a man long ago
weary of the world and its changing, baffling lustres, who tries still to
cling to some long shattered ideal of happiness. "Quentin," he said
quietly. "Have you--have you been up to Collinwood?" 

"No," said his cousin, hanging his head a little sheepishly. "I, uh, drove
up to Portland last night. ... There's a place up there called the High
Hat Lounge where I attempt from time to time to drown my sorrows.
They seem to have as many lives, though, as Angelique ... excuse me,
that wasn't very funny." 

"So ..." Barnabas paused: he really didn't want to be having this
conversation. "So, you haven't heard the news." 

"News? What news? Did Roger get drunk and crash his Cadillac
again?" 

"No." Barnabas sighed heavily, and continued: "I'm afraid Miss Winters
and young David have been hospitalized." 

"Vicki? What happened?" Quentin jumped down off the rock and stood
facing Barnabas. 

"They were found in the Old House this morning. They had both lost a
lot of blood... Fortunately, they both responded well to transfusions." 

There was a long pause, long enough for Barnabas to reflect upon the
peculiarly sudden, ashen pallor of Quentin's face and how bloodshot his
eyes looked. Finally, he said: "It's Tom, isn't it?" 

"I'm afraid so. I'm ... sorry, Quentin. I know it doesn't do any good, but
I swear to you, I wish I could undo it all." 

"The curse ..." The words came out of Quentin's throat in a stifled sob,
and he suddenly grabbed onto Barnabas, pulling the older man to him as
if he were his last lifeline. "That damned curse ... It nearly killed them,
and it's killed so many ... dear God, Barnabas, what are we going to
do? What am *I* going to do?" He collapsed, sobs wracking his body,
onto Barnabas' shoulder, weeping uncontrollably. 

Gently, carefully, Barnabas stroked Quentin's hair, until the barrage of
sobs died down. Then he gripped his younger cousin's shoulders, and
looked at him very quietly. "We're going to fight," he said, with a
resolution and a calm certainty he did not know, up until that moment,
he possessed. 

************************************ 

"Nicholas, you are SO full of sh-" 

A gloved finger was laid with exquisite tact upon her moist pink lips.
"Careful, my dear. I'd watch what I say if I were you. Don't you know
that for a witch, discretion is often the better part of valor?" 

"But Nicholas, honestly-" 

"Cassandra, my DEAR sister, you know how repeating myself
anNOYS me." As always when irritated, Nicholas' voice had sunk to a
low, almost serpentine murmur. She tried to back away, but too
late--that deceptively soft, gloved hand had grabbed her chin and
squeezed with vise-like severity. The pain made her gasp. 

"You still understand what pain means, my dear! Excellent! At least we
don't need to reinvent the wheel to that extent. Now, what have I just
told you about my plans?" 

"That I'm not to interfere in any way." 

"Bravo! You ALMOST sound as if you meant that." The cordial smile
suddenly turned to the most harrowing snarl as he pulled her in so close
she could study the perfection of his teeth with more attention to dental
detail than she preferred. "Now understand this, my dear sister. I'm on
the way to handing our Master one of the choicest plums in the very
long history of misrule, and I'm not about to let all that slip away just
because of your incompetent bungling." With a sudden push he released
her, sending her flying across the room, where she landed in a most
undignified position with her arms outstretched on the bed. 

"You've been brought back to do a job. NOW DO IT. No more toying
with your victims. And remember this." He strode over to her, leaned
down, stroked her unkempt hair and softly caressed one angrily
blushing cheek. "My private affairs are NONE of your concern. Clear?
Leave the intricacies of adult life to those who understand them." 

He turned to go, then looked back at her, not even bothering to disguise
the contempt in his face. "You know, I think I've finally understood why
the Master keeps you around. Your pathetic attempts at basic
witchcraft provide HOURS of entertainment value. Pity I'm not so
readily amused by your antics as HE is ... my dear." He leered
unpleasantly at her, and left the room. 

She glared at the door, sorely tempted to launch a bolt of witchfire after
him, but managed for once to control her temper. "Nicholas, you are a
FOOL!" she bellowed half hysterically at the empty walls. "And soon
you will be very sorry you trifled with me in the way you have. Very,
very sorry." 

She had the conjure doll all prepared, and the scarf fastened with one
of Mrs. Stoddard's heirloom brooches. She went to the window. It was
late afternoon. Soon the sun would be setting. And soon Julia Hoffman
would learn the true meaning of horror. She smiled grimly, fixed her
hair, and prepared to leave the room. 

********************************************** 

She was wearing her favorite peignoir, intricately stitched with a mod
design featuring purple butterflies. It suited her to wear something so
innocuous, especially when she was on her way to cast one of her
deadliest spells. People really did not take her seriously, did they?
Nicholas treated her with such condescension ... as though she were
some pretty little Barbie doll from Hell, to be indulged or discarded
according to his will. A little stroll along the grounds, and a visit to the
gazebo, would be delightfully refreshing after a long and trying day. 

The dusktide breeze gently caressed her brow. Her high heels clicked
ominously on the pavement as she mounted the steps to the gazebo.
She sat, arranged her robe, and pulled the conjure doll from sleeve. 

*If I succeed in this,* she thought grimly, *Nicholas will never know
that witchcraft was involved. He'll think Mrs. Stoddard is having a
nervous breakdown from the shock of what happened to her nephew
and the girl. He'll be too distracted to pay much attention to me. Then I
will be ready to make my move.* 

"Prince of Fire," she incanted slowly, "I invoke all the dark forces of
destruction to heed my call. EVOHE! EVOCATA! O ministering
forces of doom, you who hover searching for prey, take possession
now of the soul of her whom I have named Elizabeth Collins Stoddard."
She stroked the bosom of the doll delicately, and caressed its cheeks.
"Elizabeth, wherever you are, whatever you are doing, I command you
to come to me! Hear my voice ... listen to my words ... let my will
master your soul ... come to me! The time has come for you to learn ...
the truth!" 

She grasped the doll tightly in her hand. "Come, Elizabeth! I summon
you in this hour, in this instant, by all the dark forces of destruction, in
the name of every evil thing ... evil, and obedient only to the Son of the
Morning! By the Fallen Angel ... by the Lord of Terror ... I command
you to come to me ... now ... now!" 

She focused her energies, summoning up all the dark fire of anger and
rage at her command. It seemed but a moment later when she heard
Liz's mild voice: "Cassandra?" 

"Oh, Elizabeth!" She smiled secretively, quickly putting the conjure doll
back up her sleeve. "I'm so glad to see you. I was just thinking of you." 

"Were you?" Liz asked, seeming half in a stupor. "That's ... odd. I was
just taking a nap ... and suddenly I felt this strange compulsion ... to
come out to the gazebo ... and ... look for you..." 

"Yes, and you were right to do so," her sister-in-law told her. "Elizabeth,
look at me." 

"Why?" Liz turned abruptly, clearly alarmed by Cassandra's odd
behavior. 

"Don't question me! Just look deeply into my eyes! You know you
cannot resist!" Cassandra's voice grew shrill. The charm couldn't fail
now. It couldn't! 

Slowly, as if compelled by some unfathomable force, Liz turned, and
looked fearfully into Cassandra's eyes. "Good," the witch told her.
"We're making progress. Do you know, Mrs. Stoddard, what your
problem is, and always has been?" 

"What do you mean?" asked Liz blankly. 

"You spend much too much time thinking about the problems of other
people," Cassandra informed her. 

This blunt statement seemed to make Liz snap for a moment out of her
trance. "How dare you!" she exclaimed, with something like her usual
energy. 

But Cassandra kept her snake-like gaze fixed mesmerizingly upon Liz,
whose own eyes quickly glazed over again. "It's your way to escape
from the emptiness of your own life," she told the ensorcelled mistress
of Collinwood. "Because that is what your life has been up until now ...
empty and uneventful. But all that is going to change. Because I'm
going to give you something to think about. Something that will fill your
every waking moment. And that is ... Death." 

"No .... " gasped Liz. "No!" 

"Death," Cassandra continued relentlessly, "in all its forms and
manifestations. You will think of it, day and night. Death! Death, Mrs.
Stoddard. And most of all ... your own death!" 

"My own death ... my own death!" Liz's voice was barely audible. 

"Go now," Cassandra commanded her. "Return to your bed of sleep,
and dream, and your dreams will be a pageant of horror, until you can
know no rest but the sleep of the grave!" 

The mistress of Collinwood turned and, zombie-like, shuffled out of the
gazebo, back towards the house, into the gathering darkness that had
risen to enfold the Great House with the disappearance of the setting
sun. 

"I've done it!" Cassandra crowed malevolently. "I've set the spell!
Elizabeth Collins Stoddard has begun to die!" She began to laugh, slowly
at first, then in a rapid, running river of evil cacchinations that seemed
to echo around the gazebo. Suddenly she stopped ... keenly aware of a
distinctly strange, undeniably supernatural presence. 

"Who is here?" she demanded. "Who is watching me? Show yourself!" 

"Cassandra Collins," a drawling, angry, almost drunken male voice
spoke her name. "I've been watching you. I've been waiting for you.
You thought you could hurt her, didn't you? Well, I won't let you. I
won't let you!" 

"Who ... who are you? Where are you?" In her sudden panic, she heard
herself screaming the words, and began the warding spell to guard
herself against attack. 

"Where? Right here, Cassandra!" The light of the rising moon glinted
upon distended fangs, upon pale blood-starved flesh, upon the wrathful
eyes of Tom Jennings. 

"No!" Cassandra screamed. "This ... this can't be! You can't hurt me!
My power is greater than yours--I--" 

Her words were cut off as Tom, not even bothering to interrupt her
ravings, sank his fangs gluttonously into her neck. She tried to struggle
but almost immediately found herself swooning, half raptuously, into his
embrace. Oh Dark One ... no ... this couldn't ... be ... happening ....
Ohhhhhhh.... 

He held her tightly, draining her, feasting upon her blood. She sank and
he felt the flicker of life expire with amazing suddenness from her
body. 

Then, as he had been instructed, he carried her limp corpse out into the
woods. He would have killed anyone if it meant getting Julia back.
Nicholas Blair had made it quite clear that Cassandra's life was the
only price he was willing to accept. 

************************************************* 

"I'm glad Quentin persuaded you to call upon me, Mr. Collins,"
Professor Stokes said as they approached the Old House from where
Eliot had parked his car on the drive that ran around property away
from Collinwood. "As it is, we may have very little time." 

"Don't you think I'm aware of that, Professor?" Barnabas snapped. "I
still fail to see how coming here will help Julia." 

"I have brought certain ... objects with me that are needed for the ritual
I have in mind," Stokes said enigmatically. "But for it to succeed, I need
a quiet place free from prying, inquisitive eyes, and I wanted to be
closer to the scene of Dr. Hoffman's disappearance than my home
would have permitted. Coming here is the best possible place to begin
to find where she has been hidden. It is unfortunate that the sun has
already set. We must hope that there has been ... a delay on Jennings'
side, as well." 

"What do you mean?" Barnabas asked. 

"If I'm right ..." Stokes paused, ponderously. "If I'm right, Dr. Hoffman
is no ordinary victim for Jennings. He intends nothing less than to make
her his bride. To do that ... according to the manuals of vampire ritual
lore I have studied ... will require some preparation on his part. That
may give us a little time. Shall we go in?" 

Barnabas unlocked the front door, then stopped, and stared. The other
two men followed his gaze and saw the thin spattering of blood that
dribbled acros the threshold of the open door. In silence, they followed
Barnabas as he peered anxiously, intently, at the dribblings of blood
across the landing and up the stairs. He slowly climbed up the steps and
they followed him. Up the stairs, down the hallway, to the door of
Josette's room. Slowly, carefully, he opened the door, looked around,
and went in. 

She lay propped up on pillows like a translucent bit of driftwood washed
up from the sea. Her small, firm breasts with their surprisingly
prominent nipples rose and fell slowly, very slowly, with unmistakable
breathing. Barnabas tottered forward. "Julia ... my God ... Julia!" 

Her eyelashes fluttered, and eventually, with infinite weariness, her
eyes opened. Her expression was vacant, and he took her gently but
firmly in his arms. "Julia! Can you hear me!" 

She looked up at him, and a wide, slow, dreamy smile rippled across her
weary features (the bones almost showing through the skin stretched
taut and fine against her cheekbones). 

"Barnabas ... I knew ... you would save me ... from ... her ..." 

With a weary sigh her eyes shut closed. 

"Julia! JULIAAAAAAAAAA!!!!" 


TO BE CONTINUED BY THE BRILLIANT NANCYBE!