Dark Shadows 2: The Salem Branch

by Lara Parker

  Barnabas thought he might pass out. There was a roar in his ears, and beneath it he could hear the sucking sounds of the beast. Forcing himself to breathe, Barnabas edged towards the monster, and—his body shot through with panic—he came behind it, stood with legs apart, and raised the ax above his head. Deep, he thought. It must go deep. He is stronger than I am. Barely able to make it out, he aimed for a space between the straps of the overalls. It must reach the heart. And, with a shudder, he swung with all his strength and let it fly. There was a sickening thud, and a grunt. The monster sprawled on the girl, his legs rigid, his arms flat, and a slow black stain oozed beside the blade and spread over the back of his shirt.

  Barnabas stood panting, waiting, numbly conscious of some of the campers sneaking out of their tents. Daylight glimmered and dull shadows flickered over the clearing. Breathing hard, shaking his head to clear it, Barnabas backed away.

  The creature did not move. It lay covering the girl, its face against her neck. Her glassy eyes stared over its head into the dim light. Barnabas cast about again for some new weapon. The stake—where was it now? He must have dropped it by the rock where he had been sitting. Keeping an eye on the fallen creature, he felt around in the dirt by the fire ring, rummaged under his cape, patted the wet ground, but his hand closed on a tent pole and, after several jerks, he pulled it loose. The creature was still. Desperate now, he knew he must have the stake to finish it off and he kept searching. He crept nearer to Toni’s tent, scouring the ground, and back towards the fire, shuffling with his shoes, but the sharpened stick he needed had disappeared. And so he stood panting, feeling slightly ridiculous, the tent pole in his hand, like a primitive hunter at the cave of a dying bear. His heart slowed its ricocheting in his chest, and his breathing grew less ragged. All was quiet but the pattering of the rain.

  The monster shuddered and groaned, then hunched to its knees. It raised its torso until it was a dark hulk, the ax protruding from its back like a pump handle. It swayed, then turned, and lurching as though blind, lumbered forward. Again, a flash of lightning lit its face, smeared with the girl’s blood, and flesh was hanging from a naked skull. But it was the eyes that gave it away. They were hollows of madness. This, Barnabas thought bitterly—remembering the hippies’ song—this is the Undead. In that split second of brightness, he saw maggots crawling from its empty eye sockets, and the ruin of its mouth, a hole with no lips, only black ooze and teeth protruding from the bone. It came as though automated, its movements clumsy and heavy, and exuded the stench of rotted fish, as phlegm bubbled up from its insides in a guttural wheeze.

  Barnabas looked furtively around for Jason, or one of the hippies. Stupidly, he spoke to the creature. His voice was harsh and helpless in his ears. “Stay back! Don’t come nearer.” He jammed the tent stake against a rock, sharpened end pointing outward, desperately hoping the thing would fall upon it. But before he could make it fast, the flimsy rod went flying and the fiend reached for Barnabas, took hold of him, and knocked him to the ground. He gasped as it crawled up him, its breath reeking of offal. Barnabas cried out, and pushed against it, struggled with all his strength, his hands batting the air, clawing at the dirt, digging into the leaves, where, miraculously, they came upon the stake and his fingers closed around it. The creature rose up, and Barnabas froze in an agony of fear knowing it would fall upon his face and feed. With a mighty heave, he jerked the sharpened shaft between them, and jammed the stake into its chest, pierced it as it fell. But the ribs snapped, and his hands plunged into slime.

  IN HIS DREAM, the weight was gone, and the putrid odor was replaced by a fragrance of ferns and hemlocks. Fingers as soft as petals stroked his face, and he whispered Antoinette’s name. He must have tried to rise because he fell back hard, and the wind was knocked out of him. For a moment he couldn’t breathe, and he panicked, certain he would die from lack of air. Smothered by a fog, drowning in an airless cave, he was suffocated by a soft gauze, filmy and diaphanous, but strong as steel. He thought he would never be able to breathe, and would surely perish, when he felt the sharp teeth pierce his neck, and air rushed into his throat as blood rushed from his veins.

  WHEN BARNABAS AWOKE, he was wrapped in a sleeping bag and lying in Toni’s tent. He could smell what must have been his own vomit. She was bathing his face with a rag, and he heard her wring the cloth out in a basin and felt the coolness against his skin. He jerked, and shuddered, and sat up, spilling some of the water and knocking her aside.

  “Where is it? I must stop it—”

  “No, he’s gone,” Toni whispered. “Sh-h-h-h, it’s okay. Don’t worry. He’s dead.” She was amazingly calm.

  He fell back and looked into her face. She no longer seemed drugged, and her smile reminded him once more of Angelique when he had first met her. But he knew he had only dreamed it was she. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Toni leaned close to him and said in a hushed voice, “A couple of the guys dragged him out of the clearing and up the path towards the cliff. A few minutes later, after everyone came back to the camp, Jackie showed up. She was very upset.”

  “Upset?”

  “Yeah, sh-h-h-h. She’s asleep.” She looked across his body and nodded. Only then did Barnabas realize Jackie lay beside him, her face hidden by black hair tumbling over the top of her sleeping bag. He could hear her breathing softly. Toni whispered, “She said she saw what she thought was a wild beast running through the woods, and you know she is fearless. She followed his trail into the trees. But then he ran towards the cliff, and she saw him standing on the ledge, his shape against the moon, teetering there, and before she could get to him, he fell, all the way down on the rocks. She said he just sort of exploded, you know, on the sand, and the waves washed him away like he was driftwood.”

  “She chased him?”

  Toni nodded, grimacing. “Crazy, huh? She saw him fall.”

  “So . . . he’s gone.”

  “Yeah, he’s dead. Some vagrant, I guess, wandered into our camp. And everyone knows it was you who fought him and drove him away. We are all so grateful to you.”

  “You think it was a vagrant?”

  “Well, we all dropped acid. We could have imagined anything, right?” She shrugged and wrung the rag again, hard, as though keeping herself distracted.

  “What happened to the girl he was . . . ?”

  “Someone went and called an ambulance and they came and took her to the hospital.”

  “Is she alive?”

  “She was barely breathing.” Toni sighed and looked out of the tent. The morning light shone on her skin and her eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks. His hunger for her was fresh, but with Jackie there he was reluctant to embrace her. He wondered how long it would be before he had the strength to love her again. Possibly his term in the natural world would soon be finished. He reached for her hand, but she pulled away, and lifted the pan of water.

  “I should pitch this out,” she said. She gave a little laugh, looked over at him, and shook her head. She seemed embarrassed. “Last night was wild,” she said, and flashed him a sheepish grin before she crawled out of the tent.

  Barnabas lay thinking of the chaos of the night, the turmoil of ecstasy and terror. But his memory of Antoinette was clear. He searched for words that would express his gratitude and his great joy. When she returned, she sat beside him and pulled her knees up, her arms encircling them. He took one of her hands, kissed it, and whispered, “You are so beautiful.”

  She smiled. “You should sleep,” she said. “He bit you pretty bad on the neck. I’ll be back in a little while.” She nodded towards Jackie. “Try not to wake her.” Jackie’s breathing was barely audible, faint and even, the sleep of a child. The nightmare had already faded from her thoughts, whereas vivid images kept flying through his brain.

  Antoinette was right; he needed to rest more than anything. He needed sleep. His body ached with a pain deep in his bones, and a weakness that left him limp with something close to delirium. He was
not certain he could stand. He lay thinking of her last remark, that he had been bitten. He remembered the monster falling on him. What was the creature that attacked him? What had the workman become? A vampire? A ghoul? Then he remembered the dream. By the time his fingers found the two puncture wounds, his heart was pounding again. He forced himself to endure the sting as he traced each wound, circling, pressing down. Both were uniquely round, and deep.

  We all resist fate, he thought. Even when it comes crashing towards us like a meteor out of the cosmos, we duck, or swerve, or dive underground. But our fate is the inevitable result of choices we have made, dreamed and juggled, and held close to our hearts. Fate could become a celebration, something to be embraced, but when he had willed himself back to mortality, had he chosen a fate that was not his true path? Now, after suffering the day-to-day desperation that is the human condition, the dumb show, the helplessness, did he not see with stunning clarity what he was, who he was meant to be? Was he destined to remain a vampire, cold at heart, calculating, but with the power to shape his world? Or was this new love the answer? And was it worth it in the end?

  FIFTEEN

  DRIVING BACK TO COLLINWOOD, Barnabas was preoccupied with thoughts of Antoinette, and now he questioned the wisdom of his night with her. Even though he was certain she had been the instigator, nevertheless he had responded. Was the grip of the past never to tire of tormenting him? Or was he simply the hapless victim of another human frailty, susceptible to sexual desire, weak and easily compromised, incapable of making wise decisions.

  Speaking with her in the library at Salem, buying her the expensive carpet, seeing her leave for dinner with Quentin, all these scenes had created a tempest in his brain. And then to become the sudden object of her affections, even though she was compromised by hallucinogens, was too confusing. His head felt waterlogged, and a thick mass throbbed in his sinuses.

  He endeavored to comprehend his options. The intimacy—bliss—he had missed for hundreds of years was now his to explore and command. For the first time since the cure began, his body was alive, truly alive, with sensations of euphoria. He missed her already. Not to be ignored, however, was the very real threat of a demon hovering on the sidelines, a creature—as he knew only too well—without conscience, without pity. Even if the vampire’s ghoulish creation were gone, there was still the greater threat of the vampire himself, an individual with nothing but contempt for emotions such as the ones pulsing in his heart: a fiend apart, distant and cold, a monster who must, at all costs, be destroyed.

  And was he both? Was it possible that he housed both in his being?

  JULIA ENTERED HIS ROOM carrying her medical case. She flung it on the table by the window and turned to look at Barnabas. He could feel her frenetic energy when she moved.

  “I know I have missed one of my shots,” he said.

  “Yes. Without your medication, you might revert.”

  “I am aware of that.”

  “Or the discomfort will be much worse.”

  He sighed and lay back on the bed. He found himself staring at a large print on the wall, a reproduction of a Turner—the painting of a ship in a storm at sea. He wished himself far away.

  “But that’s not what I have come to speak to you about,” Julia said, her mood softening. Barnabas shifted his gaze to look up at her. She was less attractive than he had ever seen her, gaunt and sallow-skinned. Her auburn hair was unkempt, and he was surprised to see gray at the roots. He had a queasy feeling.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She raised a hand to her brow and rubbed her temple. “This is so difficult for me.”

  “Please,” he said, with effort, “tell me what is on your mind.”

  His encouragement seemed to renew her resolve. She drew herself up with a sigh. “Months ago you proposed marriage.”

  Ah, that was it. Marriage once again.

  Julia continued in her halting voice. “Although I knew the problems were formidable, I consented. I have always loved you. Finding a cure for you has given meaning to my life.”

  “Julia, I have always said you are a brilliant physician.”

  She sat on the bed and placed her hand over his. Her voice grew gentle. “You once suggested we go to Martinique. To search for a new elixir. But I feel a reluctance in you, perhaps a change of heart.”

  Uncanny, he thought, that on this night of all nights, she should bring up these intimate concerns. How the urge for survival fuels us all, from the lowly mosquito to the undying brute. This woman, whom he knew as intimately as he knew anyone, was still a stranger to his feelings. Until this moment, she had continued to ignore the obvious strain between them. And as grateful as he felt, as much as he might feel he should, he could not love her.

  “Barnabas, what do you intend to do?”

  She waited while silence settled in the room. For some reason the misery she felt only left him weary. For an instant he drifted off, then woke with a start, to find her still there looking at him. He strove for compassion. “Julia,” he said, “I know, without your help, I have no hope of a natural life.”

  “But I have told you I’m certain that the cure will be successful, and the injections will no longer be necessary.”

  “Perhaps, my dear, that is so. But perhaps it is not so. I may be forced to rely on you for many years.”

  “And I will care for you—with all my heart.”

  He looked at her face in the light of the bedside lamp. Compared to the freshness of Antoinette’s beauty, her angular features were worn and drawn, and she exuded a musty odor, perhaps from cigarettes. He could see her gaunt figure beneath her skirt, her bony hips and sunken chest. Sensing her distress, he felt a flutter of sympathy. She would be as faithful as the rising sun, as loyal as a soldier to his captain. The problem was these considerations no longer awakened his energies. Her sacrifices aroused guilt, even a sense of despair, and no matter how deeply he dug, he could not unearth that noble determination required to respond to her plea.

  “Julia,” he said, “I will be eternally grateful to you. More than anything, I longed for the human existence stolen from me so long ago. But time has changed everything. I am no longer that young soldier in New England, nor can I ever be. I am a vampire.”

  “Barnabas, don’t—”

  “I can’t continue to allow you to use your own blood. I can see it is making you ill. My God, I might as well have drained you in the old way.”

  She smiled sadly, then waved her hand in a gesture of dismissal. “It’s just that they became suspicious . . . at the clinic . . . asking questions. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

  “But my heart aches for you. Julia, listen to me.” She lifted her gaze. He could see the tiny capillaries in her eyes, the dulling of her irises. As difficult as it would be for her, this was the time to tell her the truth, the truth which would, if nothing else, free him from her custody. He set his teeth and again stared at the ceiling.

  “I have been bitten again,” he said.

  He heard her catch her breath.

  “And this time I intend to let it stay.” A charge of excitement flowed through him as he spoke.

  Her face went gray. “But that’s impossible—let me see.” Rising and moving to him, she leaned in and turned back his collar. “Where?” she said. “There is nothing there. Where were you bitten?”

  Barnabas felt for the wound. To his amazement, it was healed. The skin was smooth to his touch. Had he imagined it? “But, I thought. . . ” He floundered in confusion. “I meant to say . . .”

  “What?”

  “I want to stop the injections.”

  She sucked the edge of one lip, then rose, turned her back, and walked unsteadily to the table. She opened her valise.

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “What makes you think you can stop?”

  “As you just pointed out, without the elixir I will simply return to my vampire life.”

  She lifted her hands in a limp gesture, her fi
ngers spread, then rubbed them upon her skirt as if to remove a stain. Slowly, she shook her head.

  “Julia . . . ?”

  “When we embarked on the cure, I think we may have relinquished that possibility, since . . . well, since I never expected it to arise.”

  “What do you mean? What about the power of the curse?”

  She turned to him. “Barnabas, you . . . you cannot go back. Without the injections you might revert, that is so, but then again, you might not.”

  “But you have hounded me, always saying that I would.”

  “I know, but—but I have never done this before. I’m really not sure what would happen if you stopped the medication.”

  He stared at her in disbelief. Never had he thought he would want to reverse her machinations. But he had always believed the possibility was there. He had allowed her to meddle in his destiny.

  “Then what would happen?”

  “You could die.”

  “That can’t be true! You say these things to bind me to you. In the end you are like everyone else.”

  She flinched at the insult but she said nothing, and a new wave of guilt rose in his heart while shadows upon shadows fell across his mind. He watched in a stupor as she reached in her valise and removed the hypodermic. Outside the window a wind moaned in the trees, and heavy branches brushed against the casement. Julia’s movements were quick, and Barnabas heard the familiar clicking sounds of the elixir being drawn into the vial. Dumbly he submitted to the needle. Julia sat in the chair opposite the bed. The glow from the lamp cast a cold, round circle of empty light upon the carpet between them. Barnabas stared at it as though it might catch fire. But it remained flat and lifeless.

  Then Julia did something he had never seen her do. She wept. At first he only glimpsed redness in her eyes, and his heart sank; but then she put her face in her hands and her shoulders shook with sobs. He thought in a flash of the thousands of human men who found themselves in this predicament, humbled by a weeping woman. The enlightenment and sophistication of two hundred years shrank in this moment to a condition of desperation and helplessness.