Shadows on the Wall

Chapter 29: Pandora’s Box: A Price to Pay 

By Nancybe 

Voiceover (by Louis Edmonds): “Dawn at Collinwood finds two victims of a
vicious vampire struggling for their freedom and their very lives.  And a young
woman who has come to the Great Estate in search of her identity may discover
more than she ever wanted to know…” 

***** 

The House by the Sea 


BONG…BONG…BONG… 

Nicholas Blair glanced up at the grandfather clock in his new home as he
hastily pulled on a pale lavender glove.  He had intended to arrive at
Collinwood well in advance of his breakfast date with Elizabeth hoping to have
a look around to see what was happening at the Great Estate.  And now he was
running late – but it was just so difficult to leave the long-legged Maggie who
decorated his bed so well. 

BONG…BONG… - BOING- 

Blair scowled at the clock.  Damn those decorators – could they get nothing
right?  He had ordered a grand clock, one to rival the magnificent timekeeper
that stood so elegantly in the foyer of the main Collins’ mansion.  And
instead, he had gotten *this*.  Well, one day, the clock that the “original”
Barnabas Collins (Nicholas had to smirk at *that*) had brought home for his
parents would chime for Nicholas Blair.  One day very, very soon.  And in the
meantime, he would have to think of a suitable punishment for those incompetent
decorators.  Perhaps an outbreak of boils or complete loss of all body hair…. 

The sound of Maggie skipping down the stairs cut short his daydream.  He looked
up, and his eyes immediately focused on the black leather mini-skirt that so
flattered those delightful legs.  A pout marred her pretty face as she paused
on the bottom step, holding tightly onto the newel post with a long slim hand
that ended in fuchsia painted nails. 

“Nicholas, do you really have to go?” she asked in a voice both hopeful and
fearful at the same time. 

“You know I do, Maggie, and you know why.” 

“But I don’t like the thought of you with that woman, pretending to be in love
with her.  You belong here with me.” Her tone was becoming petulant, and
Nicholas suppressed a sigh.  He found it much easier to be patient with Maggie
than with anyone he had ever known, but his patience went only so far. 

“Ah, but my dearest Maggie, you know why I am doing this, why I *must* do it. I
am doing it for both of us, my darling.  Soon *I* will be the Master of
Collinwood, and once I have dealt with Elizabeth, I shall make *you*
Collinwood’s Mistress.” 

He stopped to look at her a little sternly, and a note of impatience crept into
his deep voice when she remained silent.  “I’ve explained all of this to you
before, Maggie.  I thought you understood how it had to be.” 

The new dark Maggie Evans stared at the floor and fiddled with her hands
twisting the antique ring he had given her.  The smoky green stone glowed with
heat as she relentlessly twirled it around and around her finger. 

“I do, Nicholas,” she said quietly.  “I do understand.  It’s just when I
picture the two of you together, you and that Elizabeth Collins Stoddard…. 
She’s so *old*, Nicholas; she must be at least fifty….” 

Nicholas chuckled to himself.  *She must be at least fifty.* Didn’t this naïve
child realize how old *he* really was?  How ancient, how accomplished he was 
after centuries of practicing his evil? 

Maggie was still talking.  “And I …well, this house frightens me a little when
I’m alone.  Please don’t stay away too long, Nicholas.” The pout was back. 

He pulled her down to him and briefly kissed her silver-lipsticked mouth (he’d
had no idea she could become so creative with make-up).  “Don’t you worry,
Maggie, I’ll be back soon.” 

Behind her, he could see the portrait of Gregory Collins which stood sentinel
in the drawing room. Maggie had begged him to dispose of the painting when they
had remodeled the House by the Sea, but he had steadfastly refused.  She had
remained so frightened of it that she would hardly set foot in that room, and
if she did venture there, she refused to meet Gregory’s burning eyes. Nicholas
looked into that cruel face now and said to himself, *Now, that’s 
*my* kind of Collins.* 


He grinned at the thought and was gone. 

***** 

Collinwood 


Victoria Winter’s hand slowly inched along the thick banister as she carefully
made her way down the grand staircase.  Dark smudges of weariness ringed her
brown eyes, and a dull headache beat in her temples from lack of sleep.  Lack
of sleep because of the dreams – 
*nightmares*, she amended – that featured a young, dark-haired woman with doe
eyes.  A woman who looked enough like Vicki that they could be sisters.  A
woman whose delicate face hinted of an underlying madness.  A woman who would
no longer let Victoria rest. 

The pale light of first dawn painted the foyer below in a milky glow, and
despite her insomnia, Vicki was glad that she had these early hours to herself.
 She marveled at how deathly still this huge house could be when all of its
inhabitants were asleep.  The quiet was so complete that it seemed to have a
noise all its own.  She knew that made no sense, but – 

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!” 

The scream was so agonizing that Vicki nearly lost her footing before she
grabbed the banister for support, one white knuckled hand just halting her
forward motion.  She felt even the skin of her scalp ripple in gooseflesh at
the anguished sound that originated from the drawing room.  The noise was so
piercing that Vicki was unable to ascertain if it was male or female, human
or….  She didn’t want to complete *that* thought.  And then it cut off
abruptly.  It was followed by a loud thud, and then all was quiet once more. 

Regaining her senses, Vicki sprinted the rest of the way down the stairs and
hurried into the drawing room.  The sight before her made her come to a
skidding stop and cover her mouth in horror. 

Roger Collins and Julia Hoffman lay like human sacrifices before the mammoth
fireplace, Roger on his back, mouth open, Julia curled up on her side.  It was
impossible at first glance to tell if they were still alive.  Rag dolls, they
look like rag dolls cast aside by a petulant child, Vicki’s mind sputtered
before her common sense and human compassion drove her to action. 

The stench of burned human flesh permeated the room nauseating the young
governess, and she had to fight her gag reflex as she approached the bodies. 
She knelt down and was horrified to discover the reason for the putrid smell. 
Both Roger’s and Julia’s necks bore char marks approximately three inches in
diameter.  The blackened flesh on the doctor’s neck appeared to still be
sizzling, and blood and pus oozed from the center of the wound.  Vicki was
puzzled for a moment by the cross-shape of the burn until she noticed the
string of polished agate beads that lay next to Julia Hoffman.  From one end of
the dark rosary hung a thick crucifix covered with gray ashes, small pieces of
darkened skin still adhering to the metal in spots. Vicki’s stomach did a
little flip-flop at the same time her mind was trying to reconcile what it was
seeing. 

Victoria leaned closer to Julia Hoffman who for all intents and purposes
appeared to be dead.  Her chest did not rise or fall, and her color was a
sickly gray that seemed to be deepening in shade by the moment.  Vicki turned
her attention to Roger Collins who to her relief appeared to be breathing,
albeit shallowly.  She placed one hand around his wrist to check his pulse and
cradled his face with her other hand.  Vicki had no medical training; her
actions were purely instinctual.  The moment her flesh made contact with
Roger’s flesh, she felt her hands grow warm, and a tingling sensation extended
the length of her arm and down to the tips of her fingers. Collins began to
moan loudly before abruptly opening his eyes to stare directly into hers. 
Vicki jumped at his sudden alertness and snatched back her hands in surprise. 

Roger brought himself to a sitting position with an effort and rubbed a hand
across his eyes. “What’s happened here?” he demanded in a thick voice, sounding
very much like the lord of the manor. 

“I…I don’t really know,” the young woman stammered.  “I heard a terrible scream
so I ran in here and found you and Dr.  Hoffman lying on the floor-” 

“Julia!” Roger yelled, noticing the doctor’s prone form for the first time. 
His hand immediately went to his own neck as his eyes came to rest on the
horrific wound that marred Julia’s slim throat. Finding nothing beneath his
fingers but smooth unbroken skin, he brought his hand down to stare at it in
surprise.  There was no melted flesh, no searing pain.  There was no longer any
sign at all that Cassandra had been regularly assaulting the large vein that
pulsed in his now healthy throat. 

“It’s gone,” Vicki whispered to him in a flat voice, seeing the question in his
eyes.  “The wound is gone.” 

He looked at her with a dazed expression.  “But how?” 

“I…don’t…know….” 

He stared at her a moment longer before remembering that Julia lay still on the
floor next to him…very still, too still. 

“Can you help Julia?” he asked, almost perfunctorily.  The doctor looked like
she was far beyond helping.  After all, Cassandra had purposefully taken all
that Julia had to give. She had cruelly and viciously drained her rival of
almost every drop of her life’s blood while taunting her about her future as
one of the Undead.  How Julia had found the strength and courage to try to
cleanse the unholiness from her desiccated body, Roger did not know. 

“I’ll try,” was all that Vicki said.  She moved back over to Julia and took
hold of the doctor’s wrist as she had done with Roger, flinching at the feel of
the chilled skin.  She started to lay her hand against Julia’s face and then
hesitated.  Her hand moved instead to rest directly upon the festering hole in
Julia’s neck that reeked of dead human tissue. 

Nothing happened. 

Roger watched in alarm, his eyes going from Vicki to Julia and back to Vicki
again. 

“It’s too late,” Vicki’s mouth whispered.  *No, it’s not,* her mind insisted. 

The young woman squeezed Julia’s wrist more tightly and dug her fingers more
deeply into the raw wound, trying to ignore the feel of the injured flesh under
her own. Slowly, the now familiar feeling of heat ignited her arms, her hand,
her fingers until she thought she might cry out from the intense sensation. 

Julia’s body abruptly shuddered, and she began to cough violently.  Victoria
and Roger hurried to help her sit up as she hitched in breath after ragged
breath. 

“Roger?” Julia croaked when she could breathe again. 

“It’s all right, Julia.  It’s all over.” 

She looked at him blankly before understanding his meaning.  *It’s all over.*
Isn’t that what Barnabas had said to her after the Tom Jennings’ debacle? 
*It’s all over.* But it was never *all over.* Not at this Gateway to Hell that
masqueraded as the wealthy estate of Collinwood.  She bit her tongue hard to
keep from laughing hysterically at Roger’s reassurances for she knew once she
started to laugh, her last shred of sanity was in danger of unraveling. 

As her memories of the morning gradually returned to her, her hand flew to her
neck just as Roger’s had done earlier.  And like Roger, she found nothing but
virgin skin – unpunctured, unblemished, unviolated.  Her eyes sought Roger’s
for an explanation, but he had little to give her. 

“Victoria heard you scream, Julia, and rushed in here.  She…revived me, and
then she…helped…you.  That’s all I know.” 

Julia turned her attention to Victoria Winters, but her apparent savior’s face
reflected nothing but confusion and disbelief, and Julia was afraid that Vicki
was about to lapse into shock.  Julia reached out and squeezed the governess’
hand to get her attention. 

“Vicki, would you mind making us a pot of tea?  I think we could all use some.”


Vicki’s eyes struggled to focus on Julia.  “Tea?" she repeated blankly.  “Oh,
yes, of course.  I’ll make us some.” She rose carefully as if she was a fine
china cup in danger of shattering and headed slowly toward the kitchen.  Why
did she feel like she was the ancient Pandora who had just opened up a very
dangerous box? 

***** 

A slim figure receded back into the dim shadows of the foyer as Victoria
Winters passed by on her errand.  Nicholas Blair had witnessed all that had
happened in these early morning hours at Collinwood.  First, Julia and Roger
lying before the fireplace like discarded carrion, their necks seared and
smoking.  He realized immediately what they had done to free themselves of
Cassandra’s control, and he had to grudgingly admire their bravery.  He wasn’t
too terribly surprised that the good doctor was capable of such an act, but
Roger Collins? Impressive.  And he was of course delighted that his dear sister
had been thwarted once again. 

But his interest at this moment lay with the very intriguing Miss Winters.
Roger Collins had been severely injured, but Julia Hoffman…well, for all
Nicholas could tell, she had been dead or very close to it.  And Victoria had
done no more than touch them…or so it had seemed. 

Nicholas rubbed an elegantly gloved finger across his glossy black mustache and
pursed his lips in thought.  Who was Victoria Winters really?  *What* was she? 
And how could he use his newfound knowledge to his own advantage? 

Beside him, the ornate grandfather clock began to chime its graceful melody. He
smiled up at it. Yes, indeed, perhaps the demure Miss Winters was emerging from
her dull gray chrysalis to transform into quite a butterfly, quite a *colorful*
butterfly. 

And perhaps she was somehow the key to making certain that Nicholas Blair awoke
every morning to the chime of *this* grandfather clock. 

Nicholas grinned. 

***** 

Julia Hoffman and Roger Collins looked at each other in astonishment the moment
Vicki left the drawing room. 

“We did it,” Roger said, his voice tinged with a touch of awe. 

“Thanks to you, Roger.” Julia gave her ally a small grateful smile. 

“She will be furious, you know.” 

“Yes, I know.” 

“What are we going to do about her?” 

“Destroy her,” Julia said through clenched teeth, her voice hard enough to cut
diamonds. 

“Easier said than done, Julia.  I have a feeling that other brave souls have
tried to destroy her – many times – and have always failed.  She has powerful
friends,” Roger answered, sounding tired and defeated. 

“Well, we have a more immediate problem.” 

“Vicki.” 

“Yes, Vicki.  How do we explain why we both had burn marks on our necks? And
what in the hell happened to *heal* us?” 

***** 

In the end, Victoria Winters proved to be the least of their worries at the
moment.  When she returned to the drawing room, she seemed to remember little
of what had happened since she had descended the stairs after her sleepless
night.  Feeling dazed and confused, she had accepted a mild sedative from Julia
and returned to her room. 

Once she was gone, Julia and Roger abandoned the pedestrian tea for stout
snifters of brandy. Although free of the vampire’s control and healed of their
injuries, they remained weak and tired, and Julia finally excused herself
explaining that she needed at least a few hours sleep before they strategized
on dealing with Cassandra. 

Left alone in the drawing room, Roger Collins turned to regard the flames that
leapt and danced in the fireplace in orange, blue and white waves.  How had he
ever had the courage to do it?  He would never have imagined that he could feel
so desperate.  And once it was done, just *what* had *Vicki* done to him? 

There was nothing for it but another glass of mind-numbing, throat-scalding
brandy.  He crossed to the sideboard and picked up the sparkling Waterford
decanter but paused when he heard a voice behind him. 

“She opened the door,” came a guttural whisper. 

He turned thinking that Julia had decided against her nap, but the room was
empty. 

“A *price* to pay….” 

The room was empty, but someone was speaking.  To him. 

“Who is it?  Who’s there?” he demanded in a voice that sounded braver than he
felt. 

“You belong to *us* now.” He was wrong; it wasn’t one voice, it was many, all
speaking at once. 


“What do you want?” he tried not to shriek as his eyes frantically scanned the
room.  But there was nothing to see. 

“Yesssss,” the hellish chorus of voices hissed, and they were cold, so cold,
and their sound made his blood threaten to coagulate within his veins. 

“A pricccce to pay, a pound of fleshhhhh.  And we are the lenders.” The words
dripped venomous icicles and were followed by chilling laughter. 

Roger Collins threw his hands over his ears and screamed, sending the brandy
snifter crashing to the floor. 



To Be Continued