A FAMILY AFFAIR
V.J. BANIS
BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY VICTOR J. BANIS
The Astral: Till the Day I Die
Avalon: An Historical Novel
The C.A.M.P. Cookbook
The C.A.M.P. Guide to Astrology
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 Daughters of Nightsong: An Historical Novel (Nightsong Saga #2)
The Devil’s Dance: A Novel of Terror
Drag Thing; or, The Strange Tale of Jackle and Hyde
The Earth and All It Holds: An Historical Novel
A Family Affair: A Novel of Horror
Fatal Flowers: A Novel of Horror
Fire on the Moon: A Novel of Terror
The Gay Dogs: That Man from C.A.M.P.
The Gay Haunt
The Glass House: A Novel of Terror
The Glass Painting: A Gothic Tale of Horror
Goodbye, My Lover
The Greek Boy
The Green Rolling Hills: Writings from West Virginia (editor)
Green Willows: A Novel of Horror
Kenny’s Back
Life & Other Passing Moments: A Collection of Short Writings
The Lion’s Gate: A Novel of Terror
Love’s Pawn: A Novel of Romance
Lucifer’s Daughter: A Novel of Horror
Moon Garden: A Novel of Terror
Nightsong: An Historical Novel (Nightsong Saga #1)
The Pot Thickens: Recipes from Writers and Editors (editor)
San Antone: An Historical Novel
The Scent of Heather: A Novel of Terror
The Second House: A Novel of Terror
The Second Tijuana Bible Reader (editor)
The Sins of Nightsong: An Historical Novel (Nightsong Saga #3)
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: An Historical Novel
The Tijuana Bible Reader (editor)
Twisted Flames
The WATERCRESS File: That Man from C.A.M.P.
A Westward Love: An Historical Romance
White Jade: A Novel of Terror
The Why Not
The Wine of the Heart: A Novel of Romance
The Wolves of Craywood: A Novel of Terror
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 1973, 2012 by V. J. Banis
Originally published under the pen name, Lynn Benedict
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
Her mother was dead. Panting with the exertion of what she had done, Jennifer Rand felt a perverse excitement. Slowly, with infinite caution, she removed the pillow that she had held so tightly against her mother’s face and stared wide-eyed at the figure sprawled ungraciously over the bed.
Yes, she was dead, there could be no doubt of it. Jennifer’s eyes filled with tears, her mouth worked wordlessly. She stood as though transfixed, the awesome warmth of the pillow clutched to her breast. Then, dropping it all at once, she turned full around and half-ran, half-danced from the room. She pirouetted through the living room, bursting through the kitchen and out into the moonlight that flooded the backyard. Her mother was dead. Dead. Dead.
“Jennifer?”
As a balloon bursts when punctured, so Jennifer’s spirits burst, the exhilaration that had filled her spilled from her in one horrible rush.
“Jennifer?”
Sleep was rushing away from her, carrying with it the dream. Jennifer reached for them, tried to hold them to her, but the voice was too strong, instinct was more powerful than desire. She lay huddled and wearied in her small bed, and accepted waking with grim resignation.
“I’m here, Mother.” She held her eyes closed, trying to recall the dream. It had been something pleasant, of that she was certain, although she could not remember what; but not altogether pleasant, for lingering with the sense of freedom and exhilaration was an eerie feeling of guilt. She concluded that she had been dreaming of something wicked, and wondered what on earth it might have been.
“I’ve been calling you.” Her mother’s voice was heavy with reproach and self-pity.
“I didn’t hear you,” Jennifer offered meekly. Then, as though to substantiate the claim, she added, “I was asleep.”
“I called and called. I thought you had gone somewhere. You know I want you close by me.”
The dream, where had it gone? If she closed her eyes and surrendered to her sleepiness, would it come back to her?
“Did you want something, Mother?” It was useless. She would have to begin all over the maddening ritual of begging sleep, coaxing her body and her mind into the realm of non-consciousness, gradually drifting and waiting for the dream to come for her again, in its own way and its own time. It would come. It had come before and gone, and although she could remember nothing about it, she knew that it was the same. Someday, she promised
