September 1968 - Page 12

Julia's Journals

by S. R. Shutt

Sept. 5, 1968

Lethe, the waters of forgetfulness. A dark silent river that, so the Greeks said, flowed between this world and the next. All day long I've been drowsy, woolgathering, desoeuvree--emphatically NOT MYSELF. It is only now, as twilight settles over Collinwood like a broad lustrous band of purple and gold, that I find a return of simple human feeling--a return of the woman the world knows as Dr. Julia Hoffman. Melodramatic? Hardly, though doubtless that is what Professor Stokes would call it. But he has not been lured into the abyss by warm dark eyes and a lean, hungry smile; he has not felt the fires of the undead searing his soul; he has not looked eagerly and longingly into the darkness, waiting for the caress of cold fingers, the call of a soft feral cry, an insatiable, annihilating tongue whose caresses bring dizzying heights of oblivion in their wake. I sometimes wonder whether Stokes has ever known a passionate impulse--whether he understands the dreadful, all too human reality that lurks below the surface of some of the stock phrases that litter medical textbooks. Such as "death wish." For all his knowledge of the occult, does Stokes really know what it is to stare into the black suns pouring forth the night? For that matter, does he really know what it means to be alive--to see all that warmth and beauty and simple human feeling being stolen away--for the sake of passion? I doubt Stokes really knows the meaning of the word passion. But perhaps people have wondered the same thing about me. Well, passion finally brought me to my knees--and to the brink of the grave. And tonight, as twilight finally brings, not a killing thirst, but an awakening of true vitality, I write these words, humbly and attentively pinning dead shells of emotional trauma like a taxidermist's specimens to these white, antiseptic pages. Only when I have written this--this horror down will I be able to go back to the real world--to pretend as if the past week or so just didn't happen. Ironic--I would give almost anything to have what I gave Maggie Evans--a complete blank in place of what I do have. The memory of those eyes, those lips, those ... teeth ...

Steady on, Julia. YOU'VE GOT TO GET A GRIP ON YOURSELF. 

I've just put my pen down, taken a few deep breaths, and smoked a cigarette, and, as usual, the nicotine has had an admirably soothing effect upon my nerves. And I've come to--begun to be able to tell myself--and MEAN it--that it was all a lie. That wonderful shimmering joy that seemed to surge through my veins as darkness fell and the dogs began their mournful howling every night. To me their cries were as sweet as any bride's wedding chorale. I MUST--I WILL show myself that it was a lie. He didn't love you. You didn't need him.

To hell with that. If this is going to work, I'm going to have to be brutally frank with myself. After all, nobody else is ever going to read this. So I can take my gloves off and stop pretending. I was besotted with Tom. I remember so clearly--more clearly, maybe, than I allow myself to remember any of the horror that followed-coming to my senses again in the lab that first night after he'd--been with me. Poor, deluded Willie found me. Despite my daze, and that strange lingering euphoria that stayed with me after Tom had been with me, part of me instantly became coldly calculating. I seemed to know instinctively how essential it was to protect Tom--to shield him. It was so easy to manipulate Willie--to play upon his sympathy for me. And part of me flashed back to that awful night last autumn, when Barnabas had aged and I--offered myself to him. I have never even written about that night before--not properly. I haven't even allowed myself to THINK about it. But I saw part of myself smirking--saying, "Well, Barnabas, you had your chance, and you turned me down. Let's see how you like it now that somebody else has taken what you spurned!" When I was in his thrall I found myself gloating over B's helplessness--taking an evil delight in it. I wanted to see him suffer for his failure to protect me. God help me.

Of course I knew, intellectually, that Tom was just using me. But that didn't help. Even when things were at their worst last year, I have never before felt so helpless--the emotion that held me in its grip was so powerful, so REAL. It was like being overwhelmed by waves of some vast hysterical need that came from the very depths of my soul. That was how completely he possessed me.

During the day, by some phantom symbiosis I'll never understand (THAT way lies madness), he filled my restless sleep with dreams. I saw myself as I would be when the--the change was complete. When I would walk the night as his--his BRIDE. How hungrily I hugged those ghastly dreams to my heart! I saw myself pallid, wan, with haunted eyes, my lips flecks of scarlet, my teeth white and hungry--like his--coronets of darkness... It terrifies me now to think back upon those visions-and the gloating, slavering LUSTS they gave birth to within my own bosom. It was as if Tom wasn't just taking my blood--he, or some strange, dark power within him, was sapping my soul--battening upon whatever shred of goodness, decency, human compassion lives on in my heart--and transmuting it into some hideous creature of cruel corruption.

And then the woman, or the little girl, who still lived on somewhere within that dark cocoon would awaken to fitful half-life, and I'd cry out, knowing I was going to die. And that something far worse than death was awaiting me--on that far shore--in the undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveller returns. No traveller save one ... the UNDEAD.

Writing it all out here does help, somehow. Dave always used to joke that I was my own best therapist. Unorthodox, perhaps. But since when have I ever been anything BUT unorthodox? 

What was terrifying about Tom was that somehow all my own strength--my belief in myself, my natural concern for others, my skill, my energy--ALL of it--was turned against me. I still don't understand how he could do this. And as I say, perhaps it is best not to brood upon it too much. There are some things better left unknown.

What I do remember is the final moments of that last night at the Old House. The feeling that I was sinking--suffocating--drowning into chill dark sensual oblivion. I remember Elizabeth, sitting beside me, babbling that Barnabas had left me alone to die. But I knew that wasn't so. I could SENSE the battle raging between them. I saw Tom's face like the face of an animal--a creature of prey--transfixed with bloodlust-and, God help me, I prayed for him to win. But then I saw his triumph turn to terror as I heard the cock crowing and the sky brightening with the imminent dawn. As Tom's strength began to wane, my own personality began to fight back. It is strange how vividly I'm recalling all this now. Tom managed to knock Barnabas out, but he left himself with no time to finish the job. He barely made it back into the coffin before the first light of dawn penetrated the crypt. As it was the sun very nearly caught him. But his coffin was no refuge against Barnabas--poor, dear Barnabas. I know what it cost him to do--what had to be done. Am I deluding myself in writing that it was his love that gave him the strength to do it? The end was horrible. The stake going right into Tom's heart--the blood--the screams. And then--peace. A strange beautiful calm over his face, now peaceful and sad. At long last, the darkness had released him. The same darkness that had had ME in its thrall until just moments before. I found myself saying a little prayer for Tom. Requiescat in pace. Some fate brought us together, I'll never understand--yet I can find it in my heart to pity you, even though you came so close to--KILLING me.

It was as if I were being lifted out of the miasma of dark, strangling veils back into a light that, miraculously, did not wound my eyes by its very sight. And then Barnabas was at my bedside. He sent Elizabeth away, and told me that Tom would never bother me again. With tears in my eyes, I tried to thank him. And he told me that I had saved his life so many times, he didn't deserve thanks. I'm crying again now, just thinking about it.

There was a sense of dawn breaking. A sense of morning finally coming after the longest, darkest night of my life. It was a sensation that I--even I--find difficult to put into words.

I had almost begun to doze off when a discreet knock came at the door. Thinking it was Barnabas coming back to check on me, I called for him to come in. I had a most unpleasant shock upon catching sight of the leering countenance of Mr. Nicholas Blair. In my weakened state, I was all too palpably aware of the evil that surrounds him. It's like a corruption he breathes into the very air. He brought me flowers (chrystanthemums--autumn blooms--how appropriate), and babbled a lot of polite nonsense about wanting to be sure I was getting over my illness. When I asked him just why he was being so solicitous, he had the impudence to say that just in case he happened to fall sick, he wanted to be sure he had a good doctor on call! I informed him that I thought of him as rather indestructible--his smile in response was positively mephitic. To my surprise, he did leave me in peace (or some semblance thereof) shortly afterward. I do still find myself wondering WHY he came here. And what schemes he's brewing. I know he had something to do with Tom--and with the vampire who started all this. But what could it be? There's a nagging suspicion that we haven't seen the last of Cassandra either. She came to me in a dream this afternoon. She didn't say anything, just stood there, laughing, mocking me with chilling maleficence. When I could stand it no longer, when I went to slap the insolence out of her, to rend her hair in a rage from her head with my bare hands, she vanished, and only her hideous laughter still cacchinated maddeningly around me--like the crystals of a satanic chandelier. The very thought of it, even now. is enough to send the icicles dancing down my back. But it was only a dream-wasn't it? After last summer, I'm afraid the phrase "it was only a dream" has lost its meaning for me.

Seeing her in that dream cast my mind back to that horrible morning last Summer, when I yielded to a long cherished impulse and gave the witch one short, sharp, slap in the face. She was gloating over Vicki's distress, and I slapped the smile right off that pretty, precious, Barbie-doll face of hers. I remember the sting of my hand on the skin of her deceptively soft cheek; the way her hair fell over her face, and the daggers that came out of her eyes, as she gritted her teeth, and hissed, "You'll be sorry you did that!" Well, Cassandra, I'm NOT sorry now, nor will I ever be. I'm not sorry I SHOWED you what I really thought of you, regardless of the cost. But I do wonder whether you are watching us somewhere, perhaps from your own private box in Hell, reserved for your personal use, watching us, and laughing at us. And waiting to strike back at us all--and drag Barnabas back to Hell with you. I wonder ...

Sept. 6

Visited Maggie yesterday, hoping for a clue as to what Nicholas is up to. Learned little other than he appears to be courting her--for some devilish reason of his own, I have no doubt. I did learn that Nicholas had arranged to visit Maggie at 5 that afternoon. B and I paid a little visit of our own to the House by the Sea. We were unable to investigate properly as B discovered Joe Haskell prowling around the house! Maggie said that Joe has been behaving oddly-missing work, seeming withdrawn, and, to judge from her description, on the verge of some sort of hysteria. I remember how he was the night of Tom's funeral. He seemed not at all himself. I wonder ...

Unfortunately I need to get back to the lab. This wretched experiment. I curse Eric Lang every time I go up and down those hateful, cobwebby stairs (and God knows, I've spoken to Willie often enough about the disgraceful state of the housekeeping in the OH). Well, Julia, it will all be over with that much sooner if you stop whining and get back to work!

Sept. 15

My suspicions about Jeff Clark have borne fruit. I came into the lab yesterday morning to find him going through one of my journals about the experiment. His expalanations, when I questioned him, were evasive and equivocating. Then tonight Barnabas found him actually running through the Experiment on his own in the lab. He claimed he was just simulating the Experiment--B suspected him of trying to destroy the body, though why on Earth he would do that, I haven't a clue. Anyhow B has decided Jeff can no longer be trusted, and I have to agree with him, though I'm disturbed by why Jeff would want to do anything that would jeopardize Vicki. I do find myself wondering just WHAT he was trying to do with that equipment down there. I have a nagging suspicion that it is something that bodes no good to any of us. And that thought disturbs me.

But I can't think about that now. B told me something tonight that has disturbed me far more deeply--to the extent that I have to write SOMETHING about it now, even though I'm so tired I can barely even see the words I'm writing.

We were discussing who we would find to volunteer for the life force for--Eve. I may as well write her name here, though I haven't shared it with B. Who else could she be, given that she is being created for Adam? I have created her, out of body parts that should have been destined for an abbatoir. I began imagining today what clothes she would wear. Perhaps a shopping trip is in order. After all, I am the closest thing to a mother she will ever have. I suppose I failed miserably at that role with Adam, didn't I? If only I could go back--do it properly. Or stop it from happening altogether. But then, would Barnabas be living under the thrall of Cassandra's curse? Who knows.

Anyhow, I am wandering from the point. I was wondering what exceptional individual we would be able to persuade to lie on the operating table, and submit to the lightning's kiss, knowing it could be a fatal encounter. And then I looked at B, and saw he had gotten--that look on his face. That look I remember so well from the old days--a hard, calculating, cunning look. A look I cannot help but think of as--evil. 

He informed me he had already decided who the life force is to be. Maggie. Poor, doe-eyed Maggie Evans, one of the world's innocents. Another orphan of the storm. A Lillian Gish for the Sixties. If that child had "victim" written over her in block letters any larger, she'd be off by the side of the highway as a public service announcement billboard.

Barnabas has done so much--WE have done so much to hurt Maggie. God only knows what designs that hellhound Nicholas Blair has upon the girl. She deserves better than death on an operating table in some crazy Experiment that, let's not deceive ourselves, has its origins in that unique pit of Hell known as the mind of Eric Lang.

Barnabas commented at some point in this evening's proceedings that I'm too much of a romantic to think clearly about all this. Well, not at any more. He's cured me of that. Yet when Willie, having learned of B's latest plans for Maggie, begged me to stop him, and asked me how I would feel about standing by while watching someone I loved go through the Experiment--it stopped me dead in my tracks, and I found myself thinking back to those awful nights last Spring. When I had to stand by, helpless, while that madman in a white coat played God with Barnabas' life.

The fact is that, at this point in the scheme of things, I'm ready to do whatever it takes to protect Barnabas from any further harm. Even if it means putting Maggie's life in danger. That is the truth--and it horrifies me--but there is nothing I can do about it, except plunge forward, praying that the dawn of sanity does lie somewhere ahead of us, at the end of this nightmare.

Sept. 25

Wheels within wheels--madness within madness. No time to do more than outline the events of the past few days, as we all tumble down the rabbit hole straight into Hell. Maggie's disappearance--Adam's violent attacks upon B, upon Vicki, even upon me--his announcement that he wants Carolyn to be used as the life force--and her still more astonishing willingness to go through with the Experiment. Where will it all end? I have my fears--and I pray that they're wrong. Praying is about all I have left now. 

Darkness is falling quickly. And the lab awaits. She is waiting too ... poor motherless Eve ...