Chapter 72: Falling down, falling down ..  my fair lady...  

Voiceover by Grayson Hall: Collinwood, in the year 1968 ...  truly a year of
insanity for the Collins family and their friends...  and in the present day,
the shadows of a force of evil till now unknown will threaten the lives and
sanity of all who live at the Great House.  On this night, horror of a
magnitude beyond even their comprehension has brought a witch and a woman of
science together in a strange alliance.  And, as the powers of darkness wax
towards their fulness, these women will seek help for the living from an as yet
undiscovered ally ...  one who is beyond the grave ...  

1 

"A *seance*?" 

"Now, Julia, let's not waste time on any of your tiresome skepticism,"
Angelique snapped.  "At this point in the proceedings, you of all people can't
afford the luxury of the so-called scientific method." 

An outraged glare was quickly succeeded by a thoughtful frown.  "You think
that, even without your powers, we have a chance of contacting someone who
could help?  Someone who could ...  who could actually make Barnabas listen?" 

"My dear Julia," said her blonde once-rival softly, "I'm afraid that the only
people Barnabas is really aware of now are the dead.  To him the living are ...
literally ...  nothing more than fodder." 

With a shiver, Julia gave her a mute nod.  "I still don't see why we have to
have it here," the Doctor commented with a barely suppressed shudder, as she
studied the dim light of the candles flickering mournfully over the scarred,
blistered stone walls, the worn stones mutely holding the secrets of the
desecrations, the madness, the eldritch nightmares that had been wrought within
their blank sight.  

With a bitter smile, Angelique said: "The secret room at Eagle Hill Cemetery? 
I can't think of a better place to summon up the unquiet dead.  And this is one
place that has a link with Barnabas and those among the Collins family of the
past who may be able to help." 

"But will they be willing?"Julia asked, worriedly.  "Angelique, what if someone
materializes who holds a grudge against you?  I hope I'm not being tactless in
reminding you that there are those buried here who regard you as ...  as ..." 

"An enemy?" the witch enquired, with a dry grimace.  "Well, we'll just have to
face that challenge when it comes, won't we?  Now, there's an old saying about
the four principles of magic: to know, to will, to dare, to keep silent.  We
know our mission now; we have the will to succeed; we must dare to face the
obstacles; and now, if we are to proceed, we must sit for a time and listen ...
to the silence." 

Her voice ceased, but even immured in the massive stone walls, both women felt
they could hear the mournful howling of the icy winter wind, chafing the outer
battlements of the tomb in which they sat, holding hands at a small table,
surrounded by darkness, only the barest candlelight holding a margin against
the sundering oblivion of the dead.  

2 

"My dear boy," Stokes beamed, his monocle catching the blaze of a passing car's
tail lights with a shocking scarlet flash, like a splotch of newly spattered
blood.  "Won't you come in?" 

"Thanks," Chris said, carefully kicking the snow off the heels of his boots
before stepping into the cozy little foyer.  As he was getting out of his bulky
winter coat and removing his long grey scarf, the Professor regarded the young
man who had come in answer to his phone call.  Julia, exhausted over the latest
events with Barnabas, and worn out with all her other responsibilities, had
asked Stokes if he would be willing to break the news to Chris about Joe
Haskell.  He'd always liked Chris; perhaps more than liked, he thought with a
wistful twinge as he caught a glimpse of the strong young body hugged by the
worn cardigan Chris was wearing.  And he found himself hating having to be the
one to tell Chris this latest horror.  It felt like a betrayal of the one
decent, good thing Chris had going in his life.  

Chris sat by the fire, warming his hands over the blaze, and turned his liquid,
sombre brown eyes, that held wells of unfathomable sadness within them, towards
his host.  "Thanks for the invitation, Professor--" 

"Eliot, please...  if you don't mind," Stokes rasped, wincing inwardly at the
hoarseness of his own voice--*God,* the thought staggered through his brain,
*when the Hell did I become so old?* But he was rewarded with a surprisingly
sweet, relieved smile from the lad.  

"Thanks, Eliot," Chris amended a bit awkwardly.  "I--I've been having kind of a
rough time of it lately--I guess Julia might have filled you in about some of
that--" 

"She's been kind enough to consult my opinion about your treatment," Stokes
said.  "And, I'd say that you're doing very well, and showing tremendous
courage.  I admire you for that, more than I can say.  But come, would you like
some sherry and some English biscuits?  And some cheese!  I like to have a
little cheese at this time of the evening." 

Chris looked at the professor a little sadly for a moment, then said, "That's
all very nice.  Could I please just have a cup of tea?  It's a chilly night." 

"Tea," Eliot murmured absently.  "Of course." Raising an eyebrow inwardly at
this strangely unworldly young man, he busied himself with the tea things in
the kitchen.  When he returned to the living room, he found Chris with furrowed
brow looking over the Montague Summers book on Lycanthropy.  Setting the tray
down and forcing himself to keep a light tone, he commented, "I doubt whether
you'll find THAT a terribly relevant tome.  It's part of my folklore
collection--nothing of scientific value." 

"Folklore," Chris murmured.  "Fairy tales.  How I wish I could agree with you,
Professor.  But you and I both know that there's a reality behind it all much
more terrifying than the doctored-up versions of the stories we learned as
kids.  When your Mom read Little Red Riding Hood to you, I'm sure there was no
mention of what it smelled like when the wolf woke up the next morning with
bits of a little old lady's guts splattered all over himself." 

"Chris--" 

"And the werewolves in the folk tales--as people they were cruel, degenerate,
ruthless; mockeries of the human race.  No mention of them getting broken down
by all the killiing, the maiming--the bloodshed, brutality--no mention of how
they dealt with the guilt--the pain--the--the horror--" Unable to go on, he
broke into a sob, and with one shuddering hand covered the eyes that welled
with hot tears he longed not to shed.  Instinctively, Eliot drew Chris into his
arms and held him as the fit finally broke.  His shoulder grew damp as the
young man cried his heart out, but he simply tightened his hold as they both
rocked with the force of Chris' agony.  As soothingly as possible, he stroked
the young man's damp brown hair, marveling at the beauty of it in the
firelight.  

After a while, Chris' sobs quietened, and the two of them simply sat, in
silence.  Eliot handed Chris a cup of tea, now grown lukewarm, and the young
man sipped it in silence.  

Finally, Chris looked up and said, in a soft voice, "I guess the real reason
for your call is that Julia's realized that...  that there's no hope for me. 
That I'm doomed to become this...  this BEAST for all eternity.  That my
choices, at this point, are pretty much narrowed down to one silver bullet
through the heart." 

"No, Chris!" Eliot exclaimed.  "No, that's not it at all.  It's--it's about Joe
Haskell." 

"Joe?" Chris burst of laughter was cracked, brittle.  "You've asked me here to
talk about Joe." Chris shook his head.  "Seems to me you and Joe Haskell don't
even belong in the same sentence--much less the same room.  He's a real piece
of work." 

"Chris, let me show you something." Eliot brought over the framed portrait of
Alexis and her fiance.  Chris held it, frowning.  

"It's Joe and--it looks just like Cassandra Collins, only with blonde hair." 

"My daughter, Alexis," Stokes told him, adding, as a correction, "my *late*
daughter.  And her fiance." 

"Joe?  And your daughter?" Chris sighed.  "I always said Joe was the
straightest straight arrow on the planet." He frowned again.  "Wait a
minute—you said your LATE daughter." 

"An automobile accident," Stokes said solemnly.  "They were both killed.  It
happened ...  over a year ago." 

"Eliot...  what are you trying to tell me?" Chris' eyes were wide, his face
blanched; a shudder rippled through his body.  

"Joe Haskell--the thing you know as Joe--is not what he seems to be." Eliot
paused.  "I don't know how else to put this, my dear boy-—but you've been
sharing your bed with ...  one of the living dead." 

3 

"The dead are all around us." Angelique's voice broke the pall of silence that
had surrounded them.  Julia tensed, knowing that the séance was now beginning
in earnest.  

"Their thoughts, their suffering, their tears vibrate in the air, without and
within," the witch incanted softly.  "We reach out to them now… joining our
thoughts to theirs … our hearts to their hearts.  

"Spirits of the Dead!  Hear me!" Her voice boomed echoingly in the massive
stone chamber.  "Heed my call!  For there is one trapped between the worlds,
fixed forever between this world of the living, and your world of the dead!  I
would have one among you who stands in the shadows come forward, knowing that
you can aid him!  

"I seek help for the one known as Barnabas Collins.  I implore you, spirits,
heed my call!  Heed my call!" 

Breathlessly, she stopped, and slumped a little in her chair, her breath
heaving from the effort she had made.  Into the resounding silence that
followed came the distorted echo of a blast on a flute.  The two women stared
at one another.  Another discordant note, and another followed.  Eventually
Julia realized that it was a familiar tune, but very badly played, as though by
a small child not quite familiar with the scales of music.  

*London bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down* … The words drifted
through Julia’s mind as she listened to the fragment of melody repeated again
and again.  

"Spirit!" Angelique breathed when the music came to an abrupt halt.  "Do you
have help for Barnabas Collins?  Can you aid us to aid him?  We need your help,
spirit, for he is almost beyond the call of any who dwell in the mortal realm."

As she fell silent again and fixed an earnest gaze into the darkness
surrounding them, Julia’s lips twitched as she struggled to swallow a smile. 
"Well, I’ll hand this to the old bag," she thought to herself.  "She’s good at
what she does." 

"Mummy says it’s not nice to call people old." 

Julia and Angelique stared at one another in disbelief.  Neither of them had
spoken, and certainly neither had ever heard the other use anything remotely
resembling the childish, slightly lisping tone of voice, that sounded just like
a 9 year old girl complaining that she really felt she deserved another piece
of chocolate cake.  

"Spirit!  If you will, tell us your name!" Angelique pleaded.  

"You want to know about Barn'bas, don’t you?  He’s been very, very bad.  Mummy
says he’s going to have to go to bed without his supper tonight." 

Julia rolled her eyes.  It figured that when Angelique tried to conjure up a
spirit, they’d wind up stuck with Little Miss Manners.  Exasperated, she
demanded: "Is there any hope for Barnabas?  Can you help us?" 

"There is hope … but you have to keep trying.  YOU, Julia Hoffman.  You are the
key.  You must work together, though, with HER.  You both have to talk to
Barn’bas.  You have to tell him—-you have to remind him that he has to be a
good boy." 

"We have tried," said Angelique miserably.  "He’s hardly human anymore!" 

"Josette’s music box," the ghost child babbled.  "He always loved it so much. 
No matter how far away he drifted, it always seemed to bring him back.  " 

"Josette?" Angelique’s voice rose on a high, angry, petulant note.  "What’s
*she* got to do with any of this?" 

"Angelique!" Julia whispered urgently.  "It could be a clue!" 

"Josette’s music box?" the one and only Mrs Barnabas Collins hissed back,
outraged.  "I *don’t* think so!  Besides, I always hated that insipid,
lifeless, lackluster, puling excuse for—" 

"ANG’LIQUE BOUCHARD!" the childish lisp was a booming shriek with surprising
depth and volume.  "Heed me now!  I give you warning.  Out of the forgotten
past… she is stalking you!  She will come for you!  Beware!" 

"Now what you are nattering about, you silly child?" Angelique demanded
angrily.  "Who is coming for me?  She’ll be sorry she ever trifled with me …
and I’m starting to think the same about you!" 

"Angelique!" Julia urged.  "Don’t antagonize her.  What she says could be
important." 

"I tried to warn you," the ghostly imp wailed.  "Tried to save you!  But now it
is too … late …" 

The voice faded away, and with it, both women felt a lifting of pressure, as if
a tightening of the atmosphere had been released.  "*Well!*" Angelique snapped,
as she lifted the candelabrum and moved to open the secret door, "so much for
*that* great experiment." There was a grating noise as the heavy door swung
open and a blast of chilly winter air swept into the stuffy room.  "I’ve not
heard such a load of rubbish in many long years, I puh-romise you, Julia!" She
lifted her chin high, obviously preparing to exit the room, the very image of
wounded virtue.  

Julia stifled a guffaw and put out a hand.  "Angelique… wait," she pleaded, as
the witch turned to give her an irritated look.  "I think we should talk about
this.  There might have been something in what the spirit said.  We should at
least consider the possibility." 

Angelique set the heavy candelabrum down with a resounding thump.  "Listen,
Julia," she said bluntly.  "If you want to try following Barnabas around with
that ...  that tiresome music-box in your hand, listening as it rattles on and
ON in the same tuneless excuse for music *ever* heard, on the off chance that
it’ll get through to him, that’s your affair." She lifted her chin again.  "I
prefer to consider … other methods." 

"What?" Julia demanded.  "What do you have in mind that you haven’t told me
about already?" 

"Wait and see, my dear," said the witch with relish.  "I may no longer have all
my powers, but I’m not entirely without means.  The Candles of the Seven
Secrets, for one.  Meet me at the Old House tomorrow morning and I will show
you." She tossed her head.  "I should have known better than to turn to the
dead members of the Collins family for help," she sniffed.  "Even when they
were alive, they were never much use." On that pronouncement, she swept out of
the room.  

With a sigh, Julia walked slowly out of the Secret Room, then pulled the ring
in the lion’s mouth to close the door.  She shivered, and drew her coat more
tightly around her neck with one gloved hand.  With an anxious sigh, her other
hand flew to her mouth.  If what the spirit had said were true, it was
dangerous for Angelique to be alone at the moment… very dangerous.  What on
Earth would she do with a hostile Barnabas and an Angelique under attack?  With
an irritated shake of her head at the arrogant presumptiveness of her new ally,
Julia hurried out into the night, hoping she could catch up with the woman
she’d always thought of as "the Witch Bitch," but whose help she now
desperately needed.  

4 

"Chrissy!" Joe’s smile was wide.  "Baby, I just knew you’d see the light." 

Chris slammed the door shut with a bang.  "Cut the crap," he said roughly,
shoving Joe away and walking irritably in the other direction as his would-be
boyfriend fell into the sofa with a startled mew.  "Listen … whoever you are
…Why don’t we just stop playing games?" 

Growing pale, Joe stood up and confronted him.  "What do you mean?" he
whispered.  

"You heard me!" Chris barked.  "I’m onto you, buster.  You may look like Joe
Haskell, but I know now that you aren’t.  Who sent you here to torment me?  Was
it Cassandra Collins?  Or that sleazy brother of hers, Nicholas Blair?  Tell
me!" 

"Well, well, well," Joe crooned, walking towards Chris with a lewd leer
plastered across his hips, which swayed with deliberate provocation as he
approached his glaring antagonist.  "Someone’s been telling tales out of
school, haven’t they?  I guess I should’ve known better than to trust a louse
like Nicholas Blair.  I could tell he was no good from the start." 

Chris stared at him.  "So, you admit it?  You really aren’t Joe Haskell? 
You’ve just been … using me as a pawn in some diabolical game Nicholas and
Cassandra are playing with Barnabas?" 

"We-ell.." Not-Joe teased with that grin that Chris always found so damned
sexy.  "Yes, and no.  Y’see, honey bun, whatever my name, I’ve got the body you
crave… living…warm… firm to the touch … and ready for your lovin’." He was
right up against Chris now, who stared, shocked, appalled, yet fascinated
against his will, at this alluring creature that had dominated his life in and
out of bed for the past four months.  

Moving firmly aside, Chris glared at the shameless minx and demanded, "Why
don’t you just tell me who you really are?" 

"I am who I’ve always claimed to be," said Not-Joe with sudden seriousness. 
"Someone who’s waited his whole life for you.  And who loves you very much." 

"Well, in my book the words love and lies don’t go together, however close they
may be to one another in the dictionary," Chris said angrily.  "You say you
love me.  If that’s the case, tell me one real reason why.  A little honesty
would go a long way." 

"Honesty," Not-Joe repeated.  "The boy says he wants honesty.  Well, baby, just
for you, I’m gonna tell you a story.  Let’s go back, way back.  100 years?  No,
further back than that.  Let’s remember the Summer of 1795 and a sweet lad who
looked just like you.  In fact, he WAS you, back then--or maybe I should say,
YOU were HIM.  Ever hear of reincarnation?  It’s quite a trip, baby.  Your name
was Todd, but I liked to call you Toddy.  And I was Nathan.  Yeah, Nathan
Forbes, and I was a Lieutenant in the United States Navy.  You liked the cut of
my jib, Todd baby.  You liked the rigging of my mainsail.  And I really dug
you, even if you were just a landlubber." He paused, standing with his body so
near to Chris, he could feel Joe’s body heat radiating that warmth he so
desperately craved.  He found himself unable to resist as Joe (*Not*) leaned in
and touched his full, ripe lips to those of the semi-hypnotised Chris, who just
stared at him, mesmerized.  

“Nicholas brought me back ...  one of his crazy schemes against Barnabas
Collins,” Joe...  not Joe ...  NATHAN murmured, his breath hot against Chris’
ear, one meaty leg pushed panderingly between both of Chris’ thighs.  The heat
made Chris throw his head back in lust and despair, and Not-Joe/Nathan
wolfishly licked Chris’ exposed neck, sucking briefly and eagerly on his adam’s
apple, which made Chris moan.  “Nicholas pulled me back into this far-out scene
from the darkness where I’d been sleeping,” Joe continued relentlessly. 
“Y’know, I have to wonder what it is about Barnabas that gets Nicky-baby’s
goat.  Maybe they oughta try some of THIS action instead of wasting all that
time fussing and fighting.” Not-Joe/Nathan greedily licked Chris’ ear, and
lapped at the throbbing vein in his neck, leading to more moans and a betrayal
of more than just a few throbs from Chris’ nether regions.  He groaned,
instinctively, wondering somewhere, in what was left of his mind, what it was
about Not-Joe/Nathan that he found so impossible to resist.  

"Y’see, baby, we *can* work it out," Not-Joe/Nathan crooned seductively; and,
miserably, Chris felt his erection pressing fiercely into his treacherous
lover’s own rock-hard crotch.  "You don’t really care who I am, or how this
came to be.  All that matters is Now.  All that means anything is Us." He
paused, and his mouth plundered Chris’, his tongue, always so aggressive,
always able to push Chris over the edge in a flash, rolled and twirled and
licked at Chris’ tongue, round and round his teeth, and then Nathan was biting
his lips hard making the blood come, and, oh God, it felt SO good, and Nathan
was ripping off his shirt and blazing a stubbled trail across his upper chest
to bite at his nipples, and Chris threw back his head, and the room was
spinning, and eager hands were grabbing at his belt, and peeling off his pants,
and he felt as if he was gonna EXPLODE, and he began growling fiercely in the
back of his throat as Nathan plunged down to take him, swallowing him whole in
that greedy mouth he could never get enough of, and then strangely Joe let out
a strangled scream that held more in it of terror than passion as the iron
claws that had sprouted over hairy paws where Chris' hands used to be swiped
and dug a large chunk of hair and flesh out of the back of Nathan's head, and
Chris heard screams and howls from some far off place to which he had spun
down, down, inexorably down, before the darkness overwhelmed him and he was
spared witnessing the horror being enacted in what had once been his refuge,
the apple of his eye, his love nest...  

5 

Thoroughly ill-tempered, Angelique stamped briskly through the clinging mists
of a Maine February.  Branches caught at her cloak, dead leaves rustled eerily
in her train, owls hooted with sinister foreboding, and a chill breeze clawed
meanly at her cheeks, but she simply scowled at all of it.  Despite the frigid
temperature, her thoughts were boiling, and running along a track that anyone
who knew her would have found tiresomely familiar.  *I'll show her,* was the
refrain that ranted through her brain, as she glared unseeing at the fog
closing in ahead of her.  *I'll show that high and mighty Mamselle Josette du
Pres what REAL power is.  I'll see her humbled in the dirt for what she did to
me ...  I'll laugh as she squirms in the mud ...  I'll rip that finery right
off her skinny shoulders ...  I'll ...  I'll ...  I'll--* 

She found herself coming to a halt both in mind and body.  She'd managed to
tramp right to the precipice of Widow's Hill; what in the name of all that was
unholy was she doing here?  

Mist swirled ominously around her, and suddenly the air was filled with
tinkling, derisive laughter, like the sound of crystalline chimes shattering
into icy shards, like the mockery of the demons who had laughed at her when she
had been sent back to the fiery Pit for her disobedience, like the mocking
laughter of her Arch Enemy, Nicholas Blair...  only, Nicholas never laughed in
such a venomously *feminine* manner.  The laughter reminded her of something
...  of someone.  Someone was playing her own favorite trick upon her; mocking
her with unseen laughter!  This could not be tolerated, and she drew herself up
to her full height, eyes blazing.  

"Who is there?" she demanded, in what she fondly believed was her most
commanding tone of voice.  "I order you to show yourself!  And stop laughing at
me!" 

"Oh, but there is so much to laugh at ...  Miranda," came a coy voice invisibly
beside her ear.  

She whirled, glaring, but there was no one...  nothing.  "Who dares to address
me by that name?  My *name* is Angelique!" 

"Ah, but old habits die hard," the voice sighed breathlessly into her ear. 
"You of all people should know that, Miranda ..  dearie." 

Angelique struggled with her own mounting terror.  *Don't give way to it,* she
begged herself, her thoughts suddenly far more focused and lucid than they had
been in quite some time.  *Be who you are.  Be mistress of yourself.* Again,
that damned cacchinating laughter came at her, like a cascade of tiny spikes
raking her spine with distaste and disgust.  

"Poor Miranda," cooed that revolting voice.  "You never really were more than
second-rate, were you?  Gave yourself credit for far more skill at handling
sticky situations than you ever really had.  Left all sorts of unfinished
business behind you...  never dreaming that some day it might come back and ...
bite you in the ass." A sharp, agonizing nip to her throat, and she screamed. 

She threw her hands up over her neck, and began laughing, insanely.  There's no
one there...  no one there ...  her thoughts raced, as her eyes rolled madly
side to side.  "Oh God," she moaned.  "Oh dear God." 

And then Charity Trask materialized, blonde curls cascading in a shining fall
around her bared ivory shoulders, eyes gleaming an arctic blue in the wintry
moonlight, gleaming blue with sheer unbridled HATE, a grinning Tim Shaw by her
side, teeth sharp and gleaming lustfully.  "Why, Miranda," Charity cooed,
through a mouth filled with tiny, bristling fangs, "a *religious* conversion! 
And in our honor!  I really didn't know you cared." 

Instinctively, Angelique struggled to throw herself off the precipice, to seek
any death but the one that stared her now in the face, with pitiless glee, but
she was caught and held in a grip of steel.  "This is what you will become, my
dear," Charity giggled, as Tim sank his fangs into her neck, and she began to
feel herself ebbing far, far away.  "You no longer have any will of your own,
you see," Charity added, licking her lips.  "And from tonight, my dear Miranda
...  YOU will be MY SLAVE!" 

Angelique tried and failed to scream as a second pair of fangs sank into her
throat.  A whirling vortex of pain, humiliation, and sickening horror engulfed
her...  and then, in the only mercy left to her, she knew no more.  

TO BE CONTINUED