Collinwood, 1995

The bleak tower of Collinwood has stood as sentinel over the great house for two centuries, watching over the strange lives that have panned out below its steep shingled roof. A cold salt-water breeze whipped the weathervane this way and that, never letting it rest. Nights like this were full of fear and foreboding, especially in the house on Widow’s Hill. Peace had reigned there for nearly twenty-five years, yet on a night with the wind so fiercely blowing, the voices of the dowager ghosts of Collinsport could be heard. The Widows, as they were known, were howling their lament in full force this night.

Carolyn Collins Loomis had instructed the servants to secure the house, checking all windows and shutters. Though in actuality, Hallie Collins, wife of David, was the mistress of the great house, Hallie took little interest in her position, preferring to pursue a legal career in the growing town of Collinsport, while her husband, David, ran the same family business that had been handed down from Joshua Collins in the late eighteenth century.

Carolyn loved the old house, finally settling in one day when the happier days finally had arrived. At the encouragement of Barnabas, Julia, and her mother, she had consented to a date with the erstwhile ruffian, Willie Loomis. When he had first arrived at Collinwood nearly thirty years ago, he was the sidekick of the most despicable man Carolyn had ever known, Jason McGuire. Somehow Barnabas had miraculously turned the scoundrel Willie into gentle, kind, and thoughtful Willie, a man who put everyone before himself. That one date had turned into a tidy little romance with Willie, who was always a perfect gentleman and solicitous of Carolyn in every way.

The house was more occupied now than it ever had been. There was Carolyn and Willie, David and Hallie, an infirm Uncle Roger and his nurse, a groundskeeper, three maids, a cook, and a butler, Hanscomb. Hanscomb was the son of a former Collinwood butler.

Carolyn had taken an interest in writing and was now enjoying some success in freelancing. Willie saw to the business of looking after the house, but his real passion was keeping the Old House in good condition. Willie had labored long and hard for Barnabas Collins to restore the Old House to its former glory. Now, with Barnabas traveling the world with his companion, Dr. Julia Hoffman, Willie turned his former job into an avocation. When Barnabas and Julia left for the orient ten years before, Barnabas had given Willie full permission to continue his work. Not only did Willie do the physical labor, but he spent hours researching the workmanship of the late eighteenth century to make everything right. He occassionally travelled to New York and Portland in search of antiques of the period, having been given a hefty allowance by Barnabas for such things.

Carolyn’s uncle, Roger Collins, father of David, had taken ill shortly after the death of Carolyn’s mother, Elizabeth Stoddard. Already at sixty, he seemed more like eighty, and though the progress of his illness was slow, he needed constant care. David had hired a nurse, Ramona Herndon, to live at the house and take care of Roger. On Ramona’s days off, Carolyn saw to Uncle Roger’s needs. She loved how he greeted her as “Kitten” and kept his light, but proper, sense of humor.

David and Hallie had married right as soon as they were both eighteen. David had three children, Burke, Harrison, and Sarah. Burke was in pre-med school in New York, Harrison in prep-school, and Sarah was off boarding at school. There was a room for each of them at the house, but they rarely visited. Their father’s moodiness had made things unpleasant for them and they kept their distance from Collinsport from the moment they each struck out on their own.

Carolyn missed the feeling that was in the house when children were there. She and Willie had tried in vain to start their own branch of the Collins family. She had been considering taking in a couple of foster children, much like her mother had done with Amy Jennings and Hallie Stokes. Now, both Amy and Hallie were members of the Collins family. Hallie was married to David, and Amy, well, Amy was married into the other Collinsport Collinses.

As Carolyn listened to the whipping wind and the mournful Widows Weep outside, she felt an odd chill pass through her. She sat at her mother’s old desk in the drawing room, writing some letters. Before her, the calendar showed 1995. Thinking about Amy Collins and 1995 struck a chord in Carolyn’s memory which only increased the cold frigidness of the room. There in the coldness she heard a faint rustling sound accompanied by a tinkling sound, almost as if someone were passing through the room dressed in long skirts and chain jewelry. The sound passed quickly, barely leaving a memory in Carolyn’s mind, though she still felt the cold.

What had it been that was significant about Amy Jennings Collins and 1995? It did not make any sense to her, but there was something she felt was supposed to happen in 1995 and Amy Jennings Collins was indirectly connected to it.

Carolyn arose from the desk and walked over to the fireplace, bent over and shoved a log onto the glowing embers. Still she felt cold so she added another.

“What’d you do that for?” came the familiar voice behind her.

She turned smiling to see Willie standing there with his glasses down at the end of his nose and an old book open in his hand.

“It’s already burning up in here and you’re just making it hotter,” Willie complained.

“Well, I’m cold. Honestly, Willie, you’re just a regular heat factory and you wouldn’t know ‘cold’ if you were living in an ice cave.”

“Well,” he said as he opened his arms, “come and get warmed up.”

Carolyn went to him happily and buried herself in him. It had been a long time since Willie had been the slight young man she had first met. Now he was comfortably plump and all hers.

“Willie,” Carolyn said after they had sat on the sofa together. Willie laid his book on the table and removed his specs, then turned and looked at her with anticipation. “Willie, I just had the oddest feeling that there was something that was supposed to happen soon and I can’t remember what it is. It has something to do with Amy, I think.”

“Amy Collins?” he asked.

“Yes, but not really about Amy at all. Thinking about her just reminded me that something was supposed to happen in 1995, something tragic. Amy isn’t involved, but something about her triggered the thought.”

Willie laid his glasses on the table in front of them and said, “I know what it is and you’re not going to like hearing it.”

“What?!” she demanded.

“Do you remember when Barnabas and Julia started saying back in 1971 that they had saved Collinwood from destruction?”

Carolyn began to laugh. “Oh, now I remember. My zany English cousin and his sidekick’s incredible story about going forward and backward in time, rescuing Collinwood from being destroyed by a ghost…Gerard I think it was…in…”

“In 1995,” Willie finished the thought.

Carolyn was still amused. “They traveled forward to 1995, found Collinwood in ruin and being haunted by this Gerard, so they went back in time to 1840 when the scoundrel lived, thwarted his plans and saved Collinwood. Really, Willie, do you still believe that tale?”

“Of course I do. And you should too.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s true. Stranger things have happened in this house. You know that.”

The cold feeling returned and Carolyn’s mood darkened again. “I know. But what did that have to do with Amy? Amy was long gone with Chris and Sabrina when Barnabas told that story.”

“Well, you were right. It wasn’t about Amy at all, but thinking about Amy would remind you about it because of Rose Cottage.”

Carolyn appeared thoughtful. “Rose Cottage…oh, yes…Julia tried to tell us that before they had gone back in time, Rose Cottage had stood empty since 1840. I remembered that mother called that notion ‘absurd.’ Our cousins have lived there for almost as long as there’s been a Collinwood. It’s never been deserted from the time it was first built, yet Julia, who was supposed to be a freelance historian firmly believed that the inhabitants of Rose Cottage are only there because she and Barnabas aided in saving Desmond Collins from the hangman’s noose in 1840.”

“That’s right,” said Willie. Carolyn ignored it because she wasn’t certain he was asserting that Julia was right or that Carolyn was remembering the tall tale correctly. “And,” Willie continued, “you thought of it in conjunction with Amy because she now lives at Rose Cottage married to Alex.”

Carolyn remained thoughtful and Willie resumed reading his book. Outside, the blow intensified and the Widow’s lament increased.

Rose Cottage

Farther down the hill from Collinwood, nearer Collinsport stands Rose Cottage, a large mansion now rivalling Collinwood’s grandeur. In its early days, before 1840 it had been a beautiful mansion, whitewashed and simple, but in keeping with the Collins dignity. Then it had belonged to the gadabout Flora Collins, an obscure but popular authoress and in-law of Daniel Collins. In 1841, Desmond had left the country, after some legal problems, with his new wife, Leticia Faye, an English woman of ill-repute. Desmond was somewhat a roamer like his mother and stayed out of the country until shortly before his mother’s untimely death in 1841.

Desmond and Leticia had not returned without heirs and some degree of wealth. Flora greeted her two new grandsons, twins, Maurice and Albert. Upon Flora’s death, Desmond set to work to add on to Rose Cottage, determined to make it every bit the estate that his wealthier cousins possessed on Widow’s Hill. He was not disappointed in his labors and Rose Cottage flowered into the object of all the local pride. While the snobby Collinwood Collinses were the object of fear and mistrust among the locals, the Rose Cottage Collinses enjoyed the admiration and gratitude of the people of Collinsport. There was much talk about what to call the house since it had grown far beyond the definition of a cottage, but Desmond said, “Rose Cottage it will always be,” and it was.

Of Leticia’s two sons, Albert and Maurice, Maurice remained at Rose Cottage but Albert was fiercely independent and wanted none of the Collinsport society because it represented too much obligation to the wealthier descendants of Daniel Collins. There had been talk of war with the south, but Albert wanted as much distance between him and Collinsport as he could get. He travelled south to Louisiana.

When Civil War broke out, the two Collins brothers found themselves on different sides of the conflict. Maurice was killed by a cannon blast and Albert returned to Rose Cottage and Collinsport with a French-American wife, Simone.

Now, in 1995, the inhabitants of Rose Cottage were the descendants of Albert Collins and Simone.

Rose Cottage stood somewhat nestled among three small hills and was more protected from the windswept night that beat the Maine shore near Collinsport. Eleanor, widow of the late Ambrose Collins, was relaxing after a busy day planning a local crafts fair. There had been some of the prominent women of the coastal town in the house that day, bustling around making plans and eating the light lunch Eleanor had ordered for them. Resting in her easy chair in her study, she noticed a picture album on a shelf that she had not seen for a long time. She was considering rising to get it and browse through it when her sister-in-law, Trina Collins, entered.

Trina was in her late thirties, unmarried and quite eccentric. Even though the room was small, she busied herself looking through cabinets, drawers, and shelves without seeming to notice the woman seated only a few feet from her.

Eleanor cleared her throat. A small “ooh” popped out of Trina’s mouth and she turned and lightly giggled.

“Oh, Eleanor, you scared me. When did you come in?”

“I was sitting right here when you entered,” Eleanor said dispassionately.

Trina giggled again. “Sorry. I didn’t see you. Have you seen my coin purse?”

Eleanor thought hard. She didn’t care so much about Trina finding a lost article, since most of what Trina owned was “lost” somewhere in the big house. What was most important was giving Trina a reason to stop looking and leave Eleanor in peace.

“Have you tried the junk drawer?” Eleanor asked. The junk drawer was a large drawer in the hall near Trina’s room where the staff put everything they found that belonged to Trina.

“No,” the other woman said slowly. “I guess I should have looked there first, huh?”

Without answering, Eleanor said, “Be a dear and hand me that album there, yes that one, on your way out.”

Trina left as she had come, mostly oblivious to anything but the one thing she could concentrate on at a time.

Eleanor opened the album and at once realized why she was drawn to it. There on the first page was a picture of her when she came to Collinsport. They were her wedding pictures. She paused and looked at one where she stood in her bridal gown next to a dark-haired woman, Elizabeth Collins Stoddard, distant cousin of Ambrose. Mrs. Stoddard, who had quickly insisted on being called Elizabeth, was a godsend to the new mistress of Rose Cottage. Eleanor had not been raised in high society and was terrified at being the wife of an important man like Ambrose, and being in charge of a household complete with domestics, wealthy in-laws, and more rooms than the tiny orphanage where Eleanor had spent her childhood. For the first six months since returning from the honeymoon, Elizabeth had tutored the young bride in all of the things she needed to know to put on a good and dignified show as a woman of distinction. Never once did Elizabeth leave her feeling inferior. Despite their age difference, the townspeople quickly nicknamed them “El and El” and it was not unknown for shopkeepers to watch hopefully to see them walking together along the main thoroughfare.

Eleanor closed the book, smiling with gratitude for her old friend who had been the only real mother in her life. Shortly after those first few months, Carolyn Stoddard had returned from college and married Willie Loomis. Elizabeth, ever the concerned mother, slacked off in her time with Eleanor and concentrated on her daughter again. Still they remained friends, and Eleanor and Carolyn hit it off too.

First Elizabeth passed away, then later Ambrose. Carolyn and Eleanor were now more like sisters than distant cousins-in-law.

Eleanor’s mind drifted away from thinking of the Stoddard women and thought of her own children, Aaron and Melissa, now both away at college. Her reverie was broken by the sound of glass crashing in some distant part of the house. “I wonder which one it is,” she speculated as she closed her eyes and shook her head, “Stephen or Katy?…probably Katy.”

Her late husband’s brother Alex was on his second marriage, now to the former Miss Amy Jennings, also a Collins relative. Their two “angelic” children were like hurricanes that could make this grand old mansion seem all too small.

Just that day, Eleanor had placed an ad in several papers for a nanny for those two sweet children. Amy was not going to be able to handle them alone. She was a caring enough mother, but something about her upbringing prohibited her from effectively disciplining the children and they walked all over their mother. What they needed was a firm hand and since Eleanor would be paying for the nanny out of household funds, she would take the final say, though she would adeptly leave Amy feeling she had made the choice.

In this big old house, Eleanor had one remaining joy, Damien, the son of Alex and his first wife. Damien, aged 10, was quiet and reserved, kind and gentle. Troubled by the tumultuous marriage that produced him and by his absent mother, Damien had no real friends in the house except his Aunt El, as he called her. Only Damien and Carolyn Stoddard called her that. Alex tried to be a good father to Damien, but Amy and her children were a bottomless pit of need for attention and Damien gravitated more and more to Aunt El.

Eleanor didn’t mind. Damien filled the longing for family that she missed while her children were away. She was the only member of the family who wasn’t a “blood” Collins. Even Amy was the great-granddaughter of a Collins and had spent much of her childhood up at Collinwood. Damien was the only person in the family, besides Eleanor’s own children, who didn’t seem to remember that Eleanor was only a Collins by marriage.

Eleanor lay the album in her lap and put her head back and dozed. The evening was nearly spent. It was almost ten and she was tired enough to go to bed already. Somewhere in her sleep she had heard the war going on that happened every time Amy put the children down for the night.

While she was just coming around and thinking of heading up to bed, the phone rang. She didn’t feel like talking to anyone and waited for someone else to answer it. Down the hall from where she sat she heard Mrs. Hammond, the housekeeper, answer the phone.

“Hello, Collins’ residence,” Mrs. Hammond said. “Oh, hello Mrs. Loomis…how are you this evening?…Fine, thank you…I’m not sure where Mrs. Collins is at the moment, but if you’ll hold…”

Just then Eleanor picked up the phone and said, “I have it, Mrs. Hammond. Thank you.”

“El…” the voice on the other end said.

“Carolyn, nice to hear from you.”

“How are you doing?”

“Oh, I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t make it today for the luncheon. I’ve just been out of sorts all day. How did it go?”

“Tiring…but we got it all planned and assignments are all handed out.”

“Yes, but you’ll end up doing everything. You’re just like my mother.”

“Well, I learned from the best.” Eleanor was trying to be upbeat but she was just so weary that it didn’t come off as well as she hoped.

“I’ll let you go to bed. You sound exhausted.”

“Thanks, sweetie,” El said. “Bye.”

Collinwood

Carolyn still felt uneasy after talking to her friend. She had half-expected to sense some crisis going on at Rose Cottage, but there was nothing. Even though she said she didn’t believe in the ghost of Gerard Stiles, something was bothering her about Rose Cottage and its inhabitants and she couldn’t shake the feeling that the torrents that were now beating on both houses were bringing new disaster.

Suddenly the Collinwood that she had worked so hard at making cheery was seeming more like the gloomy old mansion of her younger days. She switched off the lamp in the drawing room and went into the foyer.

There on the wall hung the old portrait of the eighteenth century Barnabas Collins. His dour face made Carolyn uncomfortable. She didn’t know why she left that old painting hanging there. Probably because it was the most valuable piece of art in the house, but something way back in her memory, just out of reach, terrified her about it. She had felt for twenty-five years that she had known this Barnabas personally at some point, and that despite the kind family legends about him, that he had once acted towards her with some malevolence. Impossible as it was, the feeling had always gnawed at her.

How different he must have been from the Cousin Barnabas she had come to love so much. She wondered where he was right now, he and Dr. Julia Hoffman, his relentless companion.

Carolyn switched off the foyer light and went up the stairs, past the large stained-glass window on the landing, and into her room. Willie was there already sleeping, snoring. She nudged him over and he woke up long enough to make room for her.

For a short while, she lay there awake, hearing the Widows calling, “Carolyn…Carolyn…Carolyn…” She knew it was only the wind, but she recalled how negatively that sound had always affected her mother and she now felt unnerved by it. Eventually, Willie resumed his snoring, breaking the spell. For once, she was glad to hear it.

Rose Cottage

Rose Cottage was filled with darkness. Only an occasional night light flickered inside the house. It was well past midnight now and everyone had gone to bed. Directly across from the front door of the mansion was a flower garden on the other side of the drive.

Two electric lanterns stood up in the garden to provide light for the front of the house. Water from the rain seeped in through a rivet in the top of one causing the bulb to burst with a loud pop. The other light also went dead and the house was completely shrouded in darkness.

Eleanor, though exhausted, found it difficult to sleep. Her nap in the den had probably robbed her of a little of her sleep time, she figured. She turned and looked at the red glowing numbers on her clock. 12:52. This would never do. Her day was full tomorrow and she needed to sleep, but her mind was active, though her limbs felt nearly useless.

She tried for another few minutes to sleep, but it seemed like hours. 1:07. “Warm milk,” she thought. The idea appealed to her so she rose and donned her dressing gown.

She made her way through the halls and down the stairs and into the kitchen. She put a saucepan on the stove and filled it partway with milk and began heating it. With the wind blowing as it was, the rose bushes just outside the kitchen window were whipping back and forth, scratching at the glass like dozens of tiny fingernails.

When the milk was well-warmed, she poured it into a large mug, set the saucepan in the sink and started up the stairs. As she passed through the foyer, she felt that something was not the same as usual. “Ah, the lights,” she thought. The light was not coming through the windows on the side of the front doors as it should. She set the milk on a small table and went to the door.

Pulling the curtains sideways, she looked out and saw that the flower bed lights were out. “Must be the storm,” she thought. “Perhaps the electricity just now went out, after heating up the milk.” She tried the light switch in the foyer and immediately the room filled with light. “No, power’s on.”

Thinking no more of it, she began to ascend the stairs, but as she did, light once again shone through the windows. The lights were on a timer, but they should have remained on through the night. Putting the milk down again, she pushed the curtains back and looked out.

There straight ahead, back far down the driveway near the gate was a car, its headlights blaring, facing the house. She immediately felt self-conscious and let the curtain fall back in place. “Had they seen her looking out at them?” She hoped not. Were they some late night visitors coming to call after 1:00 AM? After waiting a few moments, the car backed out of the driveway and turned back down the road heading towards town.

Eleanor returned to her room, sipping the warm milk and listening to the wind and the rain torment the house.