Jameson had a strange and prophetic dream… as David.  It seems that he found himself in the future (my new home) at a rather fatalistic birthday party.  When explaining it to Judith, I believe that my 20th century analysis of it accidentally may have invented modern psychology.  As the children say, “Whoops.”

In any event, a silver bullet was found outside of Collinwood; that was one of the three signs of Quentin’s doom as outlined in the dream.  As ever, this house is akin to a bizarre Commedia play.  Same masks, different players.  Or is it the reverse?  Worse, there is no script posted backstage.  And yet someone is crafting this mystery.  Who?  Why?

I cannot concern myself with such matters for now, simply deal with the individual problems.

As a man who spent years drafting master plans for ships (and the occasional, French Renaissance mansion), I am accustomed to knowing the master plan.  I feel like I am perfecting doors, staircases, and balconies, but what is the house?

I fear it will be abattoir if I don’t best this mystery with a swift resolve.

Think, Barnabas, old man.  Think.




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