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The Journals of Barnabas Collins

The miscreant who ushered me into this new world goes by the name of William Loomis.  He prefers “Willie,” and I hesitate to list the connotations of that.  While feeding, a process that both invigorated me and made me somewhat ill given the various (and inferior) intoxicants in his blood, I heard his thoughts and saw through his eyes many of the visions of the day.  Faces were indistinct, however, I postulate that I have learned enough to function for limited periods without calling undue attention to myself.  Loomis took my measurements and purchased for me a rather drab suit of clothes (via something called a ‘fence’ who deals in fine jewelry), something fit more for a chimney sweep than a gentleman, but it will have to due.  From what I can tell from his mind, if we dignify that rum-soaked lump of offal resting between his ears with such…

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