A Family Affair: A Novel of Horror

by V. J. Banis

  But she knew more even than that. She knew the identity of that other woman, the house guest she had not yet seen face to face, the mysterious visitor to her room, the one who followed her about, called her name, comforted her when she cried.

  “But she went naturally,” she argued with herself, speaking aloud.

  Or had she? Jennifer thought again of that fateful night, and the voice that had called her name; the voice that grew weaker and weaker.

  Her heart pounding, she ran from the graveyard, down the path, circling the house without touching it. She must see someone, talk to them, demand the truth. They must see that she herself was not dead, that she was alive, and so she had no place here at Kelsey.

  “I’m not dead,” she sobbed, scarcely coherent. “I’m not dead.”

  She came to the front of the house, along its length, to the steps that led up to the entrance. And there she stopped, looking up with horror at the woman on the porch, watching her.

  There was no doubt that it was Elenora Rand. The frown was the same frown Jennifer remembered, the frown that had given her such fear as a child. It was, beyond any question, her mother frowning at her, starting down the steps toward her in that same authoritative way she always had.

  “No,” Jennifer said, her voice hoarse. She stared with wide, wild eyes, and shook her head, and tried to back away. “No, it isn’t true. I didn’t hear you call. I was asleep. I dreamed your voice. I didn’t want you to die. I didn’t kill you. I didn’t hear you call.”

  Her voice rose on each phrase, until she was screaming. Then in a panic she whirled about and began to run blindly. She did not even see the lawn she crossed, nor the woods as she entered them. Whether she was being pursued or not, she did not know. Certainly her own terror ran behind her, nipping at her like a savage beast. She was ignorant of the branches that reached out to scratch her and hold her back, ignorant of the frightened cry of a jay as he fled before her.

  She reached the creek, splashing into the shallow water. The creek. The chill of the water brought her a moment of sanity, set her mind to reasoning again. She hardly slowed in her flight as she turned and ran with the water. The creek crossed the road, crossed it at the spot where she had left her car. If she followed the water, it would lead her to the road, and away from Kelsey House. When she had found the road, she would run until she was so far they would never catch her. They would never bring her again to Kelsey House. She would die first.

  “You’ll never leave here.” The statement rang in her ears.

  “I will,” she shouted aloud, drowning out the remembered voice. “I will leave! I will!”

  She ran with the water, gasping and panting, ignoring the leaden weight that grew in her limbs, and the ache in her chest that became a fire. She went on through the cold, rushing stream, stumbling and slipping, until her foot caught beneath a slime-covered rock and she fell, half in, half out of the water.

  Her ankle was broken. She knew it the moment she tried to pull her leg free. She tried to crawl, but her strength was gone. She lay in a crumpled heap, heaving and sobbing and gasping for breath. Her body was in the water, and her head on the mossy bank, and she cried and thought of Marcella, drowning in the stream.

  But she was not going to drown. She would lie here, the cold water running over her body, until she died from the exposure, or until they found her.

  Her tortured mind could bear no more, and she sank into a welcome unconsciousness.

  Her breathing slowed, coming more naturally.

  The stream flowed over her.

  She woke, and was still trapped. She tried to free herself, but her foot was caught and she hadn’t the strength to move it. She cried, and she screamed, until her throat had gone dry and her voice was only a whisper.

  She slept again, and the stream flowed.

  The day became night. All around her the earth lay still and no living person stirred. There were glimpses of stars overhead, and after a time, something brighter that might have been the sun. Or might not have been. For a time she ached with a dull pain that went all through her; in time, even that faded. She felt nothing. She was still and motionless, and looked as if she might only be waiting for someone to come.

  Night again. Cold water rushing over her.

  There were faces, glimpses of faces close to her own, and voices, and snatches of conversation. She heard “Exposure,” and “Pneumonia,” and “Malnutrition.” They had called in a doctor, of course.

  She tried to talk, to explain. “Help me,” she begged, writhing and twisting upon her bed. “They’re trying to kill me. They want me to die. Help me.”

  “...crazy,” someone was saying. “Where’d you find her, Ben?”

  The word went spiraling through her consciousness, downward, carrying her deep into herself: crazy, crazy, crazy. Around and around it went, like a corkscrew, and her mind followed it, turning in and down. It was darker than she had ever seen before.

  Then there was music, sweet unfamiliar sounds that seemed to fill not only her ears but her very being. And colors—no patterns or designs, but only colors, hues and tints that she had never before seen nor imagined, beautiful colors filling everything. And light, parting the darkness, seeming to sear her eyes.

  Light, and color.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  She woke to find her room bathed in sunlight. She yawned, stretching her arms high over her head, and realized that she felt wonderful. Her body seemed to be weightless, as if every care and strain had been lifted from her. She could not remember ever feeling so alive. And the room, how sparkling it was, how vivid the paper flowers that covered the ceilings and walls. And everything seemed freshly washed with sunlight.

  At the dresser, Aunt Abbie was busily arranging fresh flowers in the little vase.

  “Good morning,” Abbie greeted her with a cheery smile. “I hope you slept well.”

  “Yes, I did,” Jennifer replied. “And it is a good morning, isn’t it?”

  “I didn’t disturb you, did I?” Abbie looked concerned for a moment, but Jennifer’s smile reassured her.

  “I think nothing could disturb me this morning,” she said with a laugh.

  Abbie looked pleased. She gave her flowers a final pat. “I think the roses get prettier every day,” she said, admiring her own efforts.

  “They really are quite beautiful this morning,” Jennifer agreed. And it was true. The roses were the loveliest she had ever seen. The reds were like the color of blood, and the pinks like the glow of a summer sunset.

  “Thank you,” Abbie said. She started for the door. “Oh, and breakfast is ready.”

  When she had gone, Jennifer rose from the bed. She slipped into the white robe Aunt Abbie had left for her. The fit was perfect, and it felt, as she walked, as though she were truly floating on air. The robe billowed gracefully behind her as she descended the stairs.

  The family all looked and smiled as she entered the dining room. How pleasant it was to be among one’s own! Without asking, she seated herself in the empty chair beside her mother.

  “I hope you slept well dear,” her mother greeted her, patting one of Jennifer’s hands in the affectionate and possessive gesture Jennifer remembered from the past.

  “Oh, yes,” Jennifer said. “And I’m starving.”

  Her mother smiled slightly at that, the same stiff smile of old.

  “Well, this should help a bit,” Aunt Christine suggested, handing her a large platter of steaming biscuits. “We’ve eggs, and fresh cream, and fruit this morning. So eat heartily.”

  It was, Jennifer had to admit, a delicious breakfast, and she helped herself generously. Everything looked and smelled wonderful, and tasted just as good. She began to devour her food greedily.

  Glancing to her left, she saw Marcella. Marcella sat without touching the plate before her. Jennifer looked toward Aunt Christine and raised one eyebrow quizzically.

  “Oh, that Marcella,” Aunt Christine laughed, seeing the glance and the raised eyeb
row. “You know, in all these years, I’ve never been able to coax her to eat breakfast.”

  “I don’t like breakfast,” Marcella said flatly.

  “I just don’t know what will become of that girl,” Aunt Christine said.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  V. J. Banis is the critically acclaimed author (“the master’s touch in storytelling...”—Publishers Weekly) of more than 200 published books and numerous short stories in a career spanning nearly a half century. A native of Ohio and a longtime Californian, he lives and writes now in West Virginia’s beautiful Blue Ridge.

  You can visit him at http://www.vjbanis.com