Shadows On The Wall

Chapter 73: “Truth or Consequences” 

By Luciaphil 


There are no atheists in foxholes.  --Ernie Pyle 

Voiceover (Lara Parker): Evil is once again ensconced and growing evermore
secure in Collinsport.  As the shadows lengthen and nested new terrors become
stronger, two women, once bitter enemies try to find the strength to rail
against the darkness.  

Pain.  That was her first sensation, mind-numbing pain.  Every muscle in her
body ached.  Her lips were cracked.  Angelique licked them and tasted dirt 
.  .  .  earth and blood.  Her blood.  

“Why look!” Charity cooed.  “Miranda is coming around.  What fun!” 

“Oh God.” It was barely even a whisper.  

“You know, sweetheart,” came Tim’s voice, dry and amused.  “I think you were
right.  It is a conversion.” 

“Papa would be so proud,” Charity cackled.  

Her hands.  Why couldn’t she feel her hands?  

“We should baptize her.” 

Tim laughed.  “In blood?  We already did that.” 

“Let’s do it again!” 

Angelique stopped herself from voicing a plea for mercy.  

“We could,” Tim allowed.  

Angelique tried to summon enough strength to figure out where they had taken
her.  Not outdoors.  The air wasn’t cold enough for that.  She cracked open her
eyes experimentally.  

“But then you wouldn’t be able to play with her anymore, sweetheart,” he
finished.  “I thought you wanted to make this one last.” 

Charity pouted.  

“In fact, I think we’d better give it some water.” 

It?  It?  Angelique felt rage forming.  How dare they?  They had no idea who
they were dealing with!  When she got free of them, she was going to— 

Charity slapped her new toy hard across the face.  “Miranda, dearie, You’re not
going anywhere,” she said sweetly.  She wrenched her prey’s chin so that she
had a better sight line.  Very firmly, she informed her, “You don’t want to go
anywhere.” 

Angelique struggled to keep hold of her anger, but she felt it slipping away.  

“You don’t want to go anywhere, do you?” 

“No .  .  .  no, I don’t.” 

Charity clapped her hands together in delight.  “You’re glad to be here,
Miranda,” she stated.  When Angelique didn’t respond, Charity hissed, “Say it.”

“My name is Angel—” 

Tim clucked his tongue.  “It’s not very bright, is *it*?” He sighed.  “Maybe
you’d better give her another lesson, sweetheart.” 

Charity nodded thoughtfully.  “You do want to be here, Miranda, but cheer up! 
You’ll have lots of opportunities to learn.” 

Angelique took one look at her tormentor’s manic stare and started mumbling
fragments of dimly remembered prayers she’d overheard some of her own victims
reciting.  

* * * 

Barnabas let himself into one of the myriad entrances to Collinwood, this one
located in the disused east wing of the house.  As convenient as he found this
personally, he couldn’t help but recall that in his father’s day, the servants
would have been severely reprimanded for such laxity.  

He passed by one of the rooms on the main floor and then stopped.  Compelled by
a feeling he could not explain, he turned around and put his hand around the
door knob.  

What was he doing?  There could be nothing in there to interest him.  The
family used more than half of Collinwood as a repository for their cast off
possessions and furniture that no one could be bothered to deal with.  Even
knowing that this was ludicrous, he turned the handle.  

He gasped.  

It was Vicki, but she was not the same.  Her clothing was sophisticated,
elegant even.  She even carried herself differently.  

Quentin sat with his head in his hands.  

“Vicki?  Quentin?” Barnabas tried to enter the room, but it was like trying to
walk through a brick wall.  Powerless to enter into the action, he could only
stand and watch.’ 

“I made you some tea.” 

Quentin looked up.  “Thanks, Victoria, but I don’t think I could .  .  .  I’m
not thirsty.” 

She set down the tray and sat next to him on the sofa.  

“I just can’t believe she’s really gone.  Angelique was so,” he searched for a
word, “she was so vital.” 

Victoria’s eyes flickered for a moment, but then an expression of compassion
settled over her features.  “I know.  It’s hard to take in.  We should never
have held that séance.” She tentatively placed her hand over Quentin’s. 
“Quentin, I know I can never truly know what you’re feeling or going through,
but please, I *am* here for you, all right?  If you need to talk or just to
listen, I want you to count on me.” 

“That means a—” He looked up.  “Oh, Hoffman, what is it?” 

Barnabas felt his eyes widen.  “Hoffman” was Julia, but not and unless he was
very much mistaken, Hoffman was a domestic.  

“There’s a Mr.  Brownlow on the phone for you.  He said it’s urgent.” 

Quentin nodded and stood up.  “I have to take this.  We’ll talk later,
Victoria.” 

“Of course.” 

To his utter shock, Barnabas saw—and felt Quentin walk straight through him. 
He tried again to get into the room, but still could not breach the invisible
barrier.  Frustrated but fascinated, he watched.  

Hoffman folded her arms together.  “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re
playing at.” 

Victoria frowned.  “What is that supposed to mean?” 

“You don’t waste much time, do you?  She’s not even cold in her grave and
you’re trying to take *her* place.” 

“I’m not trying to take anyone’s place.  We all loved Angelique, Hoffman.  Some
of us,” she paused, and it registered with Barnabas that Vicki’s tone was
distinctly catty, “loved her more than others—” 

“—Don’t even try to imply that—” 

Victoria went on as if Hoffman hadn’t spoken, each word gaining in sincerity
“—but her passing is felt by each and every one of us.” She rose.  

“Where do you think you’re going?” 

“I have some errands to run,” Victoria said with surprise.  “Look, Hoffman, I
know you don’t think that I liked her, but I am just as effected by her death
as any other person in Collinwood.” She smiled sadly, walked past the servant,
and gripping the handle of the door, shut it behind her.  

Barnabas automatically turned the knob, hoping to see the room and its curious
occupants again, and was treated instead to the less gripping expanse of
hastily dust-covered furniture and cobwebs.  

* * * 

Julia peered into the incredibly filthy window of the old carriage house,
grateful for the clouds obscuring the moon and therefore her own presence.  It
was an act of fortune that neither of Angelique’s captors had seen her either
on the grounds or on their way here.  At least she hoped it was an act of
fortune.  It would be just her luck for one of them to be standing right behind
her so that she could join in on their idea of fun.  She risked a glance back
and sighed with relief.  

They were vampires of course.  Even if she hadn’t become possibly the world’s
only expert on the subject, the wounds on both sides of Angelique’s neck, the
blood stains on their skin and clothing, and the fact that one of them—the girl
who looked like Carolyn—was going in for another taste were enough to convince
anyone.  

She was standing here doing nothing because to act at this immediate moment
would only ruin any chance Angelique had of rescue.  That was what Julia kept
telling herself anyhow.  Try as she might, a very cold, very clinical, very
internal voice would have none of it.  

This was justice in a way.  How many times had Angelique inflicted similar or
worse tortures on others?  How many times had she stood over someone whose only
crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time or happening to have
attracted the attention of Barnabas Collins, trilling with that insane,
lilting, grating laughter?  

What was the expression?  What goes around comes around.  Well, that was
certainly the case here.  

They’d tied Angelique up by the hands so that she hung from the rafters.  They
were circling her again like the feral animals that they were.  Julia couldn’t
hear very well from her post outside the window, but she could discern enough
to know that this situation would not, could not end well.  It never did when
you had sociopaths in a power position.  They seemed to be putting Angelique
through some bizarre catechism, the reward and punishment for correct and
incorrect answers becoming increasingly blurred.  

**You enjoy this.** 

Julia shook her head.  Enjoy this?  She wasn’t a monster.  There was simply
nothing she could do.  If she tried to rescue Angelique now, she would just end
up trussed up beside the witch herself.  That wouldn’t help anyone.  

**We know better.** 

Julia shut and opened her eyes.  It would be light very soon now.  She would
rescue Angelique then.  It occurred to Julia that moving aside from the window
would be a prudent move just in time.  

“We should get downstairs, Charity,” the man said.  

“I suppose so,” Charity agreed sounding petulant and then in a brighter tone,
she went on, “Don’t worry, Miranda, we’ll be able to continue your education
very soon.” 

Julia shuddered.  

“Draw the drapes, Tim.  We don’t want anyone discovering our little student
while we’re away.” 

“Please.” 

Julia stood very still.  It was beyond even a moan, but the single word carried
through past the thick glass of the windowpane and rent through her
obfuscations like a knife through butter.  Oh, dear God.  She had to get in
there.  Soon.  

“You have no will of your own, Miranda.  You want us.  You need us.  You are
going to be a very good little girl and you are going to wait for us to return.
Is that clear, Miranda?” 

Julia swallowed.  She glanced at the sky which was growing paler by the second.
If Angelique could just hold on long enough.  

* * * 

The sounds of a household beginning to stir encroached on Victoria’s
consciousness.  The faintest traces of a frown formed around her mouth.  She
had not been sleeping, not really.  She couldn’t sleep anymore, didn’t sleep
anymore.  Instead she now slipped into an almost delicious state where
meditation crossed into vision, a place where she reigned in her beautiful
black garden.  She had told no one.  It was *hers* after all.  

**They’ll only try and stop you from coming back here.** 

Victoria found herself questioning what was happening to her less and less. 
Why should she?  She *liked* what was happening to her.  How could something
that felt this glorious be bad?  

* * * 

Julia busied herself tidying up her instruments.  Pointless as an activity that
it was, she didn’t have much else to do.  Not now.  She’d done her best for
Angelique.  The transfusion would help *some* —at least until her tormentors
woke up and decided to summon their new toy—hopefully, the experimental serum
she had adapted would be effective against that, but now all she could do was
wait.  

The same went for the serum for Barnabas.  In an ideal world, she could have
tested it, worked out the bugs, had data with which to work; Julia Hoffman
hadn’t lived in an ideal world for a long time now.  

Her patient groaned.  

“Angelique?  How are you feeling?” 

Angelique rasped.  “How do you think I feel?” 

Resenting the sarcasm even as she acknowledged that it wasn’t out of line,
Julia couldn’t resist a retort.  “If it’s anything similar to what you put
Roger and me through, then you feel like a two ton truck ran you over and yet
you want to crawl back out on the road again so it can have another go at you.”


Angelique grimaced, closed her eyes in pain, and managed to prop herself up
slightly.  “Is it dark yet?” 

Julia shook her head.  “It’s late afternoon.” 

“Then we don’t have time for this.” 

It struck her as ironic that Angelique was suddenly the voice of maturity. 
“You’re right.” Julia stubbed out her cigarette.  “I finished the serum. 
Whether it works or not is another story.” 

“If it does?” 

Julia hugged herself.  “It should have enough of an effect that he loosens his
hold on Carolyn.  We still have to get his cooperation.  How we do that, I
don’t know.  Maybe Vicki could help with that.” 

Angelique opened one eye experimentally and then the other.  “I don’t think
that’s a very good idea.” 

“Why not?  She’s our one ace in the hole,” Julia argued.  

“Put it down to my expertise,” Angelique snapped and then winced.  “Something’s
not quite right with little Miss Winters.” 

“What makes you say that?” 

Angelique started to respond and then stopped.  “I’m not sure,” she said
slowly, “it just .  .  .  I know it somehow.” 

Both women shivered.  

* * * 

“This is wrong,” Quentin murmured, but made no effort to twist out of
Victoria’s embrace.  “God help me, I can’t stop myself.” 

“Then don’t try.” She twined her arms around his shoulders and pulled him
closer.  A part of her knew he was right.  They shouldn’t be doing this.  It
was wrong.  

**Not for you.** 

There was a lot to be said for that.  She was different, special.  The rules
didn’t seem to apply to her.  She wanted Quentin.  Who was anyone to try and
stand in her way?  The logic appealed to her.  

“Vicki, we have to—we can’t do this anymore.” He pushed her away.  

She stared at him.  “Who are we hurting?” she demanded.  

“It’s wrong.” 

Victoria stopped herself from rolling her eyes.  

“Besides, we have other things we need to focus on.  Barnabas, what’s happening
here, what’s happening to you.  It’s dark.  You shouldn’t be out here.  It’s
not safe.  We need to—I need to find him.” 

This was starting to bore her.  “I can help with Barnabas,” she said simply.  

“No.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because I don’t like what happens to you every time you use your powers.” He
caressed her white lock of hair with a finger.  “I don’t want anything to
happen to you.” 

**Rather late for him to be worrying about that now.** 

* * * 

Barnabas made his way through the grounds of Collinwood like a feral cat
perusing his territory.  The hunger was upon him again.  Each time the hunger
struck him, he thought a little less.  He needed to slake his insatiable
thirst.  He could do that with Carolyn.  That was all that mattered.  

He summoned her to him now.  They would be less likely to be interrupted on the
grounds, not here by one of the myriad outbuildings that no one ever seemed to
bother with.  It was possible Julia would be on his cousin’s trail, but he
doubted it.  Carolyn had already displayed a proficiency at meeting his needs. 

A figure in ghostly white came into view.  Carolyn.  He smiled in grim
satisfaction.  This was as it should be.  Soon he would make her as he was. 
She was a lovely creature.  He would preserve her beauty for eternity.  He
would— 

Barnabas felt his jaw slacken.  As he grew closer, the vision of loveliness
gave way to Grand Guignol ugliness.  The gown Carolyn wore was encrusted with
dark brown stains.  Rivulets of dried blood on her jaw, her neck.  She spotted
him and smiled.  

He cringed.  Carolyn’s bright eyes were manic, her smile frenzied.  Her
expression was utterly devoid of any humanity.  

He had done this.  

Perhaps it wasn’t too late.  Julia might be able to .  .  .  

No.  Barnabas shook off this thought.  What was the point?  For all of her
science, what had she been able to do?  It was too late.  Centuries too late to
do anything.  

**That’s not what you told me.** 

It couldn’t be.  The child’s voice had to be some trick.  

**Being good isn’t always easy.  That’s what you said.** 

As a vampire, Barnabas did not feel temperatures the same way mortals did, but
even he noticed the icy chill suddenly permeating the clearing.  “Sarah?” It
would be an illusion, but even as he thought that, he felt the hope rising in
him.  He turned around now.  His sister’s spirit stared at him reproachfully.  

“Sarah?” he repeated.  

**You haven’t changed.** Her large eyes were filled with hurt and
disappointment and tears.  

Barnabas forgot about Carolyn and dropped to his knees.  “Sarah, you’ve come
back to me!” 

**Why won’t you try to be good?** 

She’d last appeared to him when he’d tried to kill Julia and the memory of that
stung him anew.  “Sarah, I cannot .  .  .  you don’t understand.  I cannot help
myself!” 

She shook her head.  **You have to try.  That’s what makes us different than
animals.  That’s what you told me.  You have to try.** 

Barnabas reached out to her and as he did so, she faded into nothingness.  

“And to think, I once thought you were God.” 

He whirled around.  “You’re not Carolyn,” he said slowly.  

She laughed at that, far too deeply and far too long for sanity.  “You don’t
remember me.  Darling, he doesn’t remember me.” 

The sickening sensation that he had thought himself free of started to form
once again like some inevitable cancer.  “Charity Trask.” 

A man stepped out of the shadows.  He had a spring in his step.  “See,
sweetheart, he *does* remember you.  Who could forget you?” 

“This cannot be happening,” he said in a numb voice.  

“Oh, but it is.” Charity’s eyes narrowed.  “Did you take it away?” 

He stared at her still not quite processing everything.  Sarah, Charity,
Carolyn.  It was happening too fast.  

“Our pet.  Miranda,” she clarified.  “We were having such a lovely time with it
and now it doesn’t come when we call it.” 

This was his doing.  All of this.  

“It doesn’t matter, sweetheart,” Tim said soothingly.  “We’ll find it.  Or
we’ll get you a new plaything.” He grinned suddenly as Vicki and Quentin
suddenly came out of the darkness.  “How about her?” 

Barnabas came to.  “No, you shall not!  Quentin, get Vicki out of here.  Get to
safety!” 

“You’re not God.  You’re not even a god,” Charity scoffed.  “Do you think you
can run away from me?  Who’s going to stop us from taking what we want?” 

Vicki coolly shook off Quentin’s arm.  “I will.” 

Tim looked at her carefully and then drew himself up.  “Charity, be careful. 
She’s different.  She has power.” 

Charity laughed again.  “What can she do to us?  Is she a witch?  So what? 
Miranda was a witch and—” 

“I’m not a witch.” 

Barnabas swallowed.  The sweetness of Vicki’s voice was somehow sickening.  

“Vicki,” Quentin urged.  “No, don’t do this.  Let us take care of—” 

She barely spared him a glance through her suddenly very black eyes.  “I don’t
think so.  You two haven’t done a very good job of taking care of anything;
come to think of it, you never have.  They’re,” she pointed to Charity and Tim,
who were circling them uneasily, “here because Barnabas can’t clean up his
messes.  I can take care of this and then we can finally get on with our
lives.” 

“I don’t think so,” Charity hissed.  

“Oh?” Vicki negligently raised a hand as if she were pointing at something
mildly amusing.  “Really?” Ice blue streaks of lightning flowed through her
fingers.  As they reached Charity, a shock of white hot fire surged through the
vampire.  Her screams rent the night.  

Tim started to run.  

“And where are you going?  I thought you wanted to play.” Vicki’s other hand
opened up and he howled in agony.  

Barnabas dimly noticed that the conflagration lit the sky like fireworks.  A
smell of burnt flesh seeped into the clearing.  

“VICKI!” 

She didn’t pay any attention to Quentin’s screams or the fact that Barnabas was
once again on his knees, this time retching.  An expression of pure ecstasy
blossomed over her features.  Two more locks of her hair blanched until they
were snow white.  

Consequences were for other people.  

To be continued .  .  .