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Borgo Press Books by V. J. Banis
The Astral: Till the Day I Die
Avalon
Charms, Spells, and Curses for the Millions
Color Him Gay: That Man from C.A.M.P.
The Curse of Bloodstone: A Gothic Novel of Terror
Darkwater: A Gothic Novel of Horror
The Devil’s Dance
Drag Thing; or, The Strange Tale of Jackle and Hyde
The Earth and All It Holds
The Gay Dogs: That Man from C.A.M.P.
The Gay Haunt
The Glass House
The Glass Painting: A Gothic Tale of Horror
Goodbye, My Lover
The Greek Boy
The Green Rolling Hills: Writings from West Virginia (editor)
Kenny’s Back
Life and Other Passing Moments: A Collection of Short Writings
The Lion’s Gate
Moon Garden
The Pot Thickens: Recipes from the Kitchens of Writers and Editors (editor)
San Antone
The Second House: A Novel of Terror
The Second Tijuana Bible Reader (editor)
Spine Intact, Some Creases: Remembrances of a Paperback Writer
Stranger at the Door: A Novel of Suspense
Sweet Tormented Love: A Novel of Romance
The Sword and the Rose: An Historical Novel
This Splendid Earth
The Tijuana Bible Reader (editor)
The WATERCRESS File: That Man from C.A.M.P.
A Westward Love: An Historical Romance
The Wolves of Craywood: A Novel of Terror
The Why Not
Copyright Information
Copyright © 1971, 2012 by V. J. Banis
Originally published under
the pen name, Jan Alexander
Published by Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidebooks.com
Dedication
I am deeply indebted to my friend, Heather, for all the help she has given me in getting these early works of mine reissued.
And I am grateful as well to Rob Reginald, for all his assistance and support.
Chapter One
Although it may be a cliché, it is nonetheless true that little things often have momentous effects. When I first found Hepzibah she was only a kitten, a poor wet bedraggled thing who could not decide whether she would die from starvation or from drowning. Yet it was this harmless creature who brought Jeffrey and me together, and began for me a season of steadily mounting terror that made my life a nightmare. Jeffrey. La Deuxième, that house with its haunted corridors. Tales of ghostly nuns who wandered the earth to mourn their brutal deaths. I would have known none of these had not a litter of kittens been tied in a bag and thrown into a river to drown.
I nearly drowned myself in that river. When I thought about it afterward, I could almost hear Aunt Gwyneth saying, “She always acted without thinking, I can’t say I’m surprised this happened.” And it would be true, I suppose. But on this occasion there wasn’t time to think.
I had gone for a walk in the country. I did that often; my home was not a happy one, and although Aunt Gwyneth warned me over and over that the doctors would send me to the sanitarium again, I spent as much of my time as possible in the out-of-doors, alone. I did not mind so much being alone; it seemed to me that I had been alone all of my life. I was twenty-one now. I had been only four when an accident claimed the lives of my parents, and I scarcely remembered them. I had been six when rheumatic fever claimed me, and since that time I had spent ample time indoors, in hospitals and sanitariums and sickrooms, alone except for the efficient and invariably aloof doctors and nurses who hovered about.
Aunt Gwyneth could not be expected to understand how much it meant to me to go out of her gloomy, unloving house and into the sunshine and fresh air. What did the risk of a chill matter, in exchange for the smell of sweet clover and goldenrod? Her words to me were always practical and sound, but how willing I was to trade them for the hum of grasshoppers and crickets, and the singing of birds. She had always seen that I had good food to eat and a clean bed to sleep in; but how I loved to lie in the tall grass by the river and eat wild berries I had picked myself along the way.
My Aunt had been very good to me, and I tried to be kind to her. But I had long since realized the unhappy truth, that what she did, she did from a sense of obligation, and not because she loved me. She never had.
A seldom used road followed along the river on its opposite bank. This particular day I was lying in the grass gazing reflectively at the blue sky above, when I heard the sound of an automobile. I remained where I was, not through any desire to conceal myself, but merely from indolence. The car slowed and stopped almost directly across the river from me.
After a moment or so I lifted my head out of idle curiosity. I was in time to see a shabbily dressed farmer carrying a burlap bag to the river’s edge. He looked about once. There was something so furtive in that look that I instinctively lowered my head, but he did not see me. Satisfied that he was alone, he lifted his parcel high and gave it a toss. It landed nearly in the middle of the river, sank below the surface at once, and bobbed up again. The stranger gave another quick glance around and then scrambled up the grassy bank to his car. In another moment he was driving away.
I jumped to my feet. In that moment before he had thrown that bag I was certain that something in it had moved. Now, watching it bob on the surface, I could see clearly that there was something alive in it, struggling to escape. As the noise of the car faded in the distance, I recognized the frightened meowing of kittens. He had thrown an unwanted litter of kittens into the river to drown!
Shock gave way to indignation. Without thinking ahead I ran down the bank and splashed into the water. The river was not terribly wide at this point; but it was deeper than I had realized, and its placid surface belied the swift current beneath. I struggled through water that was waist high, then chest high, until I was almost swimming. I could only move with maddening slowness. The bag had drifted downstream, but to my relief it caught on a branch dangling into the water. I prayed that it would hold there until I reached it. Just beyond that point the river grew wider and deeper, and I would never have been able to reach the sack if it were carried into that part. I
