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 Terror
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 © 1977, 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
I have come at dusk, come to follow the little path that leads over the hill and by the lake. It is no idle curiosity that has brought me back to Green Willows, nor any longing to see the place again. For ten years, I have lived down the road, and in all that time, I have never set foot on this path. Hardly anyone ever does. Hardly anyone ever did.
I have come because I must, because someone saw, or said they saw, two ladies down by the lake, and I must know. I must see for myself.
He did not come with me. I told him where and why I was going, and he looked at me with a look I thought to see no more in his eyes. After a long while, he nodded and turned away.
When I left, I looked back once and he was in the doorway, watching me. If I had asked, I am sure he would have come, but I did not ask, and he did not offer.
So I have come alone over the hill, around the stand of birches. The path is overgrown now. The wildness had always threatened, and now it reigns triumphant. Brambles catch my skirt like warning fingers that would hold me back when I press on.
And there is the lake, with the willows that gave the house its name gracing one green bank. It is a pond, really, with an island in the center and a gazebo on the island. It is artificial, of course, dug out when the house was built, but it is deep. Deep enough for drowning.
The gazebo is crumbling now, and its roof has fallen in. The little stone bench that once sat there is turned over, its legs stuck into the air like some great clumsy animal that has been rolled on its back and cannot right itself again.
I come closer, my gaze going beyond the lake. There stood the house on a gentle rise, and beyond that, the cliff and the sea. What a contrast that was, to walk from the front to the back of the house, from this lovely, peaceful view that was artificial, to the real waves crashing at the real rocks below. There was a clue there, in that duality of nature, if I had been clever enough to see it at the time.
But I do not walk to the cliffs, which I never liked, or to the house. There is no house there now, only two broken chimneys that stand like sentinels watching me approach the lake.
There are no ladies by the water. There are no ghosts here. They were long since driven out.
And yet...and yet, why do I turn my head so fast, thinking for a second that I saw a girl race across the hill, fling herself to her death over the cliffs?
I catch my breath and sink into the tall, soft grass
