Shadows on the Wall Chapter 40 - "Inside Looking Out" by Luciaphil Much Madness is divinest Sense— To a discerning Eye— Much Sense—the starkest Madness— 'Tis the Majority In this, as All, prevail— Assent—and you are sane— Demur—you're straightaway dangerous— And handled with a Chain— #435 Emily Dickinson Note: Asterisks connote italics * * * Voice Over (Joan Bennett): On this crisp winter's afternoon, the lines between past and present are blurring. For those in the great house on the hill, time in all its facets, has become paramount. As three people desperately seek understanding of what went before, they must struggle with new perceptions as well as new dangers. What was, what is, and what will be. * * * **July 1, 1944 Very pleased with my green linen dress. I didn't have to use a single ration coupon either. Thank heavens, we thought to look in the attics. I had no idea how much Mother had saved. Must see about having slacks tailored for Louise, there is a lovely gabardine that might just do . . . I don't think Paul will like the dress much, but then Paul hasn't liked much of anything I wear lately. He's keeping a new tramp on the side; I got another set of bills in the mail today. That was deliberate, I'm sure. And if I don't bring it up when he comes home, he'll find another way to throw it in my face. Then we'll quarrel and . . . I should divorce him, I know I should. If only the sex wasn't so thrilling. The other night when he . . . ** Barnabas blushed to the roots of his hair. This was most definitely not the Cousin Elizabeth he knew. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know anyone was—" Barnabas practically leapt to his feet. "Vicki!" In more modulated tones, he continued, "You're not interrupting anything. Please, do come in." **Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.** Victoria Winters considered him. "Why?" She was hesitant, uneasy, making her way by instinct now with a soupçon of intellect, instead of the other way around. "So that we might talk. I haven't seen very much of you lately." She analyzed his smile. So charming. They were all so charming, but that didn't preclude cruelty. **You're progressing, my dear.** "What would we talk about?" Barnabas missed the wariness in her voice; she looked so lovely, so innocent as she stood in the doorway. "We could go to the Old House." He could worry about Louise Collins later. The journals would still be here tomorrow. "There are some books about the past that I thought you might like to read." **Bor-ring! Where did you dig up the corpse? Tee hee. He *is* a corpse.** Vicki blinked. Behind Barnabas, sitting atop the grand piano was a teenaged girl: Louise. She was snapping gum. Vicki tried to focus in on this and the image faded. "Past?" Perhaps it was a mistake to try and solve all these mysteries. They might be all better off if they didn't try and turn over every rock in the Collins family background. "There's a book of engravings that you will find most fascinating." **Wouldn't you much rather find me, Victoria? Let me out. And then we can finally become properly acquainted.** Louise was back again. She shook her head violently. Vicki wasn't sure what she was trying to tell her. "I've read all the histories about the Pas—" **The late eighteenth century, my dear girl, the past encompasses a much larger period than twenty odd years. The world I can show you is much larger than the one he can.** "I've read all the histories about the late eighteenth century that I'm going to. The only past I'm interested in is my own." **That's telling him, toots.** "Of course, how thoughtless of me. I didn't mean—" Vicki stood straighter. "But that wouldn't interest you." "On the contrary, it would be—" **I would be delighted to hear about it. Now be a good girl. Come to me and we'll have a long, long talk about your life.** The kewpie doll of a girl swung her legs. Back and forth, they went, like a metronome. "I need to get out of here." Vicki flew out of the room and out of the house. * * * The thing that was Carolyn slipped down the corridor to the professor's room. She decided she liked this place. Although the hospital was a small one, shabby in many respects, the scent that permeated its slightly dingy hallways was pleasing to her: bleach, disinfectants, decaying flowers and death. Not largely the kind of death that appealed to her, but despair was there. The old man would be here somewhere. It should have been the mother. The thing that inhabited the daughter's body was torn between a passion for chaos and a newer, clinical need for order. She had been foiled several times now and she did not like it. The psychic should have been hers. The girl with the bizarre maquillage should have been hers. Not that she had planned on either one, but it was not fair that these unlooked for treats should have gone to the others. Carolyn especially regretted the loss of the uncle. She had harbored some very particular plans for him and Roger had spoiled it for her. With Gallic practicality, Danielle—or Carolyn, they were one and the same now, really—planned to take her pleasures where and when she could find them. His paralytic state appealed to her; there were a number of succulent things she could do to a man incapable of screaming. Killing was all well and good, but it took terror to make the experience sublime. * * * Vicki walked as quickly as she could from Collinwood without running. She was still trying to process all the knowledge, lies, hunches, emotions and scarce remembered dreams that were pushing at her relentlessly. She had an urge to sneak back into the house. There was something that she had to do. What was it? She had to go to the West Wing. Yes, that was it. But Barnabas was still in the house and right now Victoria Winters wanted nothing to do with him. The words of Ben Stokes had etched themselves into her memory. The obvious and utter decency of the writer had contrasted with the nightmare with which he had been forced to contend. Barnabas, so courtly, so pleasant, so enamored of a distant era. She had been unnerved at times by him, but disarmed. He had spoken so eloquently of the glories of the night. But he was out and about during the daytime now . . . She was so sick and tired of not understanding what was happening. She turned and faced Collinwood. **I can help you understand, Victoria. All you have to do is come and let me out.** Roger and Julia's bodies stretched out on the floor. **She opened the door.** Elizabeth Collins Stoddard laughed at her and sipped on a glass of blood. I, Ben Stokes, with a heavy heart do hereby begin this diary on the tenth of January in the year 1796 . . . All my pretty chicks and their dam? Her name is Victoria. I cannot take care of her. **My dear girl, don't be stupid. Come and find me.** He had thick, coke-bottle glasses, with cloudy lenses and a smile, disgusting and horrible and enticing. He beckoned to her. **I can explain everything to you. It's only fitting that you should be the one to release me.** The doors to Collinwood opened and oceans of blood poured out of them. **She's trying to keep you from your rightful place, my dear child. Just ignore her histrionics. She's jealous of you.** Vicki took a step toward Collinwood. **When der fuehrer says we is de master race We heil, heil right in der fueher's face Not to love der fuehrer is a great disgrace So we heil, heil right in der fuehrer's face.** Vicki blinked furiously. The feeling that she had to go and meet someone dissipated. **When der fuehrer says we is de master race We heil, heil right in der fueher's face Not to love der fuehrer is a great disgrace So we heil, heil right in der fuehrer's face.** It was surreal. It was bizarre. But it was absolutely impossible to ignore. Vicki turned away and followed the sound of the Bronx Cheers deeper into the woods. * * * Without ceremony, Julia marched into the drawing room at Collinwood, stripping off her gloves, finger by finger. She found Barnabas standing by the windows. "Vicki? Thank heavens, you're back. I was very worried about you—Oh, it's you." "How nice to see you too." He flushed slightly. He liked to think that his manners were impeccable. "How is Professor Stokes?" Julia twisted the corners of her mouth downward. "There's been no change. I don't know if he'll ever recover." She mechanically began to straighten out the fabric of the gloves and only to crumple it up again. "Have you made any progress with the diary?" He shook his head. "Not much. If only there was another way to find out more about Louise Collins." "I don't know any other way to do that. Elizabeth won't tell us if we ask. I can't find Roger. Even if we could . . . " Julia broke off as she thought of the state she'd last seen Roger in and about the footprints they'd seen. Maybe he wasn't dead. Habeas Corpus. It was infantile to think it, but a part of her clung to the idea. They hadn't found his body and until they did, he wasn't really dead. "Didn't she write anything about her sister?" Barnabas frowned. "She does, but these don't seem to be diaries in the strictest sense of the word. Most of the entries consist of appointments, shopping lists, things to do . . . " He said in a wondering tone, "There are pages and pages about hemlines and darts and sleeve lengths." Julia couldn't help it; she smiled. "Julia, I'm serious. At a time when the world was experiencing what you describe as devastation of the worst kind, all Cousin Elizabeth seemed to have been thinking of was the specifics of her wardrobe." "I'm sure she thought about the war, Barnabas. She probably didn't intend this to be a complete record of her mental state while the world was falling apart." Barnabas was only partly convinced. In the past few hours, Barnabas had learned more about twentieth-century fashion than he had ever cared to know. "She does mention Louise on occasion." He thumbed through the slim volume and read aloud, "‘See about the fitting for Louise's party dress—rose taffeta???' That is one of the more detailed entries." "Well, keep at it. Perhaps if you skim ahead you'll find something. What? You have found something." He hesitated. "I'm not sure how pertinent it is. Actually, Julia, I'm wondering if we should break off this line of investigation." Julia stared at him. She repeated her argument, "We don't have any other options. Keep on reading. There has to be something and even a vague clue would be better than nothing." "I am learning rather more about Elizabeth than is comfortable," he said delicately. That wasn't going to be enough for Julia though. He elaborated reluctantly. It was during Paul Stoddard's . . . "courtship" that Elizabeth started writing about events and feelings, most specifically about their physical relationship. Barnabas had been rather taken aback by these. His impression of the stately matron, an image he had accepted completely, was warping into something else. He found it upsetting. To his surprise, he got little sympathy after expressing this. Sighing, he read aloud one of the less disturbing passages. **July 6, 1944 Must remember to call Mr. Pruitt about the Grandfather clock. Oh, and I really have to have Hanscombe do something about the drapes in the drawing room. It's supposed to be unseasonably warm today. Bother. I'll have to wear something with long sleeves; I wish I didn't bruise so easily; Louise *will* keep asking questions. Paul left for Boston today. He threatened to stay away for good this time. I don't think I'll be that fortunate.** "You don't seem surprised," he said after finishing. Julia gave a sigh of her own. "It's not that uncommon. It should be, but it's not. At least, Elizabeth got through it alive." "But why would she put up with this monster in the first place? Julia," Barnabas set the morocco-bound journal down, "Julia, there is more. At times, she almost seems to like the violence." He was appalled. "Then there are accounts of some rather—" he broke off and picking up the book again, found, marked and handed Julia an entry for her to look at. After Julia read it, she gave the book back without comment. While the passage was more erotic than she would have expected, it wasn't as uncommon as Barnabas probably thought. "Well?" "Elizabeth is a complicated person, Barnabas." "I know that, but—" Julia frowned. "I don't think you do. You have a tendency to think that we started existing when you were released from your coffin. We had lives before you came back. Hopes and foibles and dreams and fantasies and failures and plans. We all have pasts. Elizabeth included." Unbidden, an image of Tom came back to her. He flinched at her tone. "But this man she married—" Julia waited. "I can't picture her putting up with the things that," he turned red yet again, "the things . . . the things she describes him doing to her." She was silent for a bit. She could have explained it to him, part of it in any case—Julia suspected that the forces that had driven Elizabeth and Paul together had roots more complicated than those of a battered wife and her abuser—but she was far too emotionally drained to have to break it down into the concepts and vocabulary necessary to make him understand. "What's important right now," Julia said through gritted teeth, "is learning about Louise Collins. Not about what makes Elizabeth tick. "It's as if she never intended to keep a diary," he persisted. "She probably didn't," Julia agreed. "If Elizabeth was living a fairly ordinary life before she met Paul Stoddard, she may not have felt the need to keep one. When he came along, that changed. Most people need an outlet for their emotions and thoughts. She used what had been her appointment books. It's not that strange." "Surely she could have talked to someone?" he suggested. "Her sister, or Roger. She mentions an aunt at times." Julia rubbed her temples. She wanted a stiff drink, a cigarette and for the events of the past year to have not happened, and not necessarily in that order either. The sky was falling down around them and Barnabas was concerned with his cousin's emotional state at a time, which tragic and chaotic though it might have been, really had nothing to do with their present difficulties. "Would you have talked to your teenaged sister or your brother about your sexual relationships? Or your aunt?" An image of dour Abigail Collins floated before Barnabas Collins. He shuddered. "It's not something most people feel comfortable discussing, even with close friends. Women who've been beaten usually feel ashamed of what's happened, Barnabas." And women who like it know better than to talk about it, she finished to herself. "Then why not keep a proper diary?" Julia got up. "I don't know and what's more, I don't care. I'm sure there are a dozen explanations; they don't seem important right now. We don't have a lot of time to worry about this. She's only going to be gone for a few more hours. Forget about her marriage and see if you can find out anything about Louise. I'm afraid I can't sit and hold your hand while you struggle with the fact that you're not always right and that not everyone matches up with your cookie-cutter expectations." * * * Carolyn waited impatiently for the nurse to finish with the professor. She would not be able to linger over him. It became very clear to her very quickly that there were too many people bustling in and out of rooms. It had taken her longer than expected to ferret out her prey. Not only were there more patients than she had expected, but there were distractions here. She had come across an array of delicious-looking surgical instruments with intriguing possibilities. Her examination of these had taken a surprising amount of time. She had been quite astonished when she'd seen how late it had gotten, but she had liberated a number of these little toys for later perusal and experimentation. She would have liked to slaughter the nurse as well, but reluctantly concluded that it was too risky. Finally the woman left. Carolyn slipped into the room and closed the door carefully. "Hello, Professor Stokes," she said very softly. Her victim stared at her. The thing that was Carolyn smiled at him brilliantly. The old man may not have been capable of movement, but she knew terror when she saw it. "I brought you a little something," she told him as she removed the stiletto from her handbag. * * * Note: Oliver Wallace's lyrics of "Der Fueher's Face" quoted without permission. * * * **July 31, 1944 Call Dr. Forsythe about Father's prescription Hanscombe—Silver in disgraceful state Roger's room—air out? Cigarettes Cigars** Barnabas noted that she'd crossed out the last item on the list. He read on. **I refuse to cater to that disgusting man's whims. Paul still won't tell me where he found him or why he brought him to Collinwood. I fail to see why we should have to put him up and I am certainly not going to use precious ration coupons to cater to Victor Fenn-Gibbon's whims. Letter to Norma Pettibone??? Not certain if this is a suitable thing to do. What after all, does one say to someone whose husband's grave has been desecrated? Is there anything one can say? I blame this dreadful war. The decent men have all gone away. Look at Mr. Fenn-Gibbon. Actually, I'd rather not. I shall have to be firm with Paul. Father won't come out of his room and Louise has been abominably rude, not that I don't appreciate her feelings, but still, one must observe the proprieties. Norma . . . Shall tell the Constable that this sort of thing simply cannot go on and that whatever vandals are responsible must be caught. Will have a quiet word with Norma to that effect when I see her next.** Barnabas tapped the cover of the book thoughtfully and skimmed through the several more pages. **August 8, 1944 He's not dead, thank God. When Hanscombe told me that the Mitchelson boy was in the foyer with a telegraph, I thought the worst. We are fortunate that Roger's injuries were not more severe than they were. Louise's reaction was very odd. I dreaded telling her; she's always been Roger's especial pet, but it was as if I was informing her about a stranger. Mr. Fenn-Gibbon was in the library with her when I told her. He refused to leave the room and if I didn't know any better, I would have sworn that—no, it's impossible.** **August 15, 1944 Louise is furious with me. She wouldn't listen to me though. I thought Father could make her see that her behavior of late has been completely unacceptable. Every time I turn around she is with HIM. I cannot understand why. He's possibly one of the most hideous-looking men I have ever seen. He's disgusting and vile and everything that a fifteen-year-old girl should abhor. He seems to hold a fascination for her. Why? Roger should be released from the hospital soon. Perhaps he can make her see reason. Paul won't get rid of HIM. When I told Paul that I would do it myself, he was enraged. I've never seen Paul like this. The bruises are worse than I've ever.** Elizabeth had crossed out the last sentence. Barnabas had only been able to read it, but holding the page up to the light. **I think Father tried to make HIM leave, but when they came out of the study, Father looked defeated and HE looked like the cat who swallowed the canary. Everything seems to be falling apart. There's no sign that the war will end. Father's drinking is worse than usual. He's going to kill himself, if he keeps up with it. They still haven't caught the vandals. Someone actually stole a body from the cemetery. I never thought the world could be like this. I'm twenty-seven; I feel older than Methesulah.** * * * Louise tired of Spike Jones and switched to Jimmy Durante. Not sure of what was happening, Vicki pursued the phantom music further into the woods. At times she thought she saw Louise beckoning to her, but the shape was too indistinct for Vicki to be sure. When Vicki stopped to catch her breath, she recognized the area. "The tree house," she half-whispered to herself. **Up here, toots.** Victoria climbed up the rope ladder. When she was inside, she looked around. No one was there. "What is it you want me to do? Is there something here I'm supposed to find?" **Not exactly. You're here to listen.** "Roger?" Vicki squinted. She could see him now. He was seated on a wooden crate. Somehow he managed to look dignified. "Roger? What are you doing here? No one's been able to find you." **We don't have much time. HE's growing stronger.** "I don't understand," she said dumbly. It was getting to be her mantra. Louise came into view like the Cheshire Cat and gave her a crooked smile. **Someone has to go back.** * * * Nicholas Blair appeared to be quite composed as he strolled down the village's main drag. Inside he was anything but. Events were not going according to his plans. He appreciated destruction and chaos, but he preferred to be the one orchestrating it. His first efforts at restoring Maggie had been less than successful. He had tried a number of different rituals and still nothing. With each failure, he grew a tinge more desperate. Information was what was needed. The entity in the West Wing had given him hints, but the more Nicholas learned, the more he realized he needed to know in order to bring Maggie back. Shouts and then the sounds of running interrupted his planning. He turned down an alley that led to the waterfront. It might be nothing, but then again . . . "Oh, Christ. He's been in the water a while. Better get Patterson's boys." Nicholas came up to the end of the alley and an incredible stench assaulted his nostrils. "Why the hell can't they just shoot themselves? Jesus Christ, this is bad!" The reek kept a growing crowd of villagers at a distance. When the deputies arrived, they had all they could do not to vomit. The floor manager from the cannery, a man who had fished more than his share of drowning victims from the sea, fought his own nausea and came closer to the body. "Oh my God. It's Roger Collins." "Jesus H. Christ, how the hell can you tell?" "That's his watch. I'd recognize that anywhere." The manager looked at the battered and bloated corpse and then at the sheriff. "Poor Mrs. Stoddard. This is going to kill her." Nicholas had not given much thought as to why Maggie had been at Collinwood, let alone in a shut-up wing of the mansion. As the villagers began to buzz about the mistress of Collinwood, he cursed himself for sloppy thinking. Elizabeth's sarcastic comments . . . Maggie's temper. Was it possible . . .? He turned on and walked away with purpose. * * * Barnabas read page after page of Elizabeth's journal from 1944 in growing dread. It now was a proper diary and with every word, he longed for the descriptions of hairstyles and fabrics. Roger came home to something that must have seemed worse than the war he had left. Louise was inseparable from Victor Fenn-Gibbon. Barnabas noticed that Elizabeth never referred to him as that unless she could help it. "If you name the horror, then it . . . " he, himself, left the superstition unsaid and turned back to the pages. **October 31, 1944 What have I become? She's not even fifteen and she's pregnant. I had her in the car and on the way to the doctor in Bangor when she realized where I was taking her. I don't know how or even what happened, but then we were back at Collinwood. "I won't kill my baby," she kept shouting at me. She screamed HIS name aloud and then . . . oh dear God, that thing that rose up from the road and I can't even describe it . . . HE was in the drawing room when we came back. Louise smirked at me and then disappeared upstairs. "There is nothing you can do, my dear. She is mine. Collinwood is mine." Those beady little eyes buried in layers of flesh behind his filthy glasses . . . how could she stand to have him touch her? HE wouldn't stop, but kept going on about how he owned us. I had to do it. There was no one else. Father's dying. Roger's a weakling. I took the . . . it seems like a dream now. I took the poker and I . . . I killed him. And then he came back.** * * * Vicki tried to fathom what Louise kept repeating to her. "What does that mean? ‘Someone must go back'? I don't . . . back where? None of this makes any sense." **Mother, mother, I am sick, Send for the doctor, quick, quick, quick. Mother, mother, shall I die? Yes, child, yes, child, bye and bye.** Roger stared at his sister and then smiled ruefully at Vicki. **She wasn't always like this. She was full of life and irrepressible joy and then—** **Shhh.** Louise held up a finger to her lips. **That's not allowed.** **Vicki, you have the knowledge, at least all the facts that we can give you without breaking the rules. Collinwood isn't safe anymore, that much you must know.** "Mrs. Stoddard could—" **Liz is lost. Or will be very soon. My son . . . he's lost too. We're all lost unless you—** **Someone must go back.** Vicki tore at her hair. "WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? WHY WON'T YOU TELL ME?" Louise vanished into the ether. **I wish I could help you more, but I'm afraid I must leave now as well.** Victoria Winters watched in horror as she realized that Roger was as insubstantial as Louise. **You're a bright girl; you'll piece it together.** He stood up and gave her a nod. **The young can be so judgmental. We all do things we cannot help sometimes. Remember that when you're most in need. A good man's opinion is worth listening to.** "ROGER!!!" And then she was alone. * * * Carolyn caressed the stiletto. "I will miss our little chats," she commented as she made an almost gentle incision across his chest. "But everyone keeps taking my kills away from me. It's not fair." Her indignation was real. Eliot was still conscious and staring at her like a man who had seen Hell personified. "You can understand that, can't you? After all, a girl's gotta have fun." Blood filled the cuts on the professor's chest. "Pretty," Carolyn said with a demented smile. He was going to die. They were all going to die and there was nothing he could do about it. Carolyn whipped her head around. "What was that? Did you hear that?" It did not show on his paralyzed features, but Eliot concentrated. He could hear someone splashing in the bathroom adjoining this torture chamber. "Do we have another visitor?" Carolyn held up an index finger. "You wait right here. I'll be right back. I think someone else wants to play." She had more time than she had hoped. Two for the price of one, Carolyn thought, grinning with anticipation as she opened the door to the bathroom. A handsome orderly perhaps or maybe a . . . Or maybe a naked bloated corpse of a woman with dripping blonde hair. **"What are you doing to Daddy?"** * * * Barnabas sat in Elizabeth's bedroom. He held a journal in one hand and a pen in the other. On a piece of paper, he scratched another hatch mark. His stately, ladylike, very respectable cousin had killed twenty-two people and he was only up to 1956. Incredibly, Mr. Fenn-Gibbon had not stayed dead after his hostess had dispatched him with a poker. At first Barnabas had assumed that the man had only been stunned, but Elizabeth made it very clear that he had been dead. The prose was not shallow anymore. It hadn't been for some time. In the autumn of 1944, Elizabeth Collins Stoddard had entered a private hell that made him, a man who had some understanding of such things, sick with horror. He marveled at times at her strength. That a diminutive woman could manage to drag an overweight corpse into the woods and then set him afire spoke to her will. Barnabas went back to the entry that was what they had been searching for. **May 1, 1945 Louise is dead. The doctor said there was nothing he could have done. She lasted long enough to deliver the baby and make me promise to look after her. She named her "Victoria". The baby looks nothing like HIM. She's the image of Louise at that age. I held the baby in my arms. It's for the best. The Hammond Foundling Home is reputed to be excellent. The money will make it easier on her. Perhaps she'll be adopted. Paul delivered her there today . . . why do I feel so awful about this? She'll be safe in New York. I have till June. That's what HE told me. I've tried resisting HIM. I've used every ounce of will I have. There's nothing left.** Barnabas felt filthy. With clockwork regularity, Elizabeth had supplied Fenn-Gibbon with bodies twice a year. In the meantime, life returned to a semblance of normality at Collinwood. Her father died. Roger returned to the studies that the war had interrupted, unaware that his surviving sister was a murderess. Elizabeth gave birth to Carolyn. Barnabas couldn't find a volume for 1948, but it didn't seem to matter. Paul Stoddard evidently abandoned his wife and child. Louise was not mentioned again either by name or inference. The diary-like entries grew sparser. Instead of worrying about what she was going to wear, Elizabeth concentrated on Carolyn. Carolyn became the focus of Elizabeth Stoddard's life. Twice a year, Elizabeth recorded how, when, and where she found her victims. She could be quite distant in her recounting, he noted. Some of the people did cause her remorse. Of others, particularly the men she had lured to the west wing with promises of dalliances, she had no such moral compunctions. Barnabas came across an entry that disturbed him more than the others. **December 21, 1965 I don't think I shall ever feel clean again. She was a pretty girl. She was hitchhiking. I saw her near the Old House. She came back. She came back and she tried to . . . I don't know how to describe it. It was like HE was there in her trying to get in me. I killed her again. Can you kill what is already dead? She had red hair and . . . it took me awhile to notice it from the mangled flesh, but the girl had a tattoo on her. It was very odd looking. It seemed to be a double-headed snake. I cannot go through that again.** There was one other victim who had risen and Elizabeth had duly noted that this one too had borne the mark of a twin-headed serpent. * * * Julia still couldn't find Roger. She had exhausted all the obvious and not so obvious places in the house. Could he be in the woods? Julia remembered how he'd looked the last time she'd seen him. She didn't like to think of him wandering around in his present condition. She stopped. Roger's dead, she thought. They knew he was dead. They'd seen the footprints. She had spent hours searching for a dead man. Barnabas wasn't in the drawing room anymore. He was probably at the Old House. Julia didn't hold out much hope for Elizabeth's journal, no, that wasn't the case. She had a feeling that Barnabas hadn't really done the research as thoroughly as he should have. Vicki had probably come back and he had probably thrown it over as a lost cause. She sighed and decided to see if he was at the Old House. Halfway down the drive, she saw Roger approaching her. Incredible relief was quickly replaced by anger. "Where have you been?" she demanded. "I've been trying to find you everywhere. We thought . . . we thought . . . " **You need to find David now. It's too late, I think, but perhaps you can help him in some way. He has no one.** Julia stood very still. **It's not all lost. Not if she figures it out. Julia, if she doesn't succeed . . . I'm sorry. For what it's worth, I wish it could have been different.** * * * Barnabas was about to read the final volume, the book that held the events for this year when the bedroom door opened. He jumped, startled and his eyes locked with those of Elizabeth. The woman with his mother's face seemed just as nonplussed as he was. "Barnabas?" She was incredulous. "What are you doing here?" Then her gaze fell on the journals scattered over the desk. For Barnabas the atmosphere grew thick as they both realized what had happened and what possible consequences could result. "Elizabeth," he said by way of greeting. His cousin stepped into the room and very carefully closed the door behind her. Barnabas was nearly a foot taller and at least twice her size, but still, he took a step backward. It was, perhaps, an ill-judged move. Elizabeth regarded him coolly. He had once found her resemblance to his mother soothing; it chilled him to the bone now. "I should never have written it all down," she said in a distant voice. "You needed a release." What would Julia call it? An emotional outlet? "It's understandable." Elizabeth smiled at him sourly. "It's also foolhardy and weak." She came over to the desk and began to stack the journals neatly in a pile. "Elizabeth, we can help you to—" "‘We'?" He explained. "Julia. We can help you—" "Julia's read these?" Without thinking, he clarified, "Only a passage or two. I haven't told her about what happened when Mr. Fenn-Gibbon came to Collinwood." "Does she know where you are?" It didn't occur to him to say anything other than the truth. Elizabeth walked over to the blazing fire and dropped the diaries into the fire. "ELIZABETH!" She looked at him puzzled. "Well, I can't let anyone else read these. They could use it against me as evidence." Was she completely sane? "Elizabeth, you've killed nearly forty-four people. This has to stop. We have to find a way to defeat this Thing." She laughed at him. "Cousin Barnabas, there is no way to defeat HIM. If there were, do you suppose I would have fed him all these years?" She took the poker and began stirring up the fire further. The flames licked at the books and devoured each volume, pages at a time. "Actually, the total is nearer forty-five. Or will be. I'm very sorry about this." He saw the poker coming down toward his head and moved out of the way just in time. It would have been ludicrous—a diminutive society matron trying to murder a man twice her size—had Elizabeth not been so practiced at killing. He didn't have time to think. She was relentless; his instincts took over. * * * Nicholas walked through the upper corridors of the west wing. His time at the scrying mirror had been well spent. He knew what Barnabas knew and that was enough to give him a fair idea of what had killed Maggie. When he was done disposing of this interloper, he then intended to teach Elizabeth Stoddard just what it was to cross him. Barnabas may not have read far enough to know about Maggie, but Nicholas could draw his own conclusions. **Ah, dear boy, how nice of you to drop by.** * * * Victoria Winters took the backstairs. She needed to see Mrs. Stoddard again. Sober, preferably. Collinwood might not be safe, but Vicki had nowhere else to go and it was Collinwood that held all the answers. * * * Julia met the squad car on the driveway. The sheriff had never liked Roger Collins, but the man had been a human being and you never got used to telling people their kin was dead. "You found Roger." It was a statement not a question. "How did you know?" Julia looked a little past the sheriff. "Call it a sick feeling. Come inside. I don't think Mrs. Stoddard is home yet, but she should be back soon." David, she would need to find him. Maybe it wasn't too late as Roger had predicted, but then again, maybe it was. They went inside. "She's probably upstairs if she is home," Julia told the sheriff numbly. * * * Barnabas Collins cradled the dead body of Elizabeth in his arms. It had all happened so quickly. He hadn't meant to kill her. The eyes were still staring at him—his mother's beautiful green eyes. He closed them shut. Victoria Winters pushed open Elizabeth's bedroom door and then she screamed. To be continued . . .