"Please...be careful."

The last few days I have heard Barnabas express this to me more than once.   And, each time after hearing it, I sense not only an urgency behind his advice, but also his genuine concern.  It's in his tone as much as it is in his words.  Every time I leave the Old House to return to Collinwood, I hear it from him, cherish it for what it is.  How clearly I see the worrisome wrinkles that frown his forehead as he looks down upon me and repeats again, his voice warning, "Be careful, Julia."  I know he's worried about me and is concerned for my safety.  I hadn't thought about it until now, but I suppose there is a sense of guilt his anxiety feeds from.  It's understandable, since he is fully aware that he has made matters worse.  As a result of his own foolish actions, I see that he now recognizes the risks to my life he has caused.  If only he had listened to my objections and stuck to our original plans.  Angelique would have been dead by now, exactly where she should be.   But Barnabas' impulsive decisions and his carelessness to their consequences just gets us deeper in this mess, keeping us here in parallel time longer than need be.

Trying to reassure him, I tell him that I'll be fine, hoping to give him in return some sort of peace of mind.  But, there's no mistaking.  We both realize the dangers ahead.

And so I'm here, as I always am.  With him...where I want to be.  Here to help Barnabas, to make sure that HE is safe.

Since finding myself in the shoes of another Julia Hoffman, I have discovered I was actually unprepared to meet the demands of her life.  Her duties and responsibilities or, to be more precise, her involvement in Collinwood, are more time-consuming than what I had expected.  With a very rigid schedule, I find it difficult to be able to leave the estate to visit the Old House.  It can be very trying when I must always watch the minutes on my wristwatch in order to keep Angelique from becoming suspicious of my time away.  There is one thing I have had to give up in my charade as my counterpart that I realize I have taken for granted too long in my own life -- my independence.   Coming and going on my own accord, especially during my years at Collinwood, use to be easy.  Now, no matter what time of the day or night it is, I find myself having to answer to others of my whereabouts.  Worst of all, I am always under the scrutiny of Angelique.  She asks too many questions.

Barnabas is right.  I do have to be careful.  VERY careful.  Those evil tigress eyes of hers keep a steady eye on everything I do.  Yes, I must take into consideration what Barnabas so warns.  Stokes and Angelique might just suspect me.

I have made too many mistakes and now I don't know what to do.  The moment was just awful, yet I really had no other choice but to face him.

It was bad enough that I knew nothing about the séance to be able to tell him, but I thought I had convinced myself that I could bluff my way through Inspector Hamilton's inquiry.  My brief moment of self-assurance was to be very temporary.  When overhearing in his conversation with Barnabas that the Inspector is an old acquaintance of Hoffman's, after he left, I stepped out from my hiding place behind the louver doors in the drawing room frantic with worry over one dreadful thought.  What if he wanted to discuss old times with me?  Barnabas suggested that I stay at the Old House to avoid the Inspector, but I had made up my mind there wasn't any other alternative for me other than to get it over with as soon as possible.  Ready or not, I could only hope that I could pull it off.

With no time wasted, I found him waiting for me at Collinwood as soon as I walked through the door.  Fortunately I was able to get through his meeting with some resemblance of smoothness.  But when his questions changed to a more personal nature -- exactly what I feared the most -- the situation turned into a disaster.  A TOTAL disaster!

Apparently, he and his wife had known Hoffman when she worked for a family by the name of Richardson, before she came to Collinwood.  I have to give the Inspector more credit than I originally thought of him.  His detective-trained eye noticed a difference about me.  I know there is no actual way he could have any idea of my true identity.  After all, Hoffman and I look the same, have the same features.  Any subtle differences he may have noticed, I thought I could easily explain.  It was my blunder for overextending myself when I asked how his wife was -- his wife that has been dead for over three years and who's funeral Hoffman had attended.  I should have stuck to my own advice I often have given to Barnabas -- the less said, the better.

The Inspector's brows immediately frowned with surprise as if I had taken leave of my senses.  More importantly I readily noticed they quickly deepened into an expression of suspicion.  I had made a serious mistake.  It would be very hard for anyone to forget something like that.  I looked more than just uncomfortable at my sudden "memory loss."  Trying to recover, I thought it best, under the circumstances, to turn away from him in an effort to hide my nervousness.  There was no convincing explanation to give him other than clumsily saying I have been under a strain and had simply forgotten.  Even with my back turned, I could sense him watching me with an unmistakable doubt.  I was sure of it.

The life of a spy may seem to outsiders as a life of intrigue, but I am quickly learning from experience that for those on the inside, it is a dangerous and precarious existence.  I can only hope that Inspector Hamilton does not mention my slip-up to Angelique.  It is not a pleasant thought.  If she were to find out, I'm as good as dead.

There has been another death.  Another murder.  A life taken too soon.  Poor Carolyn.  Perhaps she knew who Angelique's murderer really was.  Perhaps, from that secret she carried, it may have resulted in her own unfortunate death.  I felt suddenly sick to my stomach as I saw the shock in Elizabeth's eyes when she overheard Roger's whispers containing the terrible news of her daughter's death.  Like a shadow, I stood and watched, feeling virtually helpless, unable to do anything for her.  My sympathy could only silently watch a mother's inconsolable grief.  She has lost her child.  Having no children of my own, it is a sorrow and loss I can only imagine -- but one I quickly realized I would never want to live and experience.  A parent should never have to outlive their own child.  Roger was right.  There is a curse on Collinwood...a curse that carries over into any time band.

Carolyn had been so upset since Will's death.  It was such a great shock to her.  It seemed the only solace she could find was from the decanter that continually filled the glass in her hand.  So, so sad.  Although I was not close to Carolyn Loomis in the short time I've been here, I couldn't help but think of Carolyn in my own time and how I would have felt if it had been her to meet such a tragic end.  Ironically, she, too, was suffering from the same loss as her counterpart -- the death of her husband.  I can't help but think of the family right now.  How Carolyn is doing.  And David and Amy.  I miss home.

Once more the blame of another death has quickly shifted to Quentin as the suspect.  Even more incriminating against him is the evidence they found near Carolyn's body -- a glove given to Quentin as a gift from Elizabeth.  I can't believe that Quentin is the murderer, even though I overheard Mrs. Stoddard now believing it to be true.  No...the evidence is much too simple.  Someone else could have worn the gloves or, perhaps, even planted it there.  I may sound redundant, but my instinct has my suspicions leaning toward Angelique.

   She has to be the blame, either directly or indirectly.  Everything that happens in this house is because of her.  I've said it before and I'll say it again.  She is the proverbial bad penny that shows up in ANY time period.

I cannot ignore it.  It's much more than just a little voice inside of myself warning me.  One thing is obvious.  Angelique senses I am not quite the same, commenting more than once that she finds my behavior strange.  When I told Barnabas that I think she suspects me, he soon wore the same look of concern on his face that he has before.  He suggested that perhaps I should give it all up and return to our own time...alone.  My first thought to his statement held no concern for my own safety, but only for his.  I quickly reminded him if I were to leave, there is no one to protect him during the day.   Stubbornly, but not surprising, he said he would take that chance.

He can't do this alone!  I know he needs my help.

Not that confident in my decision as to be the right one, I shot back anyway the same determination seen in his eyes.  Despite the dangers, I said I would take that same chance as well.

Waiting.  Listening.  Listening to nothing for there is now nothing to listen for.  My ears have had to be my eyes, for only darkness surrounds me.  In my confinement, I fail to even recognize myself; ashamed to write of how low my spirit, my faith, has come to be.  My mind and imagination are racing, becoming my own worst enemy more than the one that has imprisoned me.  Too much time only allows me to think.  If it wasn't for my small black notepad I've always kept daily in my pocket, I would not even have the comfort of keeping myself occupied as I scribble down my tormenting thoughts.

Oh, how foolish I was!  I've gone over and over it in my mind.  Every error, every mistake, was mine only to blame.  I was not cautious enough.  I pushed my luck to its limit, only to allow myself to be tricked.  Say it, Julia.   This time you took too much of a chance and now you've paid the price.   Hindsight.  What an invaluable, but now useless, tool.

I should have suspected something wasn't right.  Believing that I was helping Angelique look for a safer hiding place for Quentin, I followed her to the lower part of the basement in Collinwood.  With a scheming swiftness, the tables suddenly turned -- turned into my own entrapment.  God help me, I was the target!

Her icy pride was smug, reeking of pleasure, having the satisfaction of knowing that she had baited me into her trap.  The incorrigible smile that curled her lips made my hands tense into fists, fighting the urge to slap it off her face.  I should have killed the witch when I had the opportunity in front of me a few days ago.  In all honesty, her death would be one not to be on my conscience.  If only Barnabas had allowed me to go through with our plan to destroy Angelique's life force.

In spite of my efforts, my excuses didn't work this time.  Feigning my innocence nor declaring my loyalty to prove that I was her faithful servant did not have the power to change the sad truth.  It was too late for all of that.  Having discovered my true identity from the room that brought me here to this time, Angelique now realizes that I am not the Julia Hoffman of her time.  And, from these turn of events, she now knows the fate of her own Hoffman.  The rage was lit in her eyes, so easy now to be seen, a motivation not needed to be explained.  Vengeance is in her nature, a vicious remedy for the sin of betrayal.  As much as it frightens me, it doesn't surprise me, for I have been up against it before.  She is so similar to her own counterpart.   Cold...callous...having absolutely no remorse for her cruel actions toward others, including what she has done to me.

She is asking too much.  What she wants -- demands -- of me are answers to her questions.  Questions about Barnabas.  She is determined to discover the secrets behind the "mysterious Barnabas Collins" and more than suspects that I know everything about him.  One awareness she has observed is that she has never seen Barnabas during the day.  Describing him as a "somewhat nocturnal creature," she was closer to the truth than she'll ever learn from me.   Simply stated, her ultimatum offers my life in exchange for his secrets -- as if I really believe that she would let me go.  What a hell of a choice.   Despite her demands, I have refused to cooperate, even resisting her attempts at hypnotism to get the information she wants.  She may have tricked me once, but not again, and certainly not with the technique I, myself, am so familiar with.  Deliberately turning my face away, I resisted her own black magic.   But, I have to be honest.  I do fear for my life.  Temporarily, for now, I am more valuable to her alive than to hastily dispose of me as she did with Bruno.  But...how long will that last?

I feel my strength weakening.  My arms quickly became tired from me pounding them against the stone walls -- the walls of another secret room hidden beneath Collinwood.  The skin across my knuckles is bruised and raw, developing into a pain that burns with strength I try to ignore.  My throat still hurts, feeling of sandpaper when I swallow, from my shouting and endless cries of help.  More importantly, there is no food.  No water.   Desperate, I attempted to catch into the palms of my hands the few drops of moisture running down the cold surface of the crumbling walls before they landed on the earth's floor.

Two candles, their wicks too quick to burn down, are all she has left me.  I must save them!  In the darkness, hours -- or is it days -- pass in the stagnant gloom of these cellar walls.  Day and night are just a vast confusion.  Little sounds far off I continue to listen to, be alert to.   Sounds barely audible.  But now I realize they are only the rustling of live things that are inhuman, living deep down below the surface of the mansion's floors.

The smell is so strong.  No, not the mildew from the cool dampness of my cell or the moldiness of rotten wood, but the stale scent of Angelique's perfume that has stayed with me to torture my awareness of the only "human" to know of my whereabouts.  Struggling to remain calm, at first I allowed myself hope.  Hope that Barnabas would soon find me...would save me.  But the reality of the situation frightens me enough to believe that too is slipping away.  Perhaps I am asking for too much and should instead prepare myself towards meeting death with what little is left of my dignity -- for surely my fate is left at the mercy of Barnabas' enemy.  I'm afraid I have run out of options.

Maybe from this ordeal, I have become stronger.  Maybe by sheer will I can withstand the confined solitude as Barnabas had for almost 175 years.

Who am I fooling?  No...I could never endure what he suffered night after night chained in his coffin.  I would have gone mad.  Yes, even the indomitable Julia Hoffman...insane beyond hope.

(episodes 1047-1057)