The chills that ran through my body did not come from the wind that clapped at the back of my neck as I stood in the graveyard crying his name. The only sounds to be heard were my own pleas for Barnabas to come back to us--to push time forward--but the silence was as still as the gravestones in the cold earth.

I lifted my arms for him to reach out to me--to feel me draw him back--but only the darkness was in front of me grabbing and swallowing my words. Each night the church bells have struck eight and I have remained standing on the exact spot he left me. I cannot hear him or see him but every instinctive nerve in my body tells me he is waiting, depending solely on my own willpower to bring him over the bridge across time. There is just something I am overlooking...surely something I can do.

Willie made the remark that perhaps it is Barnabas’ wish to remain in his own century. No, I can’t...won’t believe it...not as he was. I know all too well the anguish his curse brings to him and each night he fights the hunger he faces is an existence intolerable for his conscience to bear. No matter how much he was willing to risk to turn back the clock, there is no way he would want to continue to exist with that suffering. I can’t begin to imagine all the emotions he struggles with as he relives those last few nights of his past--the sorrow that it brings to his heart to experience it all over again.

Willie ran out the door with an irrational idea that perhaps he will find Barnabas as he did originally--in his coffin within the mausoleum. Whatever slight hope his enthusiasm gave me vanished almost as soon as he went out the door. I want Barnabas back--even admitting as much to Willie--but if it means his affliction returning with him...well, I’ll deal with that when it comes.

They say, that while waiting, the most important thing is to have something to do. It is sound advice I often have dispensed to my patients. Yet, now, I find myself unable to swallow my own medicine. Each miserable hour that passes, I find my hope dwindling along with it, sinking more into a despondency that I very seldom allow myself to fall into. I’ve lost my appetite and, under my fatigue, have lost any faith that has always been able to sustain me to the next day. Dilemmas I have always approached with a scientific inquiry, analyzing then backing up my strategy with an alternative plan in my head. More than once with Barnabas I have been left with only the last of my options to rely on. But now, I don’t even have that. How can I fight what I have against us...almost 200 years separating us.

I’ve always considered myself a strong woman, control being the utmost in essentials. Most of my life I had no time for anything but my career...no time for love or the hurt that follows with it. But how could I allow myself to come to the point of admitting I’d lost all hope? As I nervously watched Willie break the chains around Barnabas’ coffin, I held my breath with a silent prayer that was soon to be answered.

He laid so still...so lifeless, that I quickly checked for signs of life. My hand reached out, steadying the tremble within me, as I touched his cheek. It was not only for medical reasons, but a gentle comfort for myself. I needed to convince myself it was all real...that he was here with me...and yes, his skin was warm. He is alive and the rising sun erases my other fears I did not want to face. Thank God! If it wasn’t for Josette’s appearance before Willie and the heartbeat he alone heard which lead him to the mausoleum, Barnabas would have suffocated in his coffin with a death he would have welcomed at one time...but not now.

When he had gathered enough strength, he told Willie and I about his success in the past. Vicki and Peter Bradford both escaped and left Collinwood for a new life together. It was not a surprise--their own gravestones had disappeared the night before, giving me proof that Barnabas’ own measures to change the past had been successful. I hope they will find the happiness she deserves. But the most startling alteration in those last nights spent in his century that I find difficult to accept is Barnabas’ strong conviction that he has destroyed Angelique. I am hesitant to share the same satisfaction I saw in his face as he described how he watched her perish in flames before him. I don’t believe the word "destruction" is something permanent in a witch’s own fate.

When it comes to Barnabas and my worry over his safety, waiting is not my most admirable trait. Again I find myself pacing away the hours and my store of patience. Another night has crept by without the luxury of any sleep. With a shotgun in his hands and the perseverance and grit similar to the likes of a true New Englander that have learned to battle the bitter winters, he is off searching for the animal that has harmed Carolyn. It is times like these I wish I had never kicked my nicotine habit. The crushed pack of L&M’s remaining in the bottom of my purse is tempting and I feel the urge for just one more soothing inhale of menthol...however stale it may be.

I would have followed him on his heels if not for my concern for Carolyn. Although it is just a scratch on the side of her face that will soon heal, I don’t believe the trauma she was subjected to tonight will fade as quickly. Barnabas and I ran to the cemetery when we heard the bells from Mrs. Stoddard’s mausoleum. But they were not ringing for the reason we thought.

I did not see enough of the animal Barnabas had charged on in an instant, beating it unmercifully with his cane until the creature cowered out of sight. Carolyn was the one who had been at risk and I recoiled back into the corner of her mother’s mausoleum with her...one time glad to step back and allow Barnabas to handle the situation.

Strange. Incredible really. The most astonishing miracle has happened and if my own eyes had not seen it for myself, any professional in the medical field would have said it is not possible. Mrs. Stoddard is alive! We had opened her coffin and I checked her body for any vitals just after our frightening encounter with that animal. There was nothing to give Carolyn the hope that her mother was alive in a "Snow White" slumber. There was no pulse or heartbeat to be detected. But Mrs. Stoddard’s fears of being buried alive were legitimate and now I feel guilty for not taking every precaution in preventing her misfortune.

At first, she said she slept--trapped in darkness--and only once in that total darkness did she have a vision. A woman resembling Cassandra was surrounded by fire, screaming as she was consumed by the flames that tormented her. Tonight, she awoke. Sensing Carolyn was in danger and needed help, she was able to gather the determination to push the button inside her coffin to sound off the bells.

After listening to her startling account of the events she now remembers taking place before the emergence of her "phobia", it all comes together. Barnabas and I both looked at each other with a silent understanding of what Mrs. Stoddard herself didn’t understand. Once again, the terror that has struck a Collins can be blamed on the repercussions of a spell from Angelique.

Dare I even write the word...a word that feels strange in my mouth to say. I can’t pretend it doesn’t exist. During my time spent here at Collinwood, I have learned to accept many strange oddities that exist in the spectrum of life and toss aside a degree of logic. For one who was so eager to accept since medical school the legendary condition in stories that I sought for so long to find, then I have to keep an open mind to what Barnabas believes Chris Jennings is...a werewolf. I pointed out to him that the evidence he has is circumstantial, but he is persistent in following his own intuition and again refuses to listen to my reasoning that speculation can be a dangerous game.

Chris often visits Collinwood to spend time between Amy and Carolyn. His face registers a panic close to the surface that he tries to control, but behind those eyes I see secrets as I saw in Barnabas at one time. If Barnabas is right, he has his own demons to fight and the tiring struggle to hide them shows. I, myself, caught him in a lie. For Amy’s sake and peace of mind, I checked on Chris last night. Another bad dream had the child insisting that her brother was in trouble. I took the precaution of having a loaded pistol in my coat pocket should I encounter the same animal that attacked Carolyn. When I found the door to the cottage open, the room inside was in a state of shambles. Furniture was broken and thrown about the room as if a tornado had ripped through in its destructive path. The "quiet night" he claimed he had spent at home that evening is as false as the smile that followed his statement.

I feel partially responsible for the worse aftermath last night’s full moon has claimed--the murder of Carolyn’s friend. Her body was found mangled and clawed laying on the ground close to Chris’s cottage. I admitted to Barnabas perhaps we could have prevented her death. Just from our suspicions alone, we should have stopped her from leaving with Chris last night. But Barnabas feels it was out of our hands to control. From what he tells me, the fact that the werewolf does not chose his victim somehow does not soften the burden I feel.

Chris has been taken in for questioning by the authorities and Carolyn has called Mr. Gardner for legal assistance. I stood beside Barnabas as he gently, but directly, asked Carolyn of her interest in Chris. She didn’t need to answer for her look alone revealed the feelings that have deepened for Chris. Barnabas was quick to understand and I wonder if my own feelings for Barnabas are as evident for him to read.

Long ago, I should have followed the same advice I gave to Barnabas a few weeks ago, concerning his feelings for Vicki, and moved on with my own life with a truer perspective. But a constant chain of terror keeps me bound in its links to this family and I have to begin to wonder if fate has its intentions for me to stay here at Collinwood indefinitely.

This time, staying on the sidelines is a position I’d rather keep, leaving this whole Jennings ordeal in the hands of the police. Murder is involved no matter what the circumstances are behind it. But with his customary habit of allowing his emotions be guided by the moment, Barnabas considers it his personal mission to aid Chris. I sense it is more than just a simple sympathy towards Chris’s plight. There is an understanding of the young man’s anguish--a comradeship of what life has dealt to each of them. I have seen how Barnabas watches the interaction between Chris and Amy, as if it reminds him of his own relationship with little Sarah. There is a strength in his purpose to help Chris, perhaps he is even glad to have the diversion away from his own pain of reality. I suppose I do feel significant pride in this man that dictates my life--proud of the progress he has made and the capability he has rediscovered to feel compassion for another who endures a nightmare of his own.

So...once again, my own pattern of habit has repeated itself, placing me in the role of a reluctant sidekick. As if he lures me into a spell, those eyes and the natural essence of their magic pierces my own resolve with a warmth that sweeps through my body to the tips of my toes. And now I realize, at my age, what it means to have a man thoroughly in your system.

I was quick to point out to Chris that I was brought into this with reluctance. Instinct warns me it is too dangerous and I did not want Barnabas or myself to be a part of this. But, like Barnabas, I intend to follow through. Even though his features remind me of his brother, I do feel pity for him. The strain that tightens his face shows the hopelessness of any future he feels he has lost. Chris is truly grateful for our support and assistance. He has the first glimpse of hope to cling to with the series of tests I will begin to determine his blood chemistry in relation to his monthly transformations. I don’t want to give him any false hope though.

The study of lycanthropy is fascinating. There are two differentiated schools of thought over the issue. One theory summarizes the transformation is simply the overworked imagination of the mind...something similar to a hebephrenic schizophrenic who has a vague sense of being two personalities and having a change occur. The body actually does not transform into an animal state, only the mind itself deludes the person into believing it exists. The proof I have seen of the animal that attacked Carolyn throws that conjecture out the window leaving the other as the only alternative--a curse. I wish it was the result of the first concept--at least that would be much easier for me to treat. From my history of dealing with Barnabas’ own curse, I know how difficult it is to undo the evil from the wrath of another.

We are at the mercy of a ghost--a ghost that seems to know everything about all of us residing at Collinwood. There is an irony of humor I find in the one responsible for saving Chris’s life. But then, it has not been the first time a supernatural presence has returned from their grave to save another. Whoever the ghostly figure was that appeared in my bedroom had a reason to want to keep him alive--his own guardian angel.

Barnabas also saw her from the foyer as she descended the front stairs. After discussing it, we both agree from the style of clothing she wore, she is from the Victorian era. She led us to Chris’s cottage. It didn’t even occur to me that I was in my robe as I followed behind her on the pathway. This spirit wanted us to find Chris...to save him...and she knew I was the only one who could.

There he was...lying on the floor closer to death than to life. Of course, it was reasonable to assume that Chris had attempted to take his own life...no longer able to face the consequences of his crimes. Strychnine ingestion is an agonizing death that I can’t see anyone who wishes to take their own life would want to endure until the end slowly comes. I had to call Wyndcliffe to send me Atropine, the antidote to counteract the effects of the strychnine. Someone had tainted his whiskey decanter with the poison and now we are faced with another mystery as to who is responsible for a murderous attempt. It was going to be another long night.

Barnabas and I waited through the early hours of the morning until Chris had recovered. The best follow-up treatment for him now is to rest in a quiet, dark room. As Barnabas and I sat at the table with me still in my robe, we talked through the night as we sipped our endless cups of coffee. Funny...I felt a fleeting moment of blissful domesticity. We have come so far...

(covers episodes 665-682)