Collinsport founded upon Frenchman’s Bay by Isaac Collins centuries ago has seen many changes. But one thing has always remained a constant – the Collins Family. From high above the small, sea coast town, the great estate and it’s grand mansion Collinwood seem permanently fixed. Like stars in the firmament shining down upon the living and the dead. But as the sun prepares to set once again, only a few are aware that the firmament can be a fragile thing.

Soundtrack: [www.youtube.com]

The promenade at this time of year is not at all crowded. Although there are still tourists, at least, until the end of the month – most, if not all, having made certain to schedule their travel plans so as to extend their stay in the small, coastal town through the 31st in order to attend the Collinsport All Hallows Eve Festival – but, for the most part, these late season out-of-towners are at heart foliage enthusiasts. Now of course there is still the Atlantic and Frenchman’s Bay; there is still the harbor and its odd assortment of commercial fishing boats and pleasure crafts; there are still the nature cruises, the ships that will find you a whale or two to view, take you out to get a glimpse of the setting of the lobster traps, and trips to the coastal islands. But it’s the land and its seasonal raiment that attract these late autumnal vacationers.

Overhead there is a cacophony of gulls circling in hopes of the usual cast away, or fallen, morsel from some tourist’s snack. There upon the wrought iron railing a fat pelican sits atop a newel post all too casually defecating. Just what a tourist must long to see – Beatrice thinks as she walks along beside the slender, brunette dressed in the expensive, hand-tailored, dark slacks, with a matching half-jacketed, buttoned up so that her collarless white blouse seems to take on a clerical aspect.

With a stride that radiates contemptuousness, Mehitable Collins makes her way slowly over to a bench and takes a seat. She looks out to the bay. The late afternoon sun is just lowering to cast a golden glow upon the distant cluster of small isles that can be seen along the horizon.

“Ah—the scent of the sea!” Beatrice sighs, “How truly nauseating.”

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“Fishing is what made my family famous.” Mehitable doesn’t glance up at the tall, raven-haired woman who, dressed in sheer black pants, 6-inch heels, and a feathered, single buttoned, black jacket, which exposes her ample cleavage and Pilates tightened mid-drift, was attracting more than enough side-long glances from those who strolled along the pier. Even with the architectural jut, which gave the Town Pier a 180-degree panoramic view of the harbor and Collinsport environs, the black feathering trim of Beatrice’s jacket, ever so slightly stirred by the sea breeze, was by far the greater attraction.

“And you’re all set on being a fisherman?”

Once, long ago, this concrete and wrought-iron pier had been a part of the original wharf of Collinsport. Large ships carrying supplies and passengers from the lower colonies – from across the sea – used to rock up against the rough hewn, sway-backed planking of the gangway. The thick, hemp ropes creaking against the mooring strain of the vessels as they longed to depart, to quickly escape, from this little village. In winter, late fall, the slick wooden planks glistened with frost and ice. They did the day she had stood upon them in a borrowed woolen cloak with the wind lashing at her harshly from the sea. Pellets of sleet bouncing upon the uneven planks, clinging to the weathered wood, stinging her face as the two sullen jailers furtively escorted her in the dawn’s earliest light. Freed, not by any intervention on her father’s part but owing instead to her Uncle Isaac’s bribery,

Hepzibah Lawson!

July 10, 1692, at the Court of Oyer and Terminer, under Judge Hathore, she had bespoken of “‘fortie’ Witches and the Black Man who were wont to meete in the woodes behind Mr. Hutchinson’s house,” and then, on August 8th Amity Howe, the possessive little slattern, began to recount additional names to Judge Gedney, leading the representatives of the court to the discovery of one Rev. George Burroughs—who also had trained under Master Zachery’s instruction—and the coven he had presided over . . . one of whose members was reported to be named Mehitable C.

It was further north, in the hamlet of New Bedford, a mere fifteen miles from Collinsport, where Mehitable, accompanying the ever so charismatic Edward Hutchinson, had first met the even more mesmerizing Judah Zachery. Provocative, ardent, fiercely thundering from the altar of an unholy church, he held sway over the entire village. His scandalous sermonizing of powers that existed long before the advent of man and yet still accessible to be availed upon by the “True Believer” – so as to be able to walk beyond the spheres, to the side of the day, outside of time and space, to achieve one’s infinite dreams – brought her back again and again – and soon, under his tutelage, she had signed her name in the book and been ordained to help the Rev. G. R. Burroughs feed the flock. Only, very soon thereafter upon arriving in Salem there began the conspiracy of mousy vindictiveness from the all too unappealing, the sullen, and the envious, as Hepzibah Lawson and Amity Howe gave testimony before the court and their malicious tongues recited to the excitement of the count names from “the book.” Mehitable C. Mehitable Collins to be sure. But was not her father Amadeus Collins, a magistrate. And thus as the fervor rose she returned to Collinsport in the belief that they would never come for her there – and if they did, would not Master Zachery aid and protect her – only that night when the ponderous pounding came upon the door, her father, with little or no hesitation, as if he were well aware of who was there upon the threshold thundering upon their door, in the lateness of the hour, opened it to reveal the burly, black-garbed men, with their twin flintlock’s tucked into their wide belts, crisscrossed, bearing in one hand a square lantern and in the other a Bible. The Witch Finders, Matigan & Wiley. They held a writ for her arrest – and he – her father – he had allowed them to enter into their home and to roughly take her in hand to be lead away into the night. In nothing but her nightdress, they had bound her wrists behind her and tossed her into a wagon. Without a cloak, in the chill of the night, huddled, alone, bare-foot, and helpless, she soon began to hear the sound of voices. A crowd gathering to follow along the procession of the wagon rattling on the cobblestones of Collinsport. The wagon came to a halt. Manhandled down to the street she was a spectacle for the gawking villagers, who had gathered to see a Collins’ in her nightdress, to watch her bare feet stumbling over uneven cobblestones, as she was taken into the Collinsport Gaol.

Her Uncle Isaac’s protestations were the loudest. How dare they—she was a Collins. And in her nightdress! Whereas her father’s was nothing more than a resigned recital of how it was all nothing more than a despicable concoction of lies and fabrications—but, the good and respectable, Messrs. Matigan & Wiley, duly authorized Witch Finders, had a duty to perform. And, in performing it they would either prove or disprove her innocence. Thus, the leering Wiley and the sadistic Matigan, were given leave by her father to go about their duty; whereupon she was forcibly and publicly stripped in her cell, the jailers all too eager to serve as witness, her father watching to assure the court’s official sanction, as she was minutely examined by Messrs. Matigan & Wiley – until – they eventually discovered the Witches Mark.

Sad Amadeus – muttering – too trues—tis, all too true, and so turned his back upon her. Seduced by the Black Arts, a witch – then there was nothing left to do but let her suffer the Lord’s consequence. But his brother Isaac, his business interests growing exponentially, was not about to see the name of Collins vilified in the streets of Collinsport. He was not about to allow the spectacle of a trial – to see a Collins burned or hanged; and so, he set about the task of bribing the seemingly endless open hands that were necessary to be filled in order to gain her released from the Collinsport Gaol and allow him to purchase her a passage back to England. Thus it was on a cold winter’s day, two well bought jailers secretly escorted her to the docks – where, her father, who had so fervently disagreed with his brother Isaac’s interference (emphatic in his belief that she should stand trial for her vile and blasphemous actions), stormed the gangway and hailed the jailers, so he could vehemently condemn his daughter; and there, on the wharf, in the grey gloom and cold, amidst the bite of a shower of sleet, he violently spat upon her as a “whore of Satan.”

“I did not say they were fishermen.” Mehitable replies distractedly.

“What time is it?” Beatrice asks spying a concession stand – wondering if they have ice cream.

“Late.” Mehitable replies as she settles her shoulders with Collins determination.

“Time does not seem to concern many here.” Maybe they have some black tea – Beatrice thought, but no, no one in this horrid little town ever serves black currant tea. To distract herself, she snaps open her clutch purse and removes a very antique deck of worn tarot cards. Snap: she closes the purse, and begins to shift through the cards – flipping the top card over, as if trying to hurriedly divine what was about to transpire within the next few moments – only, nothing seemed to make any sense.

“For someone who has lived as long as you have my dear, a matter of a few minutes should seem as inconsequential to you—as it does to me,” The voice behind her is low and sultry.

Beatrice almost jumps.

The gulls are suddenly silenced.

There is only the wash of the Bay as it laps up against the structure of the Town Pier.

Mehitable turns on the bench to look back now and sees not Stephen Alzis – with whom she had earlier spoken – but rather, surprisingly, Stephiana Aldercott.

Madam A?

A magnetic beauty, with dangerous connections to Antonia Angelo Marchesi, a known bootlegger and long suspected occult enthusiast, who, it was privately whispered had magically summoned her in 1919, for purposes no one every wanted to learn, (especially once aware of the horrific end of Marchesi), who in 1927 arrived in New York to establish an exclusive high society spiritualist society, which would eventually become the shadowy underground network known as The Fate. An organization eventually taken over by Stephen Alzis – when Madam A was ambushed on the Docks of the East River.
“So we are not Stephen today?”

A malicious smile, “I am actually a little bit of everywhere today.” She looks at the raven-haired woman and at the cards, “Which might make that a bit complicated.”

Beatrice holds the cards – silent – this is Mehitable’s gambit—and so, she doesn’t want to do or say anything to disturb Mehitable’s plans.

Mehitable had forgotten that smoky, almost hypnotic voice as she warily watches the pale, red-head slowly approaching her bench – she’s accompanied by a striking young woman in a satin, pale blue blouse and tan, suede skirt, with a strategically tilted fedora; and a rather unsavory gentleman who certainly looked as of he had just left New York.

“I see.” Mehitable replies as Stephiana takes a seat beside her, placing her left hand atop her right, and sits for a moment, looking out to the ocean, “Keith Freison.”

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Mehitable shows no recollection of such a person: “Keith Freison?”

“Yes, Keith is a odd little man.” Stephiana begins, seemingly addressing no one but Frenchman’s Bay “In all respects, he’s a bum. Wears only clothing he recovers from the garbage cans outside of Salvation Army Shelters. You see—he never goes inside. He has never actually purchased anything—even as inexpensive as we know their clothing can be. No, he much rather wear what he finds in the garbage can. And, it is not that he doesn’t have the funds to do so – no, for I pay him rather well. For what he does.” She now turns, her hands placid, one atop the other in her lap, as she looks at Mehitable, “Do you know what Keith Frieson does for me?”

Beatrice looks at her oddly.

“No, I don’t.” Mehitable is more than aware there is some purpose to this tale.

“Each day, no matter the weather, he gets up, puts on his shabby suit, as mismatched as it may be — and . . . these incredibly worn, horrible, brown shoes, the soles just all gone to hell—and he goes to the New York Public Library. Where he goes to a certain shelf; and each day, he counts the number of books on that shelf.”

“And you pay him for this?” Beatrice is incredulous.

Stephiana falls silent and looks up at the raven haired beauty. She doesn’t say anything. She sits in a long silence just looking at her.

“Everyday?” Mehitable finally asks.

“Yes—“ Finally looking back at Mehitable, “Everyday for fifteen years. Now—of course, he has absolutely no interest in any of the books. Nor of the significance of the number on the shelf. But each day, he goes and counts them. And his count is always correct—until yesterday.”

“A book was missing?”

“Added.”

“Added?”

“I do so hope you are not going be a problem as well.”

“I can assure you Madam A, am only interested in my shelf.” Mehitable assures her.

Stephiana smiles, “Yes I know – but – I may have a few of books of my own on that shelf.”

Mehitable nods, “Understandably.”

“Only Mehitable,” She smiles briefly and then becomes instantly serious, “This shelf is not yours to call your own.”

Beatrice is amazed at the considerable self-control Mehitable Collins displays.

“What?”

“This all belonged to Isaac.”

“After all I . . . no.” She stops herself, “No. That is of no consequence – this is my birthright.”

“Birthright?” Stephiana’s eyes go cold as she looks at Mehitable. “The birthright of your father, Amadeus, was but a rope.” Her teeth now seem sharp. “The land bequeathed to the Collins’ is the great estate of Isaac’s. The land of your birthright – that of your father – was never on the large estate and it stands no longer. That insignificant cottage – it, and him, and your mother . . . and your brothers – all destroyed in the lightening of the curse called down by your old tutor, Judah Zachery.”

“But blood will have blood,” Mehitable returns the cold glare. “The blood of the Collin’s flows through me – not in that damnable David Collins! The blood line was broken in 1795. And so, it no longer descends from Isaac, but, descends from Daniel – adopted . . . “

“Of the New York linage—yes. Not of Isaac’s.”

“Yes—“ Mehitable puzzled now by the contradiction of her seeming agreement, “Not of Isaac’s”

“To whom this land was given by right of the Pearl – that sought not your pious father . . .”

Mehitable’s fist clenches and she closes her eyes so as not to allow what she is about to say have utterance—

“For 320 years you have felt the hot spit of your father upon his Jezebel.” Stephiana tells her emotionlessly, “For 320 years—”

“I have waited patiently. I have done your bidding –“

And this she knows she should not have said . . .

Stephiana seems now to have taken a long breath – and then forgotten to breathe – as she stiffens and turns her whole body to face Mehitable “You think you have not receive sufficient . . . “

Mehitable lifts a hand in supplication and interrupts suddenly, “I am sorry – no . . . that was said in haste.”

“Said because you believe it!” It seems as if the day has just gotten darker.

“No—you are right – I can never forget or forgive, nor can I never wipe away –“

And Stephiana’s hand reaches up and suddenly Beatrice takes a step backward –

The long, pale, slender fingers touch Mehitable’s cheek, “No, you can’t – only I can wipe it away.” And the young attractive woman in the blue satin blouse and the strategically tilted hat steps closer to the bench as if summoned, “This is Phyllis Wick, Phyllis this is Mehitable Collins.”

Mehitable feeling the touch of the hand on her cheek is entranced with Stephiana’s eyes which have gone now obsidian.

Beatrice frowns slightly.

“As I was saying, before your injudicious pique – I am well aware that for 320 years you have remembered standing on that dock, remembered being taken from your home and publicly shamed, remember the hands and the abuse of the Witch Finders—the betrayal of a father– for me.” The black orbs of her eyes void of all emotion as they were not at all human, “For 320 years you have waited. You have been ever the faithful servant and so—the land given to Isaac, the chosen of the Pearl, I now give to you – not in reward, for there is no reward other than having your name in my book—but because David Collins and his deceitful mother have chosen another over me. Thus, I give you Miss Wick – an instrument to be used in their destruction.”

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“How do you do . . . Miss Collins.” Phyllis Wick takes a step forward, loser to the bench.

“I am fine, Miss Wick.” Mehitable looks up pass the dark eyes of her Lord.

Beatrice shifts her weight and keeps an wary eye on both the bodyguard and this—this Miss Wick – oh, there is something about her she does like – does not trust in the least. And Mehitable shouldn’t either. Beatrice starts to turn a card—

“Do you think that wise,” Stephiana asks without even looking at Beatrice.

Her hand freezes on the card, not turning it over.

“Now, remember this and remember it well, Mehitable Collins I give to you all that is inherited from Daniel, of the Collinsgreen line, but, of the line of Isaac, of the line chosen of the Pearl, I give you not. For it is mine. Do not add or take away a book from my shelf.”

“Nicole Collins?” Mehitable repeats – knowing what remains of the true line.

“She is my instrument.”

“Yes, Stephiana. I understand.”

“Your – little friends – they understand this as well?”

“Yes.” Mehitable replies.

“I do hope so,” She looks up to the raven-haired woman, “As we can assume that anything that would upset my Nikki would be upsetting to me.”

“Bea,” Mehitable nods, and turns to look over her shoulder at Beatrice. “I do need you to find the Snow woman.”

“Of course Miss,” Beatrice so wants to turn the tarot card over – but does not.

“It is such a beautiful sunset.” And Stephiana Aldercott rises.

She smiles at Phyllis Wick in passing reminding her for whom she really works for. “We need to make a stop on the way back to New York.” She says to the unsavory gentleman from New York. “I have to have a word with Arliss Mills.”

The bodyguard nods.

“Keep me apprised of your little diversion, Mehitable.” The low, sultry voice calls back was Stephiana strides back along the Town Pier.’

“So, Miss Collins. This David Collins—are we going to kill him?” Phyllis Wick asks as she folds her arms and taps her finger in a peculiar pattern.

“No – a jury will do that as it did to so many of my friends.”

“A trial? Seems truly fitting.”

Mehitable Collins smiles rather wickedly, and pats the bench beside her.

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Phyllis Wick takes a seat.

“First: I have removed David Collins current personal assistant. And so, what I need for you do is to take her position. I want you to get close, very close, to all of his business dealings. I want you to search all of Collinwood.” Mehitable tells her, “You must be careful as he is devious – and his mother, Laura Collins, is quite formidable. But – leave her to me.”

“Searching and getting close—I assume there is something to find — but will I be planting, or only reaping evidence . . .”

“Finding and revealing. We are going to uncover the deception he has hidden for all these years.”

“So just what is David Collins guilty of?” Miss Wick’s interest is certainly piqued.

“Years ago, his aunt, Elizabeth Collins, killed a man and kept it concealed for years. The man was the father of her illegitimate daughter—and the Collins Family has kept this a long held secret.”

“A single murder? That does not seem –“

“The man she killed – was a very powerful individual, whose life force demanded sacrifice in order to remain viable – and so, she had to make sacrifices of innocent blood twice a year, until he was resurrected.”

“But if his Aunt was the murderer?”

“Accessory to murders my dear.” Beatrice interjects. “And quite a few.”

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“And very grisly ones.” Mehitable tells her, “What we want is to not only uncover the evidence to support her crime, but, to also find where the bodies lie. Because when they start digging them up – not even Laura Collins and all of the Stockbridge Foundation will be able to save him.”

“This illegitimate daughter – you mentioned. Did they kill her as well?” Miss Wick asks with an unusually keen interest.

“Of that I am unsure. Her father does not speak of it. She came to the estate when David was just a boy – she was his governess; but—then, like so many at Collinwood, she suddenly just disappeared.”

Phyllis Wick frowns, “Governess – she was the governess at Collinwood? What year was that?”

“The year was 1969.”

“And the governess’ name was Victoria Winters.” Beatrice says as she flips the card Stephiana had kept her from turning.

It was Death.

Cue Music End of Episode