Shadows on the Wall Chapter 37: Hello by Midnite Hello *Hello, *Tap in the code *I'll reach you below *No one should brave the underworld alone *Hello, hello, hello, *How do I reach you? ["Hello" …. Poe] "As the moon shines full in blackest December, no one in the Great House is immune to the evil within its walls. Tonight, one man's life is in danger while another is coerced into committing a detestable crime, and two innocents are pulled further into their waking nightmares." (Louis Edmonds) She continued to advance on him, her body weaving, the scissors held high. His arm instinctively went up in defense and his voice boomed, "I charge and command you, Belial." He made a swift flick with his other wrist. "Arise from your dark dominion to answer my demand. Arise!" The room trembled, making Jenny halt, and a tiny cry emanated from the corner. "Listen," he told her as the sound grew sharper, and she turned to find its source. There was now a crib that contained two infants lying side by side, their mouths stiffened into howls. "Your babies need you," he said. "My babies?" she asked in a childlike voice. "Go to them, Jenny." She rushed over and with slim, white fingers stroked the plump baby in the pink blanket, and it grew silent at her touch. "Hello, my sweet," she cooed at it. Its blue eyes stared back at her, and Jenny smiled. But the smile faded when her eyes wandered to the frailer one, its lips encircled in the same blue as the blanket. "He'll never walk about like people do," she announced sadly. "Not for the lack of his mother's love," he countered, his agitation well masked. "No," she said. "In spite of that." Her brow wrinkled as if concentrating very hard. "It was because of HIM. His love gnaws to the bone. It gnaws me through, even now." She carefully curled the tiny boy into her arms and hummed softly, and the wailing subsided. The expression of pure love on her face gave Nicholas a glimpse of the great beauty she once was. And for a very brief moment, he felt pity for a human being. *** He would never get used to the smell of soap and Clorox. A nurse was approaching, this one stepping more lightly than the last. He could hear the swishing of her starched uniform as she circled where he lay. Now she was lifting his arm, and… OUCH! A rubber tourniquet had been snapped in place. You could have warned me about that, he said to no one. Next he felt a sharp sting on his forearm. The doctors were even worse. They would gather about his bed and in enamel voices would discuss him as if he wasn't even there. When I get out of here, he promised himself, I'm going to write an article about the impersonality of the hospital experience and its assault on one's dignity. Someone else was in the room now. Ah, the amazon that took his vital signs earlier had returned; he recognized her forceful steps and shuddered at the memory of how roughly she had handled him. He longed to tug on the cotton gown to make sure he was not exposing himself. He was accustomed to sleeping in silk, and the flimsy gown he had been forced to wear in this place was damn indecent. The two women were talking to each other now, and he was learning much more than he wanted to know about the younger nurse's prior evening. And now someone else had entered. It's undoubtedly a man, he decided, based on the long stride. The women stopped their gossiping immediately, and one of them dropped something. This can only mean… "Is it alright if I come in?" the man asked. Quentin! They invited him in, and one of them began giggling like a school girl. Get out, already!, he wanted to tell her. My friend and I have much to discuss. "Hello, Eliot," Quentin said softly. The professor could feel the bed lean as his friend sat down on it. Quentin, thank God you're here! I figured it out. I know now who… "You probably aren't even aware that I'm here, but I had to come as soon as I heard. The doctors say they don't know if you're going to wake up, but I'm having a hard time accepting that." Don't be ridiculous! There's nothing wrong with me that... "They just don't know you like I do. You're my best friend," he choked out, "and I don't know what I would do without you. You're the only person I've ever completely trusted. The only one who knows all my secrets. On the way over here, I was trying to remember how long we've worked together. I realized it's only been 5 years; can you believe that? I feel like I've known you all my life, and as you know that is a VERY long time." He placed a hand on the older man's arm, then added tearfully, "You've got to wake up, do you hear me? You've got pull through this!" He doesn't hear me. Dear God, this can't be happening. I have to figure out a way to warn him about Nicholas. He doesn't know the danger he's in. If only I could make eye contact, but I can't seem to will my eyes open. "I should go now, old friend, but I'll be back tomorrow. I swear it." The situation is even more desperate than I thought. Quentin, you have to listen to me. In case I don't make it out of here, there's something you must do. Go to my house. On my desk… "I need you, Eliot. Chris needs you. Get better." He's leaving. Quentin, no! Move something, you idiot! My hand… why can't I make it move? Quentin, come back! Nooooo!!! *** The huge foyer clock chimed solemnly as Roger stumbled across the foyer toward the drawing room, the well-polished table keeping him upright. His posture was slumped and his unshaven face sported a scruffy beard. He closed the doors firmly behind him and headed straight for the brandy in search of some alcoholic relief. David had given the order so matter-of-factly that it had sent a chill right through him. "Kill her," his son had hissed. "Do it tonight." What has happened to us?, he asked himself. What happened to my son? He lost track of how long he had stood there, his face buried in his hands. A noise startled him from behind, and he turned to see Julia in the doorway regarding him with a disapproving silence. "Hello," he said a little self-consciously. "Hello, Roger. Did I startle you?" I-I just didn't know anyone else was up at this hour," he told her. "Vicki's not feeling well so I decided to stay awake to keep an eye on her." After seating herself on the sofa she shook out a section of newspaper and began to read. "I'm sorry," she heard him say. "I beg your par-," she began to ask, but on looking up saw the .38 pistol in his hand. "It's not my fault," he told her. "It's the evil. The evil!" "You're not well, Roger. Now put the gun down before you hurt yourself and I promise I'll do what I can to help you." "No, Julia, that's not the plan at all." He raised the gun and pointed it directly at her. "Roger, no!" she shrieked. "What are you doing?!" "I-I-I… I can't do it," he said and lowered the gun, then dropped onto his knees and began to weep. She quickly took the gun from his hand and firmly told him, "I'll get my medical bag from upstairs and then I'll be right back with something for you." But when she returned, Roger was nowhere to be found. *** Vicki hadn't slept well. From 1 a.m. (when Julia last checked on her) until she forced herself to rise at five thirty, she had dozed fitfully, rousing from a sedated state to peer into the semi darkness before slipping back into a feverish dream. Bits of nightmarish memories would come to her before she succumbed to the drugs once again. More than once she had focused on the hushed voices outside her door-- Julia's dripping with concern and a man's that spoke in frantic whispers that she couldn't quite make out, yet the sound of it left her frozen with fear. She made her bed quickly, pulling the spread straight on top of the wrinkles underneath, then paused to worry in front of the window. A sharp recollection came to her but then it was lost. She became aware that her left cheek was stinging where Julia had slapped her. What was it that made me so hysterical last night?, she wondered. Why can't I remember? She shook her black hair as if it would shake the cobwebs from her brain. Those pills Julia gave her-- two little white ones and another that was blue-- left her feeling groggy, so she scanned the contents of her armoire, slid into the first comfortable dress she spotted, and headed down to the kitchen. Even Mrs. Johnson hadn't yet stirred, so Vicki fired up a pot of coffee and sat to wait for it. She knew she should probably eat something but didn't feel the least bit hungry. When the coffee was ready she drank it absently while considering who could best help her make sense of the fuzzy events of the night before. Not Dr. Julia "Swallow These" Hoffman, who had diagnosed her experience as a panic attack; not Quentin because she would surely crumple into his arms; not Carolyn, whose demeanor had become sullen and self-centered (even for her); and not Barnabas, oh God, not him. No, none of them could help her now. Vicki admitted to herself that, outside of the Collins family and Collinwood, she had no friends. She longed for someone neutral and patient and knowledgeable, but surely that was a pipe dream and she may as well be wishing for an instant family. As she rinsed the cup out an idea came to her, so she rushed into the foyer, pausing only to examine her pale cheeks in the mirror while carefully averting her eyes from the portrait of the original Barnabas Collins that hung on the opposite side of the archway. She pulled a trench coat (this one will do) off a hook and hurried outside. The sun climbed higher as she raced toward Rockport and the help she desperately needed. The keys were still dangling in the ignition when she approached the cottage to knock on the door, and then she waited with arms wrapped around herself. After a minute she knocked harder and listened for stirring inside but heard nothing. She knocked once more, then tried the knob to find it unlocked. She pushed the door open and paused in the doorway. "Hello? Is anyone here?" Again there was silence. She took a few tentative steps toward the sitting area. "It's Vicki Winters," she called out. "Your door was open." A grey cat circled her legs. "Hello there," she said to it. "Are you all alone?" She swept it into her arms and began to look around in earnest. When she found no one at home, she told the cat, "He must be at the University already." She spotted a neat pile of stationery on a small writing desk and set the cat back down before sinking into the cushion of an old chair. She picked up a pen and wrote, "Dear Professor Stokes, Please forgive me for barging into your home, but I felt it was imperative that I speak to you. So much has happened since we last spoke." She hesitated over what to say next, then read what was already written. The cat suddenly screeched and went diving for the back of the divan, which in turn startled Vicki and caused her to shove a small book onto the floor. She bent to retrieve it-- the leather was worn and red, and in faded gold lettering was the word DIARY. She gingerly opened it and read its first yellowed page: I, Ben Stokes, with a heavy heart do hereby begin this diary on the tenth of January in the year 1796… (To be continued)