The Box Under Daddy's Bed
By Kay Kelly

Rating: T | Status: Completed | Genre: Drama | Series: Companion to Thorns Along The Way
Summary: Original Series. The 13-year-old Elizabeth Collins finds such a box...with horrific consequences.

Chapter 1

1937

It never would have happened if the boys hadn't been playing ball indoors.

"You know you're not supposed to do this. You have all of outdoors!" Elizabeth had half-scolded, half-pleaded.

"It's too cold out," said Gavin. "Who died and left you boss, anyway? You've gotten really snotty now you're a 'teenager.' Big deal--I'm already as tall as you are!"

She knew that wasn't true. But it was embarrassingly close to the truth, considering he was only nine.

"Going to be as tall as I am," Dad says. "Roger has my coloring, but Gavin's going to have my height."

So proud of them, and they act like obnoxious little brats the minute his back is turned.

"I wanna play," said 7-year-old Roger.

Elizabeth took a deep breath. "Listen, boys, Daddy did ask me to keep an eye on you while he's over at the cottage with the caretaker." A half-dozen servants in the house, and they won't even try. "There will be hell to pay if Mama comes home and finds you up here with a bat and ball--"

"She won't," said Gavin. "Those lunches with her dumb friends always take hours."

"If you break something--"

"What're we gonna break, in the hall?" The hall in question was a long, bare corridor with four doors on each side, a staircase at one end and a stained-glass window at the other.

"The window, maybe! And you haven't even closed those doors--"

"I wanna play," Roger repeated.

"Okay, buddy." Gavin handed him the ball. "Scoot down there and toss it to me." Taking a practice swing with the bat, he stuck his tongue out at Elizabeth.

Roger tossed the ball.

It wasn't much of a toss. It reached Gavin on the second bounce. But his bat connected.

The ball sailed to the left. It struck a door frame, caromed off it, and disappeared through an open door on the other side of the hall.

Something shattered.

"Shit," said Gavin.

Elizabeth was livid. "Now see what you've done!"

"It coulda been worse," Gavin said sullenly. "At least it was Daddy's room, not Mama's."

Mama was the strict one.

Roger had briefly looked close to tears. But now he wondered aloud, "Why don't they sleep in the same room? Other kids' parents sleep together."

"Because we have such a big house," Elizabeth told him. "Married people sleep together if they don't have the space to do anything else."

Why tell a 7-year-old I don't think our parents love each other?

"Why do we have a bigger house than other people?"

Dad says I must never talk about being wealthy. It's tactless to mention it to anyone outside the family, and Roger's too young to understand that, so I can't explain it to him yet.

Though Mama, of course, talks about being wealthy all the time. If Roger hasn't heard her, it's because the boys shut out everything she says.

"Because our family has always lived in the country," she told him. "People who want to be in town have to live close together. They're all clustered around the harbor, and there's no room for big houses."

Gavin's sneer told her what he thought of that explanation.

She scowled at him and said pointedly, "Guess we'd better see how much damage you did."

But he still looked unrepentant as they entered their father's room.

Not as bad as I expected, Elizabeth thought with relief. The ball had taken out a hurricane-style lamp, knocking it off the dresser before it smashed on the floor. The lamp was one of a pair, but she doubted it had sentimental value. And it wouldn't require immediate replacement, like a broken window.

The windows' being intact meant the ball was still in the room somewhere.

It didn't seem right to have servants clean up a mess the children had made. But Elizabeth didn't want the boys to cut themselves, so she did the sweeping. Still concerned about glass fragments, she stopped Roger from crawling on the floor to hunt for the ball.

Yet another task for her.

Flat on her belly, with the boys standing over her, she spotted it under the bed.

Way under the bed. She'd have to move other things to have a chance of getting her arm in there.

She pulled out a shoebox, rolled over and sat up so she could lay it out of the way.

She glanced casually at the shoebox.

And then she forgot about the ball.

The box was tied tightly with twine. But the most striking thing about it was the label, written in a careful hand she recognized as their father Jamison's.

One word.

"Elizabeth."

The boys were crowding in to look over her shoulder. "Whaddya got?"

She wasn't sure which one had spoken.

She stared at the box, imagining that the faded letters of her name squirmed and writhed.

Oh God, no.

Rosemary. Rosemary Baker.

It was only six weeks ago that her classmate had begun coming to school with red eyes and a pale, drawn face.

Elizabeth didn't know to whom Rosemary had confided her problem. But soon the story was all over school.

Rosemary had gone in her parents' bedroom for some reason. Found a shoebox labeled with the single word "Rosemary." Opened it.

The box had contained adoption papers.

Rosemary was shattered. Her friends were sure she'd never recover.

Now Elizabeth shrank in horror from this box.

It can't be, it can't...

But what else could it be?

She knew her parents weren't infertile. She was old enough that she could remember Mama being pregnant with Gavin and Roger.

But I was the first. Don't they say couples sometimes can't have babies because they're trying too hard? Stress or something. And after they give up and adopt, they relax and really do have their own.

Jamison and Celia Collins, wed in their teens, had been together a very long time before Elizabeth was born.

She heard Jamison's bragging voice again. "Roger has my coloring, but Gavin's going to have my height."

No one says anything like that about me. I don't look like Dad or Mama.

She knew that didn't rule out her being their child. Her hair was the same color as Gavin's, and the blond Celia had undoubtedly given birth to him. But she didn't have the easy assurance of a child who knew she resembled a parent.

And here was the box, a twin to Rosemary's. Proof that she, like Rosemary, was at the heart of some dark secret...

"It looks like it's addressed to you," Gavin said. "Aren't you gonna open it?"

"N-no."

" 'Fraidy cat!" Suddenly, he had grabbed it and was ripping off the twine.

"You give me that!" she yelled, jumping to her feet and pursuing him.

She got her hands on it and they grappled for it, with a tittering Roger trying to help Gavin. All the twine was on the floor now.

Over the boys' heads, she saw their father in the doorway. Jamison Collins recognized the box and screamed, "No! Don't!"

But it was too late. The box flew open, Elizabeth fell backward into a sitting position on the bed, and the box's contents landed in her lap.

Her ear-splitting shriek sent the boys racing for the door. Jamison ignored them and rushed to his daughter.

She had a fleeting impression of his white, stricken face before she passed out.

Chapter 2

1897

Twelve-year-old Jamison Collins sat on the floor of a dark, dusty, unfurnished room that had apparently never been used by anyone.

He was confused, frightened, and felt generally miserable.

That was nothing new.

Jamison had experienced so much illness in recent months that he was confused about almost everything. At times he doubted his sanity. The bizarre happenings he sometimes thought he remembered had to be the product of delirium...or worse.

The few things he was sure of had brought him to the brink of despair.

His uncle Quentin had jilted Beth Chavez, the maid who'd been deeply in love with him for years. He'd rejected her in favor of a near-stranger called Angelique.

Jamison had flown into a rage and told Quentin he hated him. Would always hate him.

Why did I care so much? Why was it so important to me that Beth be happy?

His fierce protectiveness toward Beth hadn't abated. Yet he'd give anything to take back the words he'd hurled at Quentin. It was too late. He'd sought to apologize, but Quentin had become cold and unapproachable. He almost seemed like a different person.

My fault, all my fault...

And the truth was that Jamison loved Quentin, loved this young ne'er-do-well uncle as he'd never loved his father. Edward Collins was a man who showed no affection and inspired none.

Recently, the boy had seen a glimmer of hope. Quentin and Beth were spending more time together. Perhaps he meant to marry her after all?

Please, God, Jamison had begged, let them be happy together. Let her be happy! It doesn't matter about me.

But he'd been forced to admit he was fooling himself. Together or not, neither Quentin nor Beth looked happy. Quentin was usually scowling, Beth a bundle of nerves.

Jamison had been reduced to spying. Sitting in the dark with a door open on a crack, peering down the hall at the activity around Quentin's suite of rooms--the only occupied portion of the West Wing.

On this night, comings and goings in the lighted hall had been frenetic. Quentin. Beth. Charity Trask--or Pansy Faye, or whoever she was. Barnabas Collins. Voices had been raised in the suite, in anger or alarm.

Jamison couldn't make out any words.

He did know Beth and Charity had an impassioned discussion in Quentin's absence. Charity left first, then Beth--wearing a shawl that suggested she was going out, and looking more distraught than he'd ever seen her.

Now Quentin was back. He'd rushed in, seemingly in a panic, inexplicably muttering curses on Gypsies. Jamison had heard him bolt his door.

Jamison had no timepiece, but at least two hours must have passed since then. He'd made a furtive trip to the servants' quarters and established that Beth wasn't there. He was sure he hadn't missed her return while he was away from this hiding place. He'd always been within view of the stairs or earshot of the outer door she would have used.

His anxiety was growing by the minute.

Suddenly, a man tramped down the hall. "Quentin!" he yelled. "Where are you? It's Tim Shaw. This is urgent!"

It seemed Quentin didn't mean to answer.

"Quentin! Are you here somewhere? There's a problem with Beth!"

At that, Jamison was ready to blow his cover and go out himself. But before he could, Quentin's door opened. "Shaw? Come in."

No! Please, please talk in the hall so I can hear what's wrong!

But Shaw went inside, and the door closed behind him.

As usual, Jamison heard agitated voices and couldn't distinguish words. Soon the men made a hurried departure. He was tempted to burst out of hiding and join them. But he remembered the withering looks Quentin had given him lately, and lost his nerve.

Alone in the desolate West Wing, he let the tears come.

What's happened to Beth? Oh God, what's happened?

Beth... I love you! If Quentin hurt you, I would have done anything, anything to make up for it!

But you didn't know that. How could you know?

I didn't know it myself...

Beth, what have you done?

A word formed in his mind, and he tried desperately to push it away.

The word was "suicide."

He was sure another two hours had passed. No one had returned. And if an alarm had been raised elsewhere in the house, he would have heard it.

Why didn't I try to follow them?

He'd go crazy if he stayed where he was.

So he left the West Wing, made another fruitless check of the servants' quarters, and slipped out into the night.

He stood shivering at the edge of the woods. Leaves rustled in the wind; an owl gave a mournful hoot.

What if...

He didn't want to complete the thought, but he knew he must.

What if Shaw had talked to Beth and was afraid she meant to harm herself, but he didn't know where she'd gone?

There's only one place around here where people go to...do that.

Quentin would know, wouldn't he?

No, maybe he wouldn't think of it. He was away so long...

Jamison admitted to himself that he was terrified. But he wouldn't let that stop him.

The frail, frightened 12-year-old walked grimly into the woods, in the general direction of Widow's Hill.

Too late, he realized he should have brought a lantern.

But he wasn't about to turn back. He picked his way carefully, listening for the sound of waves breaking on the rocks. He knew that when he reached the cliff he'd be able to see by moonlight.

He might see more than he wanted to.

He heard the waves. Proof that he hadn't been walking in circles.

And then he heard something else.

A man's blood-curdling scream.

He stood frozen, petrified. Someone was crashing through the brush.

Two people? Not together?

He made himself move toward the sounds. Thanks to his slender build, he himself was as silent as a thought.

Now he heard another scream, a woman's.

At last he saw them. The woman retreating in terror from the man...

Beth retreating in terror from Quentin.

Why?

He couldn't catch all the words. But he heard Beth cry out, "Don't come near me!"

Quentin was saying, "I want to tell you the truth!"

Beth screamed, "I hate you! I hate you!"

She took another step backward...and lost her footing.

Quentin made a desperate attempt to grab her, but failed.

And with both of them shrieking in horror, Beth vanished over the edge of Widow's Hill!

Jamison would never know whether he had shrieked too, unheard by Quentin, or had been struck mute by shock.

He definitely couldn't move.

He watched as a trembling Quentin peered over the edge--sure, of course, that no one could fall from that cliff and survive.

I should go to him. What if he becomes suicidal?

But he still couldn't move.

He watched as Quentin buried his face in his hands, moaning. And as he finally got up and staggered away.

Then Jamison was alone on the bluff above the dead or dying woman he loved.

He crept to the edge and looked down.

Her mangled, bloody body was caught on the rocks, partially submerged.

And Jamison had only one thought.

I have to get down there.

It wasn't rational. He'd never heard of there being any sort of path down that cliff face.

But he was determined to find one, or make one, or die in the attempt.

After what seemed an eternity, he was at the base of the cliff. Bruised and bloody, his legs skinned and his hands torn...but he was there.

He clambered over the rocks, aware a misstep could be fatal. He knew how to swim. But this water was frigid, the current strong, and he was already weak and exhausted.

He reached her at last. Cradling the wet, broken body in his arms, he struggled to lift her face out of the water and keep it out.

He saw a pendant on a chain around her neck. A star-like symbol.

Oh, Beth. I don't know if I'll get back up that cliff alive. But if I do, I need a keepsake. I can't live without some link to you.

He gently lifted the chain over her head and donned it himself.

Then, in defiance of reason, he began breathing into her mouth. A nightmarish substitute for the kisses he'd never have...

It was hopeless, of course.

But as he raised his head to inhale, Beth gave a faint moan.

At that, his mind almost snapped.

She's alive. Just barely, but she's alive.

And I can't save her! If Quentin went to get help, they'd be here by now. No one's coming. I can't possibly get an injured woman up the cliff.

All I can do is sit here while she dies in my arms!

He himself was moaning now, clinging to sanity by a thread.

And then he realized something else was happening. Her battered body was straining, convulsing.

At first he thought she was having an involuntary bowel movement.

But then he remembered.

Remembered the times recently when she'd been anxious or frightened, and he'd seen her put a protective hand to her belly...

Oh God. No, no!

Somehow, he pulled her long skirt and petticoat up. Ripped away her underwear--trying to ease the pressure, reduce her suffering.

Something small and wet was expelled from her dying body, into the boy's hands. Cold as she was, cold as his hands were, the small wet thing was briefly warm. And for a heart-wrenching minute, it twitched.

By the time Jamison Collins could see through his tears, it was cold and still.

Chapter 3

1937

"You sick, warped pervert!" Celia Collins stormed onto the landing, jeweled bracelets jangling, face flushed under what Elizabeth had always thought was her too-heavy makeup.

Elizabeth winced, and the boys edged closer to her. They were watching from a corner of the foyer, where the housekeeper had left them when they flatly refused to accompany her to the Old House.

Elizabeth noted that Celia now had the box, which was tied again. Meaning the thing had undoubtedly been put back in it.

She was furious with herself for having fainted. Dad had a right to keep anything he wanted in his own room! If I hadn't been such a ninny, if he hadn't had to fuss over me, Mama wouldn't have been able to take it away from him. She wouldn't even have found out about it.

Jamison caught up with Celia before she reached the stairs. He grabbed her by the shoulders and forcibly spun her around. "Give me that!"

She clutched the box to her chest. "What sort of man are you? To keep a mummified fetus for forty years because it belonged to that bitch--"

"That 'bitch' was your sister!" Jamison roared.

Sister? Elizabeth was stunned. She'd never known her mother had a sister.

"Yes," Celia shot back, "my sister. The one you really loved! You only married me because I reminded you of her!"

"Th-that's ridiculous. I was twelve years old when she died!"

"That makes it all the more sick. You preserved this loathsome thing, you kept it for forty years because it was hers--"

"No, I d-didn't!" Elizabeth was frightened by the quaver she heard in her father's voice. "I didn't keep it because it was hers. I kept it because it was his."

"His"? Whose?

"I know he'll come home someday," Jamison continued. "This was his child, a child he probably never knew about. I want to tell him--give him a chance to look at it if he wants to. I th-thought we could bury it together."

"Liar!" Celia's face was contorted with rage. "You kept it because of your twisted fantasies about her. You even named the damn thing! The same name you gave our daughter!"

Elizabeth hadn't thought of that. Her knees buckled, and she sank to the floor with a whimper.

"It was your sister's name. I had to think of...this...as something, didn't I? And all those years later, I was just honoring your long-dead sister. There was no connection--"

"Why do you care more about my long-dead sister than I do?"

"Maybe because you've never cared about anyone but yourself!"

Celia hauled off and slapped him. Hard.

Elizabeth heard her little brothers gasp. She struggled to her feet and gathered them both into her arms.

Celia had made a mistake by taking one hand off the box. Jamison made a grab for it and tried to wrest it away from her.

She was a tall, solidly built woman. Jamison was taller, but not so much so that he could easily overwhelm her. She clung fiercely to the box--and kneed her husband in the groin.

As he doubled over in pain, she made a dash for the staircase. "I'm going to burn this thing!"

He lunged after her, with a growl that didn't sound human.

They fought furiously at the head of the stairs.

Jamison's strong hands captured the box.

Celia kicked and clawed at him.

He jerked away--and she lost her balance.

He could have reached out to steady her, but didn't.

He stood there, hugging the box, and let his wife tumble head over heels down the staircase.

From the position in which she landed, Elizabeth knew immediately that she'd broken her neck.

Jamison walked slowly and carefully down the stairs. He didn't appear to notice the quaking children.

He bent over the body and felt for a pulse.

Then he turned to the phone on the foyer table. Picked up the receiver and spoke briefly to the operator.

When his call was put through, he said calmly, "Sheriff? This is Jamison Collins.

"There's been a terrible accident at Collinwood.

"My wife has fallen down the stairs.

"I think she's dead."

Elizabeth realized with a chill that in feeling for the pulse and in making his call, her father had used only one hand.

He wasn't about to let go of that box.

The End

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