I cannot believe that fool of scribbler completely forgot about me and my story, A Portrait Is Worth a Thousand! How could she forget Elizabeth Hartford? I am larger than life, larger than most characters? How could she leave me, my soul trapped in a portrait while my body wanders around as a blood-sucking corpse?
Never mind. I changed my fate once. I can certainly change it again, even if I have to rely upon my bumbling descendants to carry out my will in the world of the living to do so. My fear is the change may not have to do with myself at all. It may have been Judith Cross’s obsession with me, her artistic power which transferred my soul into her painting. I may not even truly be Elizabeth Hartford, but simply her perception of me, given consciousness. The real Elizabeth could be the blood-sucking corpse. How’s that for irony? As jokes go, I don’t find it particularly amusing. I have no intention of tolerating or accepting that notion, even if it continues to worry at my thoughts. Never mind. I have little Westerleigh to carry out my will, along with the idiot Fiona. My will will be done, no matter what I may have become. I am the only Elizabeth Hartford who truly matters now. Any other version of me can go to the devil, where she belongs!