The pendant glowed in Annabeth's hand. It was a jewel unfamiliar to her, set in a filigree mounting of tarnished silver, many years old.

A long-forgotten drawer in an equally-forgotten room of Collinwood's west wing had rendered the treasure, and though she knew she could not legally keep it, she wondered whether David Collins would have recognized the jewel's significance. There was a faint magic about it... great age... and an aura of something faintly evil.

Looking at it now, in the dim light of the ground floor study, it seemed all the more magical.

The clatter and roar of a vacuum cleaner from the adjoining room reminded her of her supposed purpose here, and Annabeth hastened to complete the boring task of dusting the study. The cleaning staff, no longer a live-in commodity, would be obliged to leave soon, and she would, perforce, go with it. But the talisman...

That, by rights, would have to remain at Collinwood. In time, perhaps she would tell the Collins family about it. They'd been back from their family travels for some time now. Perhaps soon. But not just now.

She again picked up the jeweled necklace and felt the odd sensation of power that it carried surge through her hand. What if the jewel had been fated for her to find? What if only her Sight was adequate to induce its magic? There were no sensitives among the Collinses that she knew of. To them, the talisman would be little more than a curiosity.

Her hand came to rest upon the rounded crest of the jewel, and without warning, a vision overcame her, like none she had ever experienced before. Its strength was appalling, the magnitude of its realism more frightening than she had ever known a vision to be. Like melting candle wax, the study dissolved out of being, becoming...

Firelight.

The oily smell of leather.

Polished wood instead of carpeting beneath her feet.

It was the study. The same study, but not as she had seen it just moments ago. This room was newly built. The scent of fresh-cut pinewood competed with the leather smell of its books and furnishings.

Discomforted by the realism of the vision, she took her hand from the stone, and finally broke contact with the talisman altogether by dropping it gently to the polished mahogany table that now dominated the room. But nothing changed. Her effort to break the enchantment -- if that was what it was -- had failed. Flames crackled in the fireplace, mocking her.

What place was this?

Another Collinwood, a different Collinwood, in another time.

She ventured timidly from the firelit room, retrieving the talisman from the table en route. The short corridor outside the study led her to Collinwood's familiar grey-walled foyer. But this, too, was different. Candles burned in the massive chandelier overhead, and the sparse furnishings were not as she had known them. They were all from an earlier period. Another time.

A letter lying open on the foyer's drop-leaf table confirmed her fears. The note was dated August 23, 1796.

She started, suddenly aware that a sound had intruded on the silence that until now, had been punctuated only by the ticking of the grandfather clock. It was a low, thrumming sound; steady, rhythmic, like a heartbeat. And it emanated from the one object in the room she did recall from before: the portrait of Barnabas Collins that hung beside the door.

She moved to it, slipping the talisman's chain over her head as she walked, and found that she was captivated by the portrait's austere gaze.

"Come," it seemed to say to her, and the heartbeat throbbed in her ears. "Free me."

Her feet knew the way. They led her unerringly across the moonlit grounds of the estate, to the cemetery that stood on Eagle Hill, and the stone mausoleum in its midst. The heartbeat drew her inside, through the iron gate and past the shadowed bulk of triple biers to the brass lion's head that adorned the back wall, and the ring that protruded from its mouth. She was not surprised to find the wall moving when she pulled on the ring: it seemed she had always known that this was here. Just as she had always known that the secret room behind the wall contained a coffin bound by chains.

The room was lightless, yet she could see the casket's grim outline. The talisman around her neck had begun to glow again, brightly enough to illuminate the object in front of her.

"Free me..."

No way to break the chains. No key to open their lock. How could she free him?

It was the talisman that answered her unspoken question.

Its reflective light fell across the chain; a soft, emerald reflection, and smoke began instantly to curl from the iron links until shortly, they slithered away, rattling noisily to the earthen floor.

The heartbeat ceased its throbbing beat, and she watched, entranced, as the unadorned lid of the coffin was pushed gradually upward. The man that came, slowly, to stand before her, was one she had met once before -- the same Barnabas Collins she'd encountered in a room at Collinwood when she'd first arrived -- in 1986.

He said nothing, but his eyes, like those of his portrait, held her immobile. A cold hand reached for hers, clasped it, and drew her to him, enfolding her between the layers of his cloak. It smelled of must, of decay, and of death...

The talisman, shrouded now in darkness, began to change its inner glow from emerald green to rich, deep red.

No wonder that when they'd met, she had sensed the aura of death about him. This... this was how he had survived the centuries.

She did not remember any pain. But when they emerged into the mausoleum's anteroom, she was weak, and unsteady on her feet.

Moonlight cast a mottled pattern on the stone floor, broken by the elongated shadow of the iron gate. In a moment, another shadow had fallen there -- one belonging to a heavy-set man. "Mr. Barnabas," said a timid voice. "Mr. Barnabas, is that you?"

The man beside her froze, tensing as the gate creaked open to admit the speaker. He was a grizzled-looking fellow with a thoroughly servile demeanor. When he saw the mesmerized expression Annabeth wore, and the blood that trickled from the tiny twin wounds at her throat, his eyes went wide with horror.

"Please," he murmured, "don't let it start all over again."

"What are you doing here, Ben? I didn't summon you."

Ben tried to answer. His small mouth opened, but produced no sound, and his eyes traveled instead to the darkened corner of the mausoleum.

Something moved in the shadows there, and the ghostly image of a stunning blonde woman stepped into the moonlight.

The talisman at Annabeth's throat flickered green and gold in arcane uncertainty.

"You no longer have any claim here," Barnabas said to the figure. "You were banished to the realm of Hell, and that is where you will return!"

Her laughter cut across his words. "I am not so easily banished, my husband. Like you, I cannot die. At least, not a true death. In this realm, the Master I serve has granted that I may keep what is mine. And you, Barnabas, are mine."

Hatred clouded Barnabas' gaze. "Do not taunt me, witch."

Her slender hand swept outward toward a nervous Ben. "This is the bondservant your father gave to you. If you are to walk this Earth, it is he who must serve you." Grey-green eyes, dark with loathing, focused on Annabeth, and to Barnabas, she said, "I will not permit you any other."

"You are wrong, Angelique. If we should choose to leave Collinsport now -- tonight -- there would be nothing you could do to stop it."

"We? You and this oddly-dressed trollop?" Again, her laughter echoed through the shadowed room. "I think not."

The beginnings of a headache were rampaging through Annabeth's head, dispelling a small part of the fog that had formed there after Barnabas' embrace. Oddly dressed? Yes, her clothes would be out of place here. This was 1796.

"The talisman," she tried to say, and found the words were thick and unwieldy on her tongue. "It brought me..."

Barnabas' hand on her arm silenced her effort to speak.

"Say nothing," he admonished. "The witch cannot harm you. She is nothing but a wraith. A spectre. An insubstantial vision."

"So true," Angelique agreed. "Insubstantial, but not altogether harmless." Her form began slowly to fade from view. "See what his 'love' has wrought," she said to Annabeth, her dulcet voice remaining even when the image of her had gone. "See those who trusted, and were betrayed."

Another figure materialized in the shadows, this one belonging to a man with blood-stained bandages swathing his face. Annabeth felt the hand Barnabas had p1aced on her arm tighten, and incongruously, she felt the Sight begin to respond to his touch. The name that had been in his mind came at once to her own.

Jeremiah...

The spectre raised an accusing finger, pointing it at Barnabas.

"You," it rasped. "were my executioner."

Before Barnabas could protest, the horror had vanished. It was promptly replaced by the figure of a stout woman weeping into an embroidered handkerchief.

Once again Annabeth felt Barnabas' thoughts. This was... had been... his mother.

Plaintively, the ghost sobbed and hid its face with the handkerchief until she too dissolved into nothing, giving way to the image of a little girl in pinafore and cap.

"Barnabas," this one cried. "Why did you leave me alone?"

''Sarah!"

The grip on Annabeth's arm, and the mind-touch it had afforded, vanished, and Barnabas Collins took a cautious step toward the ghost of his dead sister, only to find that she had altered form and become another -- a woman in a soiled bridal gown, her torn veil insufficient to hide the hideous, disfiguring scars that marred a once-beautiful face.

"No, " Barnabas gasped. "Josette..."

Ben stopped him from going to her, holding him with a determined grip. "Mr. Barnabas, don't. It ain't Josette, don't ya see? It ain't her at all!"

The odd sensation of warmth at her chest drew Annabeth's attention to the talisman. She took it in hand, surprised to find that the metal was indeed hot to the touch. The stone was hotter still, and had begun to glow a deep, fiery gold. Its color and temperature both intensified when she tilted it toward the ghostly ruin in the bridal gown, and the spectre's startling reaction was a feral growl.

"You..." it hissed at her. "I will not allow you to have him."

One of the bloodied hands was raised to point at her, and black, curling smoke emanated from the fingertips. Annabeth stumbled backward, crying out when the dark tendrils shot across the room to surround her in an ebony haze.

"No," she tried to say, but the word caught in her throat. From the bloody spectre of Josette, Angelique's spiteful laughter began to pour. Her form was altered as she laughed, becoming once again the blonde witch.

"Die," she spat at Annabeth, the single word punctuated with sheer loathing.

The word became pain.

Smoke closed in upon Annabeth and began to smother her, to crush the life from her. "Stop it!" The voice belonged to Barnabas, though Annabeth couldn't see him any longer. The enveloping blackness had swallowed her, blocking everything else from view.

"Stop it, Angelique! It is I you came to torment. Take me!"

More laughter. Cutting, vengeful, cruel laughter.

"All who love you will die, Barnabas Collias. That is the curse to which even I fell victim, remember? If this one cares for you, even a little, then she must die as well."

The pain grew worse, forcing Annabeth to the cold stone floor where she huddled, clutching the gold-lighted talisman in one doubled fist. She could see the stone's light; feel the raging fire of its warmth, even through everything that tormented her.

_Free!_ its brilliance seemed to signal her, a shield against the pain. _Set the power free!_

She opened her fist, turning the jewel in the direction she thought the witch to be.

_Strike then,_ she thought to it. _Stop her, now!_

Searing light swept outward from the talisman's glowing stone, a blade of gold that severed the strangling darkness and struck the witch's outstretched hand.

A shriek sundered the night's silence; pain washed over Annabeth anew, and the image of Angelique was suddenly enveloped in the talisman's flame.

"Sorceress!" the witch's voice wailed. "You will pay for this! I will come back for you!"

The last words were a scream of agony that was mirrored by her own. The heat of the talisman had burned into the flesh of her hand, forcing her to drop it. It dangled from its chain, the flame abated, and its glow at last began to diminish.

Her pain, too, began to fade. But the pillar of flame that had been Angelique continued to burn, shrieking, until it had dissolved into nothing, leaving only the acrid, bitter odor of smoke behind.

Voices floated over her.

"Bring water, Ben. Quickly."

She felt hands touching her, and realized she had collapsed on the rough, grey stones of the mausoleum floor. The talisman, though no longer glowing, still radiated warmth against her chest.

She opened her eyes to see the concerned face of Barnabas Collins.

"How did you defeat her?" he was asking. "Are you also a witch?"

Weakly, she shook her head. "The talisman," she murmured.

Barnabas' hand went cautiously to the mounted jewel, brushed it, and was pulled swiftly away.

"It's burning hot," he exclaimed, surprised. "What sorcery is this? Where did it come from?"

"I..." How could she explain that she had found it in a long-forgotten room in the Collinwood of 1986? "I... don't know."

Ben returned, a hastily-filled bowl of water dripping in his hands.

"You oughta be careful," he warned as he passed the water to Barnabas. "She may be another witch, no better 'n the one she's just banished."

"I think not, Ben." Barnabas took the bowl, gently helping Annabeth to sit up and to drink from it. She sipped, coughed, and tried to take the bowl in hand to drink again, but found, to her horror, that her hands would not grip. The bowl clattered noisily to the floor, water splaying in a spidery pattern on the flagstones.

"Mr. Barnabas!"

Ben's cry drew his master away from Annabeth's side as the talisman began to glow green once more, emanating rays of emerald light. Annabeth tried to grasp it, to somehow stifle the pain that its action appeared to be causing, but her hands would not obey the command to respond.

"What is it doing?"Barnabas' voice queried under the whine that had begun to fill her ears. He said something else to Ben that she could not understand. The shadowed mausoleum room had begun to fade from view; to grow insubstantial, like the vision she had once thought it to be. And the pain...

Annabeth screamed.

Her hand, at last responding to the orders of her mind, tore the chain from her throat and flung the talisman away. She heard it scrape across the stones.

The stones...

They were no longer insubstantial at all. They were still there. Beneath her.

The mausoleum was still there as well, though it was deserted now, save for her. And there was another difference. It was mustier... older... aged.

She placed a quivering hand to her throat, dimly aware that moments ago, a small wound had been there. It was no longer. Had the vision ended? Had she come home?

Somewhere in the distance, a rooster heralded the arrival of dawn.

Annabeth went out to greet it, apprehensive that she might only have been brought to face some new horror.

The freshly-turned earth of a new grave met her just outside the mausoleum gate.

ARMAND HOLST, its tombstone declared.

The name was meaningless to her, but the final date engraved on the stone was not.

BORN DEC 3, 1907, it said.  DIED JUNE 12, 1986...

She was home.