Black Arts 101 Chapter 3
Date: 1/31/98
From: marcos1

Eliot Stokes continues his story from 1968---a parallel universe

**********

Late that evening, I was sipping a glass of port. Sometimes, I enjoy port, because it isn't so sweet. But I digress. I was reading, Plutarch-Selected Lives And Essays. Just some light reading. I was sitting in my favorite leather chair. My cats, Whiskers, was watching a moth, that was buzzing near the ceiling light. It was just another quiet night, for a typical confirmed bachelor. But then I heard someone knocking...

"Whiskers," I said to my cat, who now was very distracted from the moth. His ears perked up, listening to the knocking. "Who in the world, could that be?" When I opened the door, I found a very upset, Cassandra Blair.

"I know that its very late," Cassandra said, sobbing. "But Professor...I really need your help." She was wearing a black mini-skirt, her black hair shining under the moonlight.

"What's the problem, my dear lady?" I asked her. But before she could answer, she collapsed on to the floor, fainting. "Whiskers...this is promising to be a most unusual night," I groaned. My cat merely wagged his tail in response.

I moved Cassandra to my living room couch. About an hour later, she awoke, sobbing. "Professor...I'm terribly sorry about this. I-I just didn't have anyone else to turn to..."

"Again, I must ask...what is the problem?" I was beginning to get annoyed, wondering if this was all some sort of game. Such as Cassandra's elusion to wearing proper undergarments.

"Its Elizabeth Bathory...I think that I brought her back," Cassandra cried. Her eyes began to look like a deer's, shining under the glare of a cars headlights. She was clearly frightened and upset.

"Why, my dear woman," I declared in anger, "is this some kind of game? Elizabeth Bathory died in the year 1614. Around three hundred and fifty years ago..."

"But I used the book. The book of Vampires. I burnt incense...and called her. I called her name seven times into the wind, under the light of a full moon. I beckoned to her ancestors...dripped drops of my own blood...on to an actual copy of her diary," sobbed Cassandra. Tears were running down her face, smearing her very red lipstick. "I brought her back."

"But why?" I cried. "Why on Earth, would you bring back that demon?" Feelings of fear, were starting to run up my spine.

"I was just playing," protested Cassandra. "I just didn't think that it would really work..."

*******

Meanwhile, at Collinwood. Elizabeth Stoddard returned. She walked into the drawing room. She was carrying a large portrait. Barnabas and Vicki, were already sitting there, talking.

"Roger will be so proud of me," Elizabeth beamed. "I just found this old painting, in an old antique shop in Bangor. And I bought it for pennies. Its so very old and beautiful...I just know that its valuable." She put the painting against the wall. "I'll have to get Mrs. Johnson to find an appropriate frame for it. There must be one in the attic."

Barnabas, and Vicki Winters both stared at the painting in amazement. It was clearly from the 18th century. It was of a beautiful woman, with blonde hair, blue eyes--the color of the morning star. She was dressed in a long red dress, with a large lilac flower in her hair. Standing in front of a large mansion, with large white columns. It was the Old House. She was smiling. But in her eyes were a touch of sadness, as though, she was thinking of some lost love.

"Robina..." Vicki gasped. "That is Robina..."

"Yes," Barnabas said. "She was the sister of Angelique. And of course, Angelique was one of the servants, brought from Martinique, by Josette duPres. I have read all about her, in the family records. She was quite an interesting character. A lady of the night, a scholar. She could never fully accept her station in life, as a servant of the duPres family."

"She helped save me from the gallows," Vicki said, in affection. "I owe her my life."

Barnabas was visibly shaken. Vicki was beginning to remember. Would she remember everything about her trip to 1795? Would she remember, what I am?

Meanwhile, in a small cottage, near Bangor. Charles Nesbitt was sleeping. He was dreaming about his Professor. They were embracing, and holding each other closely. Suddenly, he awoke, feeling a chill run up his arms. The room filled with the smell of sweet lilac. A bright white light flooded the room. A spectre appeared. It was a woman. She floated above his very large Victorian bed.

"Beware...beware Angelique," the ghost said in a whisper. "For she has released evil. She has disturbed the sleep of the wicked one..."

"Who is Angelique?" Charles cried. He approached the disembodied soul, but it vanished. The room returned to its former state. But he heard the shutters in the bathroom, knocking. The bathroom window was open. Cold wind blowing in, blowing the shutters, back and forth. As he closed the window, he gazed into the bathroom mirror, looking at his unshaven face. But there was something written on the glass? As he looked more closely at the glass, written in the moisture, was the name---Robina.

To be continued---