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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 © 1972, 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
Fire!
Hot and cold played in alternating waves over her bare arms—the cold of the night air, the rush of heat from the flames. The glow gave her face, which would have been ashen in any other light, a ghastly pallor. Her eyes were unearthly wide, filled to the brim with the flickering horror before her.
Someone brushed rudely against her, almost knocking her off balance. A fireman went by, rushing on some errand that would be too late.
Too late to save the house. Too late to save the man trapped inside. Too late....
“Ellen. Oh, my poor child, this is so awful.” Someone put a hand tentatively on her shoulder.
She did not turn. Her eyes remained fixed on the house. One of the chimneys collapsed, falling through what remained of the roof. A volcanic eruption of smoke and ash and fire burst upward.
“Yes,” was all she said, and after a moment the hand went away and she was alone again with her misery. She stared and trembled, and knew that it would remain with her forever—she and this nightmare, merging together, becoming one, forever, and ever and ever.
And then, as if her entire soul weren’t already blackened into ash, as if she hadn’t already known her last moment of inner peace, as if she hadn’t already condemned herself to the eternal fires of hell—as she stood shivering in the cold of the night, there came from within the inferno that terrible scream. The cry of a man as his life is wrested from him.
It went on and on. She heard it even through the blackness that enveloped her with would-be mercy. She heard it while the doctors probed and questioned. She heard it through her mother’s anguish-laden words of reassurance.
She embroidered little flowers on useless doilies, and heard that scream.
She took soothing walks with the kindly nurse, and the trees screamed.
She grew stronger and calmer, and could even laugh again. The scream lingered.
She slept the man-made sleep of sedation. Even in her sleep, she heard the scream.
With it, crashing through her mind over and over and over, was that one awful thought.
I killed him.
I killed him.
I killed him.
CHAPTER TWO
“You’re looking lovely this morning, Miss Miles.” Dr. Hanson gave her the benefit of an approving look, vaguely suffused with male interest.
She thought, I wonder if they teach that little trick of flirtation in medical schools. It’s awfully therapeutic.
Aloud she said simply, “Thank you,” and took a seat facing him across his desk. She had never been given to saying all that she thought. It was a habit that had become strongly reinforced in the last year here at Lawndale.
She lived, as it were, in two different worlds. In the world of others, the world of watching doctors and observant nurses, she had grown cold and serene, more assured, even cautiously happy.
They did not know of the other world. It was a world of fear and guilt and anguish, a world of no confidence in one’s self, a world of doubt and uncertainties. If Dr. Hansen knew of the time she still spent in that world, she would be here at Lawndale forever.
The doctor seemed to sense something in her wary manner, as she looked back at him. “You know, this isn’t a session,” he said, smiling. “I only wanted to see you before you left, so that I could....” he paused and shrugged, “...say goodbye.”
“Yes. Nurse Foster told me that.” She folded her hands in her lap and waited.
And still you look as though I’m going to open you up to see what makes you tick, he thought, watching her across the no-man’s land of the desk. He made no attempt to conceal the fact that he was studying her. Anyway, he had learned that she was too perceptive for that. And too much in charge of her faculties.
Guilt and the retreat from reality that had followed it had in no way impaired her intelligence or the keenness of her eye. It had only left her viewing things from beyond a dark, high wall. And the view was largely one way, because he could not truly see over it into the secret place where she actually lived. It was like a hidden garden, of which he was aware, but he could only guess at what grew there.
For a moment, a passing fraction of a second only, he wondered if he might have made a mistake in releasing her so soon. He knew there was still a sense of guilt for her father’s death, guilt that, for all of their reasonable conversation, he had not been able to wipe away. Perhaps he ought to have....
He dismissed the thought. She was quite well, as well as she would ever be at the hands of doctors. Despite the haunting guilt and her insecurity,
