Subj: Grammar Story -- 39
Date: 1/2/01 1:19:00 PM Central Standard Time
From: Beverly LaCroix
1897
"Quentin, don't let him touch me. He's dead. Dead!" Jenny sobbed wildly, and hysterically.
"Shhh," Jeremiah soothed her. He was at a loss. He had no idea what was going on, what the relationship of this woman was to Quentin, and why she was calling him Quentin. Glancing down the tall frame that housed his spirit, and uncomfortably, he realized, as he felt an internal, indescribable pain. It was a pulling on the fabric of his being, like a low-throbbing headache or toothache that didn't really hurt, but was annoying. He thought the best way to describe the pain was like a puppy that was constantly nipping at your hands. He shuddered at the memory of nightmares of that sort, and he fought to push his discomfort aside and confront Barnabas.
The waves pounded the surf, the wind whipping his cape wildly around him, as if seeking to shield the frightened woman in his arms from oncoming evil. The waves brought to memory the events that had occurred at Widow's Hill, and he instinctively knew he needed to move away from this evil place of death or he would be sucked into the whirlwind that had thrown him hither and yonder through time. The last destination had been one of the strangest, terrifying, and perverse to his nature of all the places he had seen. He knew the witch Angelique had to be responsible for such a perversity of nature, and his own desires for the thing that his nephew had become. And here in this strange time, he was again in danger, and in a strange body.
To an outsider watching the strange scene on the forlorn cliff, his next action
seemed out of sync. The tall man took the crazed woman in his arms, and leapt
over the edge of the hill, meeting certain death on the jagged rocks, and wild
surf hundreds of feet below.