"I'll be glad to see someone living in the cottage again," Carolyn Stoddard-Hawkes said cheerfully. Johanna followed her into Collinwood's ornate drawing room and took a seat beside her on the green velvet couch.

"Well it's only for the summer," she explained. "But it seemed like a wonderfully atmospheric place to call home for three months. When I decide to 'get away from it all,' I guess I do it in a big way."

Carolyn laughed. "Somehow," she said, "I never thought of Collinsport as a place anyone would want to 'get away' to. But then, I grew up here." She paused for a moment, a sudden thought occurring to her. "Will you be staying in the cottage alone?"

Johanna nodded. "Alone was the idea. No telephones, no traffic noise, no boss or office politics or business appointments. Just three well-deserved months of beautiful peace and quiet. And I plan to love every minute of it."

"I'm glad," Carolyn told her. "I only asked that question because... well, frankly in a town this small, people still tend to think of a woman living alone as unusual. Maybe even improper. I guess in a lot of ways, Collinsport just never left the last century."

"That's quaint, but unavailing," said Johanna. "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"I'm sure of that." Carolyn rose and crossed to an antique mahogany cabinet from which she removed a large volume. "I promised to show you some of the Collins family 'skeletons' when you came over," she joked, coming back to the sofa. "Though I don't know how interesting you'll find all of this. A lot of people these days are pretty bored with the Collins dynasty and their endless ancestor-hunting. Maybe we' re going out of style."

"Not with me," Johanna affirmed. "And besides, how could anyone not be interested in the Collins history? Your family founded this town and built just about everything in it, didn't they?"

"That's right." Carolyn sat down again and opened the book. Johanna's attention was instantly seized by the portrait of an austere-looking man with long grey side whiskers.

"Joshua Collins," she read from the caption. "The family scion?"

"More or less. He wasn't actually the first Collins in America, but he built this house and amassed the family fortune. They say he did it by smuggling guns to the Colonials during the Revolutionary War."

Fascinated, Johanna watched the pages turn and listened to Carolyn's brief descriptions of the lives of Naomi, Barnabas, Jeremiah, Sarah, Abigail, Josette and many others until the book was open to the years 1880 - 1900. Amid the portraits of Judith, Carl, Edward, Laura, Jameson and Nora Collins, there was a curious blank space with the name "Quentin" printed beneath it.

"What was that?" Johanna wondered. "A shy ancestor?"

"No one knows for sure what happened to Quentin's portrait," Carolyn explained. "We think it may have been destroyed in a fire. And there are no photographs of him."

"What a shame."

The rumble of thunder made them both look up. Johanna went to the multi-paned window in time to see raindrops begin striking the glass in miniature torrents.

"Looks like I'm going to get a little damp walking home," she said. "And it's getting dark, too. Leave it to me to get so engrossed I didn't even notice."

"Oh, wait a while," Carolyn urged. "Quentin should be back with the car before long. We can drive you down."

"Quentin?"

Carolyn's platinum hair bounced when she nodded. "Our modern-day Quentin. The Collinses are nothing if not thoroughly steeped in tradition. There've been three Quentins in the family, two Barnabas' and--"

A loud thunderclap cut her off, and the lights in the room blinked twice in unison with the deafening sound. Rain beat against the window with renewed fury.

'That's Collinsport for you," Carolyn said. "Land of mysterious ancestors and sudden summer downpours."

The telephone jangled from the table near the door, and Carolyn went to it, spoke briefly with the caller, and returned.

"That was Quentin," she told Johanna. "Looks like our hillside road is unnavigable again, and he's been marooned in town for the night. Would you mind terribly spending your first night in Collinsport in the ancestral mansion instead of your cottage?"

Johanna watched wind and lightning in the trees outside the window. "Do I have a choice?"

"I don't think so."

"Fine. I'll say yes if you're sure it's not an imposition."

"Not at all. I'll go ask Mrs. Johnson to fix up a room. And some dinner, while she's at it. I'm famished."

Some hours later, with the storm still raging outside, Carolyn had retired for the night and left Johanna, by her own request, to continue poring over the Collins family history. She hadn't intended to stay in the drawing room quite so late, or to let the warmth of the fire and the steady beat of the rain drumming on the windows lull her to sleep on the couch. But somehow they had.

It was no longer raining. There was, instead, a cool night breeze, and the smell of briny salt water permeated the air. From somewhere, a buoy made loud clanging sounds as it bobbed in the water.

Johanna walked, her footsteps echoing strangely on the rough wooden planks of the dock. She walked until she'd reached the water's edge. Against the moonlit backdrop of the sky, she could see shapes out on the water. Ships anchored in Collinsport bay. Only...

That was odd.

They were masted ships. Frigates and schooners.

The wind blew harder. Johanna reached up to capture a stray hair, and found curls piled high on her head in a style she'd never worn before. And her clothing... She looked down to see that she wore a long, dark-colored skirt and a ruffled white blouse that was pinned at the neckline with a large cameo brooch.

"How did I...?"

"Good evening," said a voice. "Did you lose something?"

Johanna spun to see a figure standing on the dock in the half-shadows. He was dressed in Victorian-era clothing, yet she was sure she'd seen him in some other setting. The Collins family history -- that had been it. He was the same Barnabas Collins she had seen in the portrait at Collinwood, and in the album -- but those portraits had been from the year 1795.

"I... I'm not sure," Johanna stammered in answer to his question. Then, unable to stop the words before they tumbled out, she blurted, "What year is this?"

He moved a few steps closer, coming out of the shadows, and for some reason, Johanna found herself growing uncomfortable. What was it about him?

"That's an odd question," he said. "It is 1897, of course. What year did you think it was?"

Johanna touched the brooch at her throat, confused. "I don't understand this," she said. "The book.. The book says you lived in the seventeen-nineties, not the eighteen-nineties. How can you be here?"

His dark eyes narrowed suddenly. "Book?" he repeated "What book might that be?"

She found herself backing away from him without knowing why. Perhaps it was the cruelty that seemed ingrained in those eyes. Or the way he kept closing on her, with that look of something vaguely threatening.

She bumped into the wooden pilings lining the dockside, halting her backward flight. Barnabas Collins, however, kept coming. Somewhere far away, a foghorn wailed.

"I asked you a question," he said menacingly. "Why don't you answer?"

"I don't... Because I..." Johanna found she could not finish a coherent sentence. "Please," she said finally, not even certain what the entreaty was for. "Please, don't..."

His eyes were black and threatening, and the look on his face conveyed a terrible mix of both loathing and... Johanna could think of no other term for it... hunger. He kept on walking, slowly and deliberately, until he'd come face to face with her, and his hand, adorned with a single black onyx ring, began reaching upward, toward her throat...

"Barnabas!"

The new voice made them both start, but Barnabas Collins' face grew even angrier as he turned. The newcomer was a tall, slender young man with dark hair, long sideburns and piercingly blue eyes. He came toward them with a nervous smile, and said guardedly, "I didn't know you were, uh, entertaining a lady, Cousin Barnabas. I used to prowl this dock half the night and I never found one this pretty. You've been keeping secrets from me again."

Barnabas glared at him for a long moment, and the wordless tension hung in the air like a tangible barrier between them. Johanna, still clinging to the rough wood of the piling, forced herself to take several deep breaths of the damp salty air.

"I do not need a keeper, 'Cousin' Quentin," Barnabas said coldly, and Johanna looked up at the tall man with renewed interest. Was this the mysterious Quentin whose portrait was missing from all the family histories?

"I'm sure you don't," Quentin replied with a tone of forced congeniality that he obviously didn't feel. "But I came looking for you because dear Sister Judith says she wants to see you right away. Some matter to do with the lease on the Old House and those gypsies she detests so much."

Barnabas scowled at him. "I can deal with that later," he said.

"I don't think so." There was a warning edge to Quentin's voice now. "When Judith says 'right away' I'm afraid she means it." He moved in between Barnabas and Johanna and boldly took her by the arm, pulling her away. "I'll be more than happy to see the lady home for you though," he said.

With rancor dripping in every word, Barnabas said, "How very kind of you." Then, with a final glance at Johanna, he turned and disappeared into the shadows.

Johanna breathed an audible sigh of relief. "Thank you," she said sincerely.

"My pleasure." He sounded a trifle sad now, and she wondered why. "Don't blame Barnabas," he said. "He isn't always like this."

"I don't understand. He isn't always like what?"

"Nothing." His melancholy turned suddenly into a charming grin. "Now here I've stolen you from my amorous cousin's embrace, and I don't even know your name."

"It's Johanna. But I..."

"Johanna," he repeated, sounding as though he were tasting a new wine and savoring the bouquet. "A beautiful name. I'm Quentin Collins."

"I'm... very glad to meet you, Mr. Collins."

He grinned. "Well, now that we're through the formalities, I've promised to walk you home. And I never break a promise to a lady. Where do you live, Johanna?"

"I... Johanna cast uncertain glances around her, and in desperation, finally chose a direction at random. "That way," she said.

"Fine. Shall we?" Politely, he gestured for her to precede him and then walked beside her along the dock. "If you don't mind my saying so," he said conversationally, "it isn't very often that a lady of your... well... obvious station... wanders into this area alone after dark."

"Really? Well I didn't mean to be here, exactly. It just... happened. I really can't explain."

"Well," Quentin said, "I know how you feel. I can t explain half the things I do either."

_Yes,_ Johanna thought, _but neither can I explain that we aren't walking toward my home, because I don't have a home here. Not in this time._

She realized abruptly that he had stopped walking and had turned to look at her with an expression of concern. "You look a little pale," he said. "Are you sure you're all right?"

Johanna shook her head, aware for the first time that her vision was blurring and that there were buzzing sounds, like a thousand angry bees, throbbing in her ears.

"Johanna?" She heard Quentin Collins' voice call out to her, but he seemed to be receding down a long, narrow tunnel, falling away from her like a coin dropped into an empty well.

"Johanna?"

His voice had grown suddenly clearer, she realized. And though she couldn't see him, he seemed even closer than before. Strange...

"Hey, Johanna. This wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I asked you to spend the night."

This new voice belonged to Carolyn. Johanna opened her eyes, blinking in confusion at the morning light flooding the room. Carolyn and Quentin, who now wore modern clothing, were standing in front of her. Johanna stared. This was unquestionably the same Quentin she'd just seen in 1897. But that couldn't be right. It may have been a simple dream but still, she had never seen Quentin Collins before, and there were no photographs ... so how could her dream have known what he'd look like? This was all very bizarre.

"Johanna, are you all right?" Carolyn was looking at her with concern. "If I'd known you'd fallen asleep down here, I'd have asked Mrs. Johnson to bring you a blanket."

"Thanks," Johanna said weakly, never taking her eyes from a puzzled Quentin. "I didn't mean to fall asleep. I was just looking through your family history and the next thing I knew--"

"You know that's exactly the effect it always has on me," Quentin said jovially, and held out a hand in greeting. "I'm Quentin Collins."

"Yes I know."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing. I mean, Carolyn told me about you."

He smiled; the same winning smile he'd given her on the docks all those dream years ago. "I understand I would have been driving you home if the storm hadn't trapped me in Collinsport. Well the rain's stopped now, but I'm still willing to play chauffeur. Whenever you're ready."

Johanna got to her feet and self-consciously smoothed down her 20th century skirt. "Oh, thank you," she said gratefully, "but I really think I'd like to walk. It's so lovely this time of the morning."

"You're absolutely right," he agreed. "I'll be glad to walk along with you. Our woods can be a bit treacherous after a rain storm."

Johanna tried to hide the nervous edge in her voice. She didn't really know why, but she just wanted to avoid this man until she'd considered more of the dream and what it might mean. "No, really," she said. "Thank you, but I'm sure I'll be fine."

He looked disappointed for a moment. Then his eyes took on a new, bewildered expression. "I hope you'll forgive an old line," he said, "but haven't we met somewhere before?"

"Uh..." Johanna found herself stammering again. "No. I don't think so. Listen, Carolyn, I'm really sorry about all of this. I never intended to be so much trouble to you all."

"Don't apologize," Carolyn replied. "And you weren't any trouble at all. Just promise me you'll be careful walking through these woods. Quentin's right about their being treacherous."

"I'll be careful." Johanna headed for the front door, voicing more of her thank yous and farewells as she went. But when she opened the double doors, she was surprised by a cloaked figure on the threshold.

"Oh, good morning," Barnabas Collins said, sounding a little startled. "I was just about to knock."

Johanna was immediately stricken with how different he looked than he had in the dream. The cruelty, the menace and the smoldering anger were all gone now. The man before her was in every way respectable, and no longer frightening in the least.

"I'm Barnabas Collins," he said. "And you're the young woman who's rented the cottage. Johanna, isn't it?"

"Yes," she said, still feeling uncomfortable in spite of herself. "I was just leaving, and I'm sorry to say I'm in a bit of a hurry. Will you excuse me?"

"Yes of course. But perhaps we can get better acquainted later on?"

"I'm sure we can," she said nervously.

He stepped politely aside to let her pass, but before she did, Johanna caught the flicker of recognition that had come into his eyes. She could tell that he wasn't certain, but he thought he'd seen her somewhere, some time...

Johanna gave him no time to contemplate the thought. She hurried away from the mansion's entrance as quickly as she could.

Walking through warm morning sunlight, she thought idly that dreams could certainly be strange. But, she reminded herself, that was all it had been. Just a dream. And dreams weren't reality, after all.

With the sun climbing high over Collinwood's walls behind her, she headed for home.
 

The End