The Second House. V. J. Banis

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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 was barely able to manage where I was.

      It seemed an eternity before I reached the sack and could clasp it in my cold hands. I stood for a moment gasping for breath. I was not very strong physically, and I had expended very nearly all of my energy getting to these helpless creatures. Now for the first time I thought of what I was doing, and I was afraid. I did not think I could make it back to the bank as out of breath as I was. Nor could I remain where I was until I caught my breath. The water here was nearly to my chin and it required all of my strength to resist the swift rush of the water that threatened to sweep me away.

      With grim determination I struck out for the bank. But it was no use. I knew almost as soon as I started that I was beaten. My feet slipped out from under me and the water rushed over my head with a cold woosh. I was tumbling and splashing head over heels. I tried to swim but could not; I gasped for air and swallowed instead the chill green river water. Still clinging to my prize I felt myself being rushed downstream, my lungs violently protesting the watery intrusion. The thought flashed through my mind that I was certain to drown. I prayed for a miracle.

      I