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The Journals of Barnabas Collins

I am free to live my life, but what life is it?  My torpor has clouded my mind far more than I knew.  I have memories that are vivid, and I have memories that are clouded.  I may be in a fever dream.  Perhaps I was never released.  Perhaps the theologically-minded were right, and there is a Hell.

I say this because Abigail Collins, whose death I know somewhat intimately, greeted me at the door, but acted as if she were the maid.  (Were the Hindus correct?)  More shocking was the immediate presence of my mother at Collinwood.  It took all of my composure and rehearsal to maintain my countenance of nonchalance.  Despite her shocking display of leg, Naomi (“Elizabeth”) was as warm as she was in my time.  Perhaps more.  And then there was a young woman named Victoria Winters, a tutor.  She reminds me both of Josette and…

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