April 1968 - Page 6

Julia’s Journal.

Written by S. R. Shutt

April 1, 1968.

Twilight is a subtle shift of colors as the mist rises from Widow’s Hill to wrap this vast house in a veil as fine and dank as a shroud centuries old. I’m generally not prone to moods, but tonight’s events have me as edgy as if I were going to be asked to take my Medical Board exams all over again tomorrow morning. The house is chill this evening, as if something deep within it had been exhumed, leaving a gaping hole through which the miasmas of hell itself were seeping with cold, ruthless finality to destroy us all. I’m exhausted—there were several moments when I didn’t expect to live through this night. Yet I’m so jittery that my attempt to lie down and rest was a sad failure. So I sit here with this familiar book, a shot of brandy I’ve brought up from the drawing room, and a cigarette (only the first of many, I’m afraid) to soothe my veins with life-giving nicotine.

The pen, as I grasp it between my fingers, scratches signs on the paper that may be little more than outward symptoms of the claw marks etched on my brain. All the horrors I’ve had to endure these past weeks! Yet as I write I also feel a new calm descended. Tonight I felt a mood of half-hysterical triumph sweep me up in its grip when I confronted Barnabas. I have given in to such moods before. Sometimes the consequences have been ... almost deadly. That night at the Old House when I gloated openly that Sarah was a lonely child so starved for company she would appear to anyone willing to talk to her. Anyone but YOU, Barnabas. I nearly lost my life that night. Such has been my emotional state these past few weeks that life has seemed like a cheap token I would barter away for even a moment’s satisfaction of being the center of Barnabas’ attention. My pride in my professional achievements, my intellectual ambition to be the first scientist who had provided decisive proof of the existence of a form of life previously only hinted at in folklore, my concern for a colleague and a friend such as Dave was—all these have been swept away in the mounting hysteria of these past weeks. And I want to give way to all the grief I’ve felt, the horror, the hot breath of madness panting over my neck—but I can’t. Something inside me has died. Something that was soft and easily moved has curdled and withered and fallen away to dust. And with the death of those feelings has come a strange peace. I’ve felt myself gnawed by horrible emotions—jealousies, the wormwood of envy. God help me, I envied Carolyn her new role as Barnabas’ slave. The way she would glide across the foyer, every movement oozing a narcotic sensual delight, sickened me at the same time that it excited me. And I found myself giving way to a strange, inexpressible pleasure in how easily Vicki was dominated when I began to hypnotize her. I told myself I was doing it for her own good; that only by turning her subconsciously against Barnabas, so that she loathed even the brush of his fingers against her elbow, could I save her from the plans he had for her. If I was doing it for her own good, why did I enjoy it so much? Why did I take such dark joy in seeing the disgust in her eyes when she looked at Barnabas in his coffin and found herself, under my influence, unable to look away? "You will never remember and you will never forget," I instructed her, and even I could hear the iron note of triumph in my own voice. I would pass myself in the mirror during those days and feel as if I was looking at a stranger. Had HE done this to me? Or had I done it to myself?

Once I welcomed his darkness into my life and made it my own, I knew that anything was possible. But even I found myself ill-prepared for the events of the seance. Barnabas putting Carolyn up to pretending to speak for Sarah—that I expected. The stunt failed as miserably as I anticipated it would. But having the lights go out, and Vicki disappear for a few moments, while some strange woman with an English accent stood in her place, was like a scene out of Max Ernst’s Semaine de Bonte, which I recall reading in Professor Trilby’s Surrealism class back at Cornell. And then Vicki’s equally inexplicable reappearance, wearing a heavily soiled servant’s dress that clearly dated to the late Eighteenth Century, with a bullet wound that showed every sign of having been inflicted with a weapon of that time—and treated with the limited medical repertory of those faraway days—well, it provided a practical application for the techniques I studied in Professor Wolsey’s Healing and Narcotics in Colonial America course I never dreamed I would ever have to draw upon.

I told Barnabas tonight that I found it "interesting" watching him flail about in a situation that was completely out of control. And, at that moment, I did enjoy the sheer, unadulterated fear that etched his remarkable features—the panic that gripped those exquisite eyes of his. His helplessness—the inevitable consequence of my abandonment of him—gave me a cold, bitter thrill. But the reality is that seeing him afraid frightens me more than anything I have ever known. Fear makes Barnabas lose all sense of proportion. Before, when he plotted to murder Maggie Evans, when she had escaped from Wyndcliffe, only Sarah was able to stop him. I sense that Sarah really is gone forever now. Bringing Barnabas back to his senses will require every bit of ingenuity, tact, and courage at my command. Because if I can’t stop Barnabas now—there’s nobody left who can.

April 2, 1968

Strange experience with Vicki this morning. Under hypnosis she seemed far less malleable than before. It almost seemed as if she were under some sort of posthypnotic control—some other agency, person or persons unknown, preventing me from peering into the murky depths of her confused, muddled mind. She grew so agitated that I feared she might suffer unpleasant consequences if I continued, so I terminated the session. I proceeded to town where I checked the one name, apart from Barnabas, that Vicki kept mentioning over and over again: that of Peter Bradford. I learned that he was convicted of murder and hanged on this very day in 1795. Is it possible—could Vicki, through some strange trick in time, have been transported back into the past? I have read some theoretical papers about the possibility of time travel, but nothing like the bizarre physiodynamic circumstances discussed by my learned colleagues were present in the Collinwood drawing room last night. And any scientific professional who dared to suggest that a perplexed governess could somehow be transported back two centuries, live several months there, and then be returned to the present moments after her apparent disappearances—well, I could just imagine the braying laughter of ridicule that would greet such a preposterous proposition.

I felt that food might help restore my wits to something like working order, so I stopped in the Collinsport Inn for a bowl of soup, a salad, and a slice of apple pie. I indulged myself in two cups of coffee (steady on, Doctor) as the combination of caffeine and nicotine have always had such a beneficial effect upon my nerves. I felt myself growing calmer but was still a bit edgy. While driving to the Hall of Records I had passed the Beehive Palace, virtually Collinsport’s only decent hair salon. My hair has been getting on my nerves lately. I’ve been too distracted to really care for it properly, and I felt that it was time for a change.

With warmer weather on the way, too, a trim seemed to be in order.

The beauty parlor did provide a marvelous contrast to the oppression of Collinwood. A little radio played a bubbly little stream of popular songs, and the head coiffeuse took me in hand herself She was a bright, chic woman about my age named Pepe, whose blunt masculine airs were delightfully offset by her stylish clothes and breezy banter. I was idiotically down to my last cigarette when I walked into the salon, and she was gracious enough to share hers with me. I have never bothered with Newports before, spurning them as frivolous, but the lighter taste seemed to suit my new mood. She turned me away from the mirror while she clipped and cooed and generally fussed over me. Honestly, the woman treated me as if I were her long lost twin sister. I suppose there was a certain resemblance. But I must confess I quite enjoyed the attention she lavished upon me. I knew women like her at Cornell, and never felt the need to give them the wide berth some of the more tightly cantilevered girls affected—the sorority girl types. I am thankful to say I have never been anywhere near a sorority house in my life.

In any event, upon returning to Collinwood, I had already become preoccupied by what mood Barnabas would be in when we had our inevitable encounter. Dusk was falling as I drove my car back to the stables and dashed in through the kitchen door. I certainly wasn’t prepared for Mrs. Johnson’s exclamations over my new look. Elizabeth was equally complimentary. I actually found myself blushing as they quizzed me about Pepe, and I saw them exchanging some humorously "odd" looks with one another. The consensus would appear to be that the new look suits me admirably. Even Barnabas commented favorably upon it though of course he was rooting for sympathy when he made that compliment. God, he’s so mind-numbingly TRANSPARENT at times!

(I am simply thankful that despite the name I did NOT come away from the Beehive Palace with—a beehive!)

As I began to say above, Barnabas had changed his tune when I encountered him on the terrace later that evening. He was back to the manipulative, smooth-talking operator. I resisted his blandishments a little more forthrightly than he is accustomed. I could see that desperate look in his eyes. I shall have to be extra vigilant. I can tell he is planning something. I have no doubt that he is on the verge of committing some reckless act of violence—some new outrage. Even as I write these words, I hear the dogs howling, that chillingly familiar, mournful cadence. I had better check on Vicki again.

April 3. I have failed. Some sixth sense warned me to look in on Vicki shortly before dawn this morning. Her neck showed marks I knew all too well. I felt myself growing dizzy but willed myself to remain calm and studied the gashes with professional detachment. There was no dried blood around the wounds, which means he took just a little—just enough to put her under his power, presumably. I still have a little time.

Confronting Barnabas proved an exercise in frustration. He seemed quite unabashed when I made him aware that I know the truth. I really can’t believe he’s done it—he’s actually attacked Vicki, and if I don’t find a way of stopping him, I know he plans to make her his bride. What on earth am I going to do?

Things are escalating here at a pace that frightens me. Barnabas has been acting strangely ever since Vicki brought some cheap old portrait home from one of the junk shops downtown. He mentioned a name I had never heard before tonight. Angelique. A beautiful name. Why does it send chillls down my spine?

April 4. It is barely dawn and I have been up all night. But again I know that sleep will evade me if I am stupid enough to actively pursuit it. Perhaps writing things down will help.

I’m so angry I can barely even hold this ballpoint. I’m grateful I’m not trying to write in pencil or, God forbid, a fountain pen. First of all, I had the scare of my life when Nurse Rachet called from the hospital to say that Barnabas and Vicki had been in an accident. What they were doing in the car together, God only knows. Why am I kidding myself? I know why they were together. I know what he was planning with her. I KNOW WHAT BARNABAS COLLINS IS. Why do I persist in deluding myself?

Anyway, I rushed down to the hospital, breaking every traffic law in this one-horse dump of a town, only to find that Barnabas was unconscious—and Eric Lang had gotten his claws into him. I remember Lang only too well. He was an intern when I was starting in medical school. Even then, everybody knew he was crazy as a rat in a coffee can. The problem was that he had attracted the patronage of old Dr. Welby, then the head of Collinsport Hospital. Welby saw to it that Lang was given every opportunity. He even received NAS grants under highly dubious circumstances. I remember the gossip at the cocktail parties. And there was that peculiar story about a talk Lang was going to give at an AMA panel ten years ago—advanced research into the genesis of life, or something like that. Apparently he blabbed enough lurid details shortly beforehand to a few senior colleagues, such that they "persuaded" him to withdraw literally at the last minute. I’m told he stormed out of the conference room in a rage, shouting that he would show them all, that history would call THEM the crackpots. After seeing that crazed look in his eyes when he spoke about "bizarre medicine" tonight, I’m sure that that was a very watered-down version of what really happened.

Lang resorted to every trick in the book (and then some) to ensure that it was impossible for me to get Barnabas out of that hospital room and back to the Old House. I was ready to throttle Lang out of sheer frustration. The only thing that stopped me was the realization that one of the duty nurses would undoubtedly have walked right in on me in the middle of putting paid to one of the senior surgeons. Lang was smug, impertinent, and threatening, all at once. He had the audacity to look me in the eye and say, "He’s a vampire, isn’t he, Julia?" He displayed scant respect for me as a colleague. He did allow me to assist in darkening the room as I directed was necessary for B’s safety (I told him B has a rare condition that makes him very sensitive to sunlight), but he INSISTED I leave once I had inspected the linings over the doors and windows and found them adequate.

Even as I write these words, Lang is toying with Barnabas’ health. And that is something I will NOT permit.

When he described Barnabas as "OUR" patient, I was grateful I did not have Papa’s revolver in my pocketbook. If I had I would have shot him. His arrogance is beyond belief!

April 5. I am reeling—B is human again! Of course that cretin, Lang, has taken the credit. I am sure that without the residual effects of MY treatment upon B’s bloodstream, the cocktail of drugs and plasma Lang injected into him would have had no effect—or worse ...

Still I felt my heart break a little when I heard B describing the feeling of the sunlight upon his face. I had so longed to be at his side, at that moment. And to have this taken from me—by someone of Lang’s dubious character.

"Violated" hardly begins to describe how I feel.

April 7. Vicki’s behavior continues to concern me. That strange young man, Jeff Clark, appeared in the Eagle Hill Mausoleum when we went out there to check out V’s memories of the Secret Room. How I do not know, but he KNEW how to open the door! Vicki’s mind phased in and out of things, as usual. I don’t think I need to worry about her memory returning—particularly since B’s bite marks disappeared from her neck. Vicki seems more vague, diffident and fogbound than ever since her experience the night of the seance. At other moments—particularly when she speaks of Angelique Collins, and how her witchcraft nearly destroyed the entire Collins family—she speaks with a strange clarity that terrifies me beyond all reason.

I paid a little courtesy call on dear Eric (excuse me while I dip my pen in bile). I made it quite clear that without MY cooperation his further plans for B were futile. He informed me that B was now HIS patient and HIS decisions about B’s treatment are to override anything I may have to say in the matter. Well, I was seething so that I simply had to leave. I’m not sure what strategy is next but I WILL find out what Lang has planned for Barnabas. And if it’s as bad as the feeling in my bones tells me, I will do anything necessary to stop it. ANYTHING.

I shall have to investigate this Mr. Jeff Clark, too. He arrived at Lang’s with raw panic in his eyes just as I was leaving. He refused to acknowledge me, but I could tell he was taken aback to find me there. Somehow it is all connected—the seance, Vicki’s liaison with this man, Lang’s interest in Barnabas—and Angelique...

April 8.

I do not know why, but Angelique’s name makes my blood run cold. She is the one who was responsible for B’s affliction. Her portrait is having a strange effect upon Roger. The other day he addressed me as Countess du Pres—a woman who lived at Collinwood in the late eighteenth century. She was the aunt of Josette du Pres—a learned aristocrat who had to flee her estates outside Paris with the coming of the Terror.

In a library in Bangor I found a reference to a rare work in French—Feuillets de ma vie by la Comtesse Natalie Marie Amethyste du Pres—and a small portrait of her. Clearly a woman of tremendous character—and superb bone structure, I might add.

Today my worries over Roger’s odd behavior bore strange fruit. Yesterday Mrs. Johnson had come to me with a curious little trophy retrieved from Roger’s bedroom—Eric Lang’s hospital headband. I was showing it to Barnabas late this afternoon and he became very agitated. He began talking of Angelique, her evil, and the danger Lang was in. We rushed over to Lang’s house and arrived just in time to prevent Roger from plunging an antique whaling harpoon into the good doctor’s back! Roger was dazed and disoriented, so I suggested driving him back to Collinwood. He seemed relieved and quietly accepted my offer of assistance. Then, when he was in the car with me, he suddenly began babbling about "her" and "that voice" and how "doom is hovering over us all." I stopped at the traffic light and turned to try to talk to him—only to have him throw the car door open and leap out, running hell for leather down the street. Who knows where he is now, or what force is working its will upon him.

I have the feeling we have not heard the last of Angelique Collins. Between her lurking evil, and Eric Lang’s unknown plans for Barnabas, I will need all my courage, all my ingenuity, and all my LUCK to get through these next days.

On a lighter note, VERY pleased with my new look. I got rid of some of those awful dowdy clothes I was running around in. Let the ladies of the Salvation Army do what they wish with those ugly sweaters, and those tiresome tweed skirts! I feel like a new woman. And a good thing too. I’m clearly going to have my hands full around here this Spring!