Is there something in our drinking water? I'm beginning to believe there is. It would be so easy to ascribe everything to just that, simply an epidemic from a contaminated water source With all the mood disorders plaguing the Collins family and locals for no apparent reason, I have to wonder if something is altering everyone's brain chemistry. I'm trained to evaluate and diagnose the brain's disorders, but for the life of me, I'm baffled. It's more than the standard ups and downs everyone experiences throughout their lifetime. The strange moods and psychosis I have observed recently have me worried--not only of the one that concerns me the most--but for others as well. Megan Todd, Paul Stoddard, even Elizabeth and David are challenging me as the highly disciplined professional which I feel confident that I am. But...am I the only one not affected?

My questions only follow with more difficult questions, but where do I find the answers? Barnabas has accused me of being a detective--and a bad one at that--but my attempts to get information just continues to heighten my curiosity. Problem solving has always been more than just a mere hobby that I enjoy tackling...it is a part of my psyche. But before you can solve a problem, you must be able to define it clearly. To be honest, I sincerely believe that the problems in front of me are not genetic or biological in basis. No...there has to be more. I just may be dealing with something that is beyond even my own control, but I feel forced to take action because of those that are affected--the people whom I love.

With my attention shifting from one problem to another as quickly as they come, I've had a full load to deal with. I can only blame myself for the 19 stitches I have in my chin. Too preoccupied with my thoughts--perhaps too involved in my own anguish--I didn't pay enough attention to what was ahead of my own feet. Heading home after another argument with Barnabas at the Old House, I tripped on a raised root across the pathway.

At first I thought I was fine, no sprains or broken bones felt, but when I got back on my feet I suddenly was aware of what had happened. Although there wasn't much bleeding, my fingers could feel the wide opening in the gap between the skin under my chin. If it hadn't been for the argument that I had just experienced with Barnabas, I would have walked back to the Old House for his assistance. But that old stubborn pride of my stepped in again, and I ended up driving myself to the Emergency Room. Actually, as morbid as it sounds, the two hours I spent on an examining table was the first leisurely time I've spent on myself in the last week. I honestly didn't have any qualms over the minor procedure needed to be done, but I have to admit I had reservations about the capabilities of the young resident that performed the suturing--especially when I looked down and saw him wearing red canvas basketball shoes with Mickey Mouse on them. It's a new generation emerging behind me!

That box...that carved rosewood box! Barnabas was so protective of it when he returned from 1897 but, oddly, I found it in the Todd's antique shop today. I couldn't believe my eyes! Had he sold it? He was so fanatical over it, protecting it as if it was more precious than Josette's music box. There it was right in front of me again--the opportunity waiting. I lifted it, shook it, even tried to open it but I was unsuccessful in discovering its secretive contents. The strange serpents coiled together embossed on its lid gave me a frightening chill when I ran my fingers across it. I fear the old mythology of the symbol of evil has some significance to the history of this particular box.

It's sad in its irony. Barnabas was the one who originally pulled me into the issue regarding Chris Jennings and yet it is Barnabas that has turned his back on him. I'm in far too deep to find myself an easy way out, which is what Barnabas has done. I am now dealing with Chris' problem alone--or rather finding the solution for it--and nowhere near ready to admit defeat. One fact that I am now certain of is that Chris Jennings is the great-grandson of Quentin Collins! Chris didn't take me seriously at first--that he is a Collins--but I explained to him the circumstances that has lead me to that belief. I decided to conduct a séance between Chris, David, and myself. For the first time, I took the experienced seat to lead us into the world of spiritual communication, calling for the spirit of Quentin Collins to appear and help us. We watched intently for any signs. Then, suddenly, he appeared--not Quentin, but young Jamison Collins--through David acting as his medium. "He cannot hear you...the spirit is gone," was all he repeated. It leaves us with another mystery, but perhaps we do know more than before. It possibly could mean that Quentin Collins is alive!

Olivia Corey, Grant Douglas, and Harrison Monroe. Only one of these three names have I ever heard before, but yet I am beginning to find a connection to all three--with aliases concealing their true identities.

It seems that what I have in my recent possession (that also came from the Todd's antique shop) has someone else very interested in owning it for herself--my Tate landscape. Consequently, this is what has lead me to the first of the names mentioned--Olivia Corey. I had the opportunity once to see her in a musical that was very popular on Broadway, but I never thought about the distinction. Imagine my surprise when I saw her in the drawing room at Collinwood. It is quite amazing. The woman standing before me in this year, 1969, is an identical twin to Amanda Harris that stood in the same room almost a hundred years before. I had the eerie suspicion that I was watching another of her performances--perhaps the best performance of her stage life.

Her story is a familiar one. She claims to be a devoted admirer of the works by a particular artist that I am well aware of--Charles Delaware Tate. Her fascination for the "handsome young man forgotten" (as she described him), arose from the striking similarity of the woman that Tate seemed to hold a fancy for in his paintings--a woman that resembled her own grandmother. At first I was fearful that perhaps she was Quentin's granddaughter from his liaison with Miss Harris, but now I'm onto another theory...that Olivia Corey and Amanda Harris are the same. I know how ridiculous it sounds, but there is logic behind my reasoning. My assumptions are always backed up with proof.

Now to the second of the names. He is a man lying on a hospital bed suffering from a concussion, but what is worse, a man with no memory of his past. Total amnesia is the patient’s diagnosis with both old and recent memories lost due to the injury inflicted to his head. Grant Douglas...tall, handsome, with the same cocky personality similar to Quentin's--and the face to match. Is it a mere coincidence that the introduction of Olivia Corey coincides at the same time as the man I just mentioned? "Believe what I want to believe," that is what Barnabas had said to me when I told him my suspicions on who I thought was really lying on that hospital bed.

Although I tend to be the driver on most occasions when I’ve been with Barnabas, I have always tried to contain my nervousness during the few times he does drive. Only my will power has kept me from becoming a nagging backseat driver, which I refuse to be. A cigarette often comes in handy as I attempt to remain quiet and calm, but his natural tendency towards easy panicking does not make him my first choice to ride with. I think I’d rather take my chances with a teenage student driver rather than with him. Now, this unfortunate accident has me silently holding more of the blame for teaching him how to drive than he feels as the driver responsible. I sincerely doubt the so-called guilt trip that he was giving me in the hospital corridor was genuine. The shock over hearing that Barnabas was the driver behind the wheel that struck Grant Douglas just adds more speculation to my claim. Could Barnabas also be responsible for Quentin’s amnesia?

I have asked Grant to trust me--to put himself in my capable hands--until we find the truth. He allowed me to hypnotize him, but the session did not yield very much. I decided to use something different; the association method is merely another way to induce the sleeping memory. I realized the chances I was taking to sneak him into Collinwood, but I had to prove it to myself. If anything would jog his memory, I would have thought it was the sight of Quentin's room. Even the tune that Quentin was so attached to on his phonograph did nothing to jar his memory. I suppose I was expecting too much, but I had the feeling he was lying to me when he said he couldn't recall anything. Time will tell.

Harrison Monroe. He is an artist of little notoriety--if any--except for one astonishing fact. I came across something very interesting when searching through a storage room with Elizabeth. A landscape that she had bought at a local charity last year has more value to me than to her. It seems inconceivable that two painters could have the same techniques, but it was certainly obvious before my amateur eyes to see. The same blue sky, the same colors and style are so similar to the Tate that I recently purchased. It's most unlikely that they could be painted by the same man. Mr. Tate, I have since discovered, passed away almost ten years ago, but the landscape Elizabeth allowed me to borrow has the date of 1968 in its corner. Could my hunch be right that they are one and the same?

I have had to rely on Professor Stokes and his associate to help me in this matter. It didn't come as a complete surprise to discover that there was a portrait hidden behind my Tate landscape--a portrait of Amanda Harris. Could there possibly be another portrait hidden behind the Monroe painting...one that is of Quentin? I have been given Harrison Monroe's address. Later, I shall be taking a short trip to a little fishing village outside of Rockport.

Paul Stoddard may just have a few of the answers I need in regard to the strange events happening inside the Todd's antique shop. The man is obviously disturbed. He has even thrown accusations towards myself, accusing me of being "one of them". I realize that his hysterics may confirm to most that he is unstable with paranoid illusions, but I have the feeling that there is some sense in his desperation. He has suggested to me that Barnabas is involved in a conspiracy with some organization within the antique shop, but before he could go on, who should appear but the accused! What is it about Barnabas that frightens him so? Mr. Stoddard shut up like a clam when he saw Barnabas standing behind me in the doorway. He has quite an effect on him. Sadly, I followed almost immediately behind Mr. Stoddard's footsteps. As difficult as it is for me to write this, there is nothing left to be discussed between Barnabas and myself. He may want me out of his life, but I still cannot bear to leave him just yet. A few years ago, I had taken the role of protecting Barnabas--even when he thought I was an enemy. I always believed he needed me, but now I seem to be nothing more than a nuisance in his life, his days too important with other things to include me in them. Each time I walk away from him, everything about him makes me angry.

I've made excuses for him--for his irrational behavior--but now it seems almost self-evident. I have lost the Barnabas that I knew--not to another woman--but to something else that I can't figure out. I've tried to rationalize his remote attitude towards me, but he has become someone else...someone that I don't like. Our conversations quickly end up with both of us turning on each other in tradeoffs of accusations, throwing us into an open battlefield. It is not a new territory for us, but an old one. Our relationship has reverted back to that of adversaries, while I stand back feeling helpless as I watch. The tensions between us when we first met have returned with the same distrust. He is spiteful and vindictive, deliberately chastising me and belittling my personality. The last thing I should do is overreact, but he has caused a special kind of pain to brew inside of me. I've never stopped loving him, but I fear my faith in him has nearly disappeared. What has happened to make him behave this way? I swear that I will get to the bottom of this.

There is one thing I am certain of--I do not like Alexander. I can't imagine anyone saying that about a little boy, but it is true. I don't know why I feel so strongly about it, but he is a strange child--as strange as the crescent-shaped birthmark I saw on his wrist. When I was with Elizabeth, I advised her that she should not allow David and Amy to play with the latest of young children to be visiting Phillip and Megan Todd. The child makes me uncomfortable. He looks at me as if he has outsmarted me...that he has won. But...what has he won?

I know Amy was very upset after her visit to the antique shop. No doubt, part of the reason was due to the sudden appearance of Grant Douglas, whom she thought was Quentin. But I suspect there is more to it...and that more is Alexander. Amy was so frightened when I saw her at Chris' cottage, that she was completely unable to speak. Before I was able to question her more extensively, who should appear behind me on the scene but Barnabas! His intentions for the visit to Chris seemed simple enough yet, behind that look in his eyes, I knew there was a game he was playing. I had this odd sensation that, at the same time, he was also challenging me to one. There have been moments before I have felt uncomfortable with Barnabas, but this time was entirely different. He stepped over towards me, leaning closely. His whole physical presence stared down at me, over towering me as though mimicking a predator to its prey. He was close--too close--and I tried to control my emotions and meet those piercing eyes with as much perseverance as I could gather. But when I saw his lips pull up slightly in one corner with a small triumphant grin, it immediately sent shivers down my spine unnerving me. It was then I recognized the same expression as I had seen with Alexander. Had Barnabas just outsmarted me too? I had to turn away in defeat.

His reputation as a recluse is a gross understatement. Harrison Monroe definitely has a flair for the dramatic. The loud speaker by his doorstep is an offending welcome towards any visitor, but I was just as antagonizing when I announced the name "Charles Delaware Tate" as my ticket for an entrance through his front door. The young man seated behind the desk had found what Ponce de Leon never did--the fountain of youth. Yes, it was who I expected it to be--Charles Delaware Tate. I was very candid with him and came right to the point that I was aware of his true identity and the special talent that he had with his paint brush and canvas. Explaining Chris' dilemma as a descendant of Quentin and of his curse, I asked for his help. The hideous laugh from his reaction towards my request was just as insanely mad as the man himself. Whatever encouragement I had begun to feel towards a hopeful solution for Chris’ plight, with Tate being his salvation, is waning.

Each of my encounters with Barnabas becomes more stranger than the last. I was reading another book on lycanthrophy, when Barnabas interrupted me. The old pretense of his concern for Chris in his visits is wearing thin. I knew there was something else behind it. When I asked him what he really wanted, the light of battle was not in his eyes when I looked at him this time. His voice changed and, surprisingly, it was not as harsh as it typically has been lately. Instead, ironically, he turned his strategy to one of concern for me. I hadn't expected it, nor the gentle touch of his hand when he reached out to stroke my face. It felt strange, but yet I felt a familiar part of the Barnabas I wanted to see...a part of the man that I still love. At first, I thought it was a gesture of his affection--foolishly making my pulse leap. His gaze lowered onto mine, penetrating and suspending me into his own trance from his dark eyes. I was at a loss...helpless. Then, suddenly, he simply turned around and walked out--but not without leaving an effect of uneasiness that still torments me.

I felt so exhausted afterwards that I had to go upstairs and lay down, even though it was the middle of the afternoon. I wish I never had. The dream that I experienced in my short nap was worse than any the night could bring. Every detail I can recall vividly in my mind. Barnabas was calling for me as I followed his voice like a willing lover to his promise of our closeness soon to be. My subconscious does not have to reveal to me what I yearn for in my waking state, but what did surprise me was the appearance of that box again. Why was it in my dream? Barnabas was standing in the drawing room holding it in his hands, now with a welcomed invitation for me to open its lid. How strange that I should feel differently about it than before. My curiosity was not as eager to find out its secrets as I had been previously, nor was I as easily agreeable to his wishes. I felt helpless except for my only defense of the fear that tore me away from him and my dream. I proceeded to run away from the box--and Barnabas--thankful to have finally awakened.

There was an odd sense of deja vu within me when I descended the stairs, just as I had in my dream. As soon as I entered the drawing room, I was reminded of it once more. It was as if I was seeing a rerun of what I had just experienced in my sleep, only this time I was astonished to see Elizabeth standing in the exact spot as I remembered Barnabas had stood in my dream--and holding the same box! I was visibly shaken, overwhelmed at the pertinence between my recent nightmare and its reality I was living at that very moment. Elizabeth insisted that I open it. I have to admit that I was peculiarly drawn to its strange presence but, once again, the fear that lingered from my dream held my resistance. I have the feeling that I was literally saved by the bell--or rather the knock at the door--which interrupted me from what only heaven or hell only knows.