Dark Shadows 2: The Salem Branch

by Lara Parker

  Regressing to the rambunctious boy he had been only a year ago, David leapt into the drifts, nearly burying himself. Then he bounded to his feet, straightened his shoulders, and loped down the path and out of sight.

  Barnabas mused on the light low in the sky, the long shadows across the green, the feathery grasses lit like spun glass. He breathed in the perfume of fading roses and rotting mulch. Autumn’s dying light, he thought—it had been so many decades since he had seen it. The forest was burning itself out. He wondered how the blood red leaves came to their color, claret and grenadine flowing up from the earth, as though the banners of his sinful years were flung in condemnation all around him.

  It had been many months since his cure, and still the light of day was for him a miracle to behold, the sun a golden orb, buttermilk skies with clouds as soft as clotted cream. The first sight of spring had tormented him with its beauty: flowering trees, new grass, and the silken air fractured into rainbows. He would often sit and stare at nothing else, only the air, and the prisms of light dancing within it. But during the height of summer, the unbearable heat of his cure drove him back into the coolness of his dark bedroom with curtains drawn, beneath the canopy of his bed, as though he were once more within the tomb. Now autumn had arrived with all its splendors, and its heartbreaking hues.

  Barnabas was eager to show the house to David. It was pleasant to be in the company of this teenager who was so intelligent, and his heart warmed to the boy. Perhaps he should become involved in David’s education, even take him on a trip. He began to imagine a drive to Newport, Mystic, or Salem, a trip of several hundred miles to the south, with himself behind the wheel of his powerful car.

  “David,” he called, “how would you like to go on an adventure?”

  “Where?”

  “To see the museum at Salem?”

  “You mean with all the goblins and ghosts? That would be cool!”

  As they approached the back of the Old House, the tall columns rose up before them. Recalling their clumsy maneuvers with the corpse in the trunk of the Bentley, Barnabas remembered that he and Willie had been forced to remove two of his carpets—a faded Sarouk of a blood red color, and a hundred year old Serapi—and place them inside on the back seat. It had been more to avoid Roger’s disapproval of his idle days than out of any real need for income that he had hit upon the idea of collecting and trading Persian carpets. During years of travel and exposure to the great houses of England and America he had developed a sophisticated knowledge of antiques, and he possessed a keen appreciation of objects which had lost any true purpose in the modern world other than their enduring beauty. Exquisite detail and fine materials inspired him. He might have chosen rare wines, or old silver, but nothing excited him more than an antique carpet. Woven long ago by women and young girls on primitive looms in rock-strewn villages above Afghanistan, in the Caucasian hills of Armenia, or on the wild plateaus of Persia; carried on camelback over vast deserts; they were fashioned to grace the marble floors of palaces or to soften the sand beneath royal tents. Even the names of the towns were mystical and jarring: Isphahan, Ardebil, Kazak, Kerman, and Qum.

  Together he and David entered the foyer. Dust motes floated through the cold rooms which had always been filled with odd treasures. It was difficult to believe that this maddening woman had replaced them all: the coat rack, the Chippendale looking glass, the mahogany table by the stairs, the brass chandelier. His practiced eye analyzed each object as he tried to decide what had been salvaged and what had been meticulously replaced. She must have shopped at every roadside antique store between Collinsport and Boston, and, of course, Roger had sold her many of the furnishings which were removed when the Old House was destined for demolition . . . before the fire.

  But it was the fake carpet he had come to see. A Tabriz as old and valuable as the rug which had once graced the drawing room did not exist in this country any more. He remembered being fond of the rug and recalled the hours he had spent by the fire, gazing at the miraculous de tail, searching out the carefully included mistakes in the pattern. Islam dictated that only God was perfect, and anything made by man must be intentionally flawed. Even though the original carpet in the Old House had been one of the family treasures, it was thought to be too threadbare to be moved to Collinwood when the new mansion was built in 1795. His untutored relations had failed to realize that the worn nap made it even more valuable.

  As he had done the day before, he knelt by this rug and once again turned back the corner to inspect the warp. The fact that the rug was a fake had an odd effect on him and seemed to prove that the entire restoration was simply that and not, as Willie had insisted and he, Barnabas had feared, something fiendishly, even magically devised.

  David, on the other hand, was thrilled with each new discovery. Each recreation struck him as clever rather than grim, and he exclaimed over the marble mantelpiece and the old wavy glass windows. Curious about a room where he had played when he was a small child, he dashed for the foyer.

  “Come on, Barnabas, let’s see what’s upstairs!” Barnabas hesitated, his attention caught by a mistake in the parquet flooring, an irritating jog in the pattern. Why had she chosen to duplicate that? David’s voice echoed from the hallway. “This part’s not finished up here!” Barnabas climbed to the landing and looked down the long corridor where bare lumber and scaffolding revealed work still in progress. “Here’s that old play room!” David’s voice came from around the turn in the hallway. “Hey! It’s locked!”

  “What’s that?”

  “The door to the playroom. It’s locked!”

  Barnabas heard the sound of an engine and walked to a casement window. A battered Volkswagen bus stopped in front of the house and a young man got out, lugging a toolbox and a small electric saw. He disappeared around the side of the building, and Barnabas had an odd sense of being invaded. He checked the door to the playroom with David and ascertained that it was indeed bolted.

  “I wanted to know if my toys were still there,” David said, looking down at the driveway. “Hey, let’s go talk to that guy.”

  By the time they reached the side porte cochere, they could hear the hum of a generator starting up. The man, obviously a carpenter, had set up a work space with sawhorses and power tools, and was sorting through pieces of clear pine.

  “Good morning,” Barnabas said, a bit reluctant to disturb the man.

  The worker, who wore dark sunglasses, looked up. He was young, probably in his early twenties, dressed in dirty jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers; his long legs were scrawny, and a worn leather tool belt hung loosely across his bony hips. His stringy black hair would have fallen well below his shoulders had he not pulled it back into a ponytail, and a hand-rolled cigarette hung from his mouth. He gave Barnabas a desultory glance and nodded, “Hiya doin’.”

  David, curious about the tools the carpenter was using, approached the saw. Barnabas felt he should introduce himself. “We were . . . that is, we’re the Collinses. This is my nephew, David, and I am Barnabas Collins.”

  “Oh-kay . . .?” The man drew the word into a question as if to say he had no particular interest in this information.

  “We’re the family that once owned this house,” Barnabas explained.

  The carpenter broke into a sly grin. His four front teeth were slightly crowded together by incisors that were thick and pointed. “You the people who burned it down?”

  “That . . . why, no. It was a rather unfortunate accident.”

  “Yeah? That’s not what I heard.” Carefully, he slid his hands over a flat board, as though searching for rough areas, before settling it on the plate and placing it against a metal guide. “I heard the family torched it for the insurance.”

  David looked up at Barnabas. “That’s not true, is it?”

  “Of course not.”

  The man stood looking at them, his hands lightly on the saw, one shoulder raised higher than the other and one knee slightly bent, as his body assumed a casual postu
re Barnabas found annoyingly nonchalant; still, he wondered if young girls would find it appealing.

  “I don’t believe you told me your name.”

  “Jason,” he said. “Shaw.” His sunglasses reflected the sun, and a vague smile played about his curled lips. He sucked on the cigarette, then balanced it on the edge of the table.

  “Well, Jason,” said Barnabas, “I don’t know where you get your information, but I sincerely hope you have not been listening to idle gossip in the town.”

  “Actually, I think Toni told me.”

  “Toni?”

  “She owns this place. You know. Antoinette.” He said the name softly as though caressing it.

  Barnabas started. “Well, she couldn’t have been more mistaken.”

  Jason shrugged. “Hey, man, it’s nothin’ to me. Thanks to that fire, I’ve had one hell of a six months.” He smiled as though a pleasant memory had flashed through his mind.

  Barnabas’s irritation was now magnified by a rank odor that he recognized as grease. A sack with the logo of red letters and yellow circles lay beside the saw and exuded the smell of meat and fried potatoes.

  Jason seemed to read his mind. “Want something from McDonald’s?”

  Barnabas felt his gorge rise, but David said, “Sure!” and reached for the sack, extracted some fries, and stuffed them in his mouth. It occurred to Barnabas that Jason might know something about the dead workman.

  “I assume you’re the carpenter who’s done all this remarkable renovation.”

  “Well, I have a crew,” Jason said slowly, “but I call the shots.”

  “I must say I am amazed at the verisimilitude.”

  “The what?”

  “It’s . . . so very much like the original.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s Toni for you. She’s got tons of old photographs, and she’s, uh, how shall I say, very . .. demanding.” He laughed softly to himself and shook his head. He took another drag from his cigarette and held the smoke before releasing it.

  “And the furnishings?”

  “Antique stores, man. Every day she brings in more stuff, she and Jackie. That is until she took her kid away to the loony bin.” Jason flipped the switch on the table saw, set the piece of wood, and the scream of the blade pierced the air.

  Barnabas shouted over the din as the spinning saw whirred to an annoying whine. “And where is . . . Toni? Do you know?”

  “Over at the camp. Or maybe she’s gone to Salem. She spends a lot of time there. Doing her research in the library.”

  Completely fascinated, David watched Jason turn the board. “What kind of saw is that?”

  “Actually, it’s a shaper.”

  “What’s it do?”

  “Come here, and I’ll show you.” David leaned in and both heads hovered over the twelve-inch vertical blade. “See, this is where you cut the piece to measure, and this . . .” he gestured to a smaller steel plate, “has a kind of mother router underneath. What it does is carve out the raised panels. Like this.” He reached behind him and held up a finished cabinet door.

  “Can I try it?”

  “David . . .” Barnabas was feeling nervous about the saw, and he could not help but resent David’s immediate connection with Jason.

  “Sure.” Jason extracted another board from the stack of lumber and measured it with the yellow tape in his tool belt. Then he stood behind David and ran the wood up against the guide. The blade screamed and sawdust flew in the air.

  “Watch out for your fingers,” he said. David grinned as Jason placed his hands on top of his and pressed the wood into the shaper, inching it slowly along. The pitch of the screeching saw was excruciating to Barnabas.

  David held up the piece and displayed the side he had cut; he beamed with excitement. “I want to do another one.”

  Jason lifted both palms and stepped back. The saw shrieked and purred as David fed the pine into the hungry blade. “This is fun!” He looked up at Jason. “Hand me another piece.”

  David placed the wood against the blade. “Do you like living in the woods?” he asked. Barnabas suddenly realized that Jason must be one of the hippies.

  “Sure. Been there all summer.”

  “How long do you plan to stay?” asked Barnabas.

  “Got no plans, got no plans,” Jason answered.

  “Barnabas, can I go hang out with Jason?”

  “Your father wouldn’t approve.”

  “But why?”

  “Now, David, you know perfectly well why.” He turned to Jason. “Am I correct in assuming there are illegal substances being consumed?”

  Jason hesitated a moment, then laughed. “You got something against smokin’ a little grass?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t discuss such things in front of the boy,” said Barnabas, at the same time realizing he had blundered upon an opportunity to carry out Roger’s wishes. “Are you in any way a . . .” he searched for the correct term, “. . . a decision maker for the group?”

  Jason laughed. “What do you mean by that?”

  “It has come to our attention that the campers in the woods are breaking the law, in fact, trespassing. My cousin, Mr. Roger Collins, would like to see the camp removed.”

  “Now wait a minute. We have permission to be there. It’s fine with Toni and she owns the land.”

  “But it is not . . . fine with the neighbors. There are restrictions against outdoor toilets, for instance. And I understand there is nudity.”

  Jason laughed again, a low chuckle. “So you and the other uptight neighbors can’t stand to see anyone have a little fun.” He paused, then turned to the boy. “Hey, David. Wanna go on a magical mystery tour? We got some Owsley we’re gonna drop this weekend. It’s gonna be beautiful, man.”

  Barnabas could restrain himself no longer. “I must warn you, Mr. Shaw, I won’t have anyone consuming illegal drugs anywhere near my property, or around anyone in my family, for that matter. And I suggest you return to your . . . tent, or whatever it is you call home, and explain to the others that they must clear the area.”

  Displaying unexpected charm, Jason only grinned, lifted his right hand, crooked it into a gun, the index finger cocked at Barnabas, and said, “Gotcha!” His dark glasses danced with reflected light. Then he seemed to relax a little, and he shrugged. “Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to come on so strong. Everybody’s got a right to his own opinion. But you know, you’re way out of line. We’re not trespassing. You got no say about what goes on in Toni’s woods.” He laughed again, his soft cynical laugh, then he picked up new board. “I, uh, got to get back to work.”

  Barnabas and David turned to leave, but as they trudged across the wide drive, Jason called. “Hey, David?” David turned, and Jason tossed him the McDonald’s sack. “Have one on me.” As they started down the path, they could hear him whistling to himself.

  David finished off the fries and stirred the bottom of the sack. “There’s brownies,” he said. “Want one? Do you like McDonald’s stuff? Father never lets me buy any.” He handed a brownie to Barnabas and said, “I have a confession to make. I’ve been to the camp already.”

  “I gathered that.”

  “I don’t think Jason was convinced. Maybe you should go talk to them.”

  “Yes, I think I must. Roger seemed adamant.”

  “Are you going to tell them to leave?”

  Barnabas looked over at the boy with his irrepressible smile, his sandy hair and eyes with glints of gold. Once more he warmed with the affection of a guardian for his ward, and he had a sudden desire to share with David his own rather profound knowledge of the world, its wonders and curiosities. At the same time he realized how impossible that would be. “I intend to discuss it with the owner.”

  “Oh, Toni. Yeah, I met her.”

  Barnabas’s heart skipped a beat. “What is she like?”

  “Crazy. Really crazy.”

  “And who is Jackie?”

  David looked away. “I don’t know. Maybe her daughter?
”

  They walked along the edge of Widows’ Hill and looked out at the sea. Gulls careened over the murky water, and seaweed lay rotting as the ebb tide sucked at the grimy sand. With a start Barnabas realized why his interest in David had become so pleasurable. He was reminded of himself at that age, when all his life lay before him. He nibbled at a bit of the brownie but found it dry and tasteless. Remembering Julia’s admonition, however, he decided to eat it anyway, no matter how unpleasant it might be, and he forced himself to take another bite. At least it was sweet.

  “The camp is just over there,” David said, pointing, and ran towards a faint clearing. They could hear the roar of the creek. At that moment the gloom of the forest was shattered with brilliant beams of light flickering and flashing from tree to tree. The campers had hung dozens of cheap wood-framed mirrors on the tree trunks, and each reflected the forest, played catch with sunbeams, or captured a blue piece of the sky. The mirrors swayed in the soft breeze like snapshots in the forest. Barnabas caught his own reflection in one of the mirrors—his dark hair and spiked bangs, his heavy browns and his sunken cheeks—and he was shocked to see his face, now so white and grim, in the riot of copper and scarlet.

  Stepping into the clearing, he saw a small settlement of tents, domed and triangular, varied in color and shape, scattered beneath the trees like a collection of kites. Odd belongings—books, sketchpads, pieces of clothing, socks, and hiking boots—lay about in the leaves. In the center there was a large dirt area where a ring of flat rocks and fallen logs served as benches. Wide stumps acted as tables where empty Coke bottles held bouquets of wild flowers.

  On one stump sat a green plastic barrel with a water spigot attached. It said STOKES PICKLES in black letters across the side. All was quiet except that flies buzzed and small birds scurried in the brush. Logs from a campfire extinguished in the morning mist had burned to ash, and the odor of stale smoke hung in the air.

  Three colorful hammocks were strung between the trees, and in one of them two girls were sleeping, their bodies entwined. Barnabas squeezed his eyelids shut and shook his head. He thought something was affecting his vision. He almost failed to notice a third girl seated in the shade of the largest tree. At first she seemed to be entirely composed of dappled light, her dress painted with watercolors and tied with ribbons and bits of lace. Her long brown hair hung down over her face as she concentrated over a small tray; but when she heard their footsteps, she looked up and smiled.