Categories > Original > Horror > The House of Daria Vane
The House of Daria Vane
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When I wake up, it is still raining.
I shove the blankets off and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I'm still dressed from yesterday, but my clothes are wrinkled. The clock on my dresser is flashing 10:44 AM. I've overslept.
So has Dad, apparently. His slightly drunken snores echo through the hallway when I open my door. I tip-toe down the stairs as silently as possible, careful not to wake him. Sybil mustn't be awake yet, either, because there isn't any music coming up from the kitchen.
As I walk down the hall, I notice the study door ajar a little bit. Everything seems to be in order, but as I walk around the room, I see that Dad's laptop isn't where I left it. And there's a delicate handprint on the dusty surface.
My eyes squeeze shut, and for a few moments, I focus on regulating my breathing. When I open my eyes a crack, the handprint is still there, but at least it looks human now. No claw marks, I mean.
"You're awake," someone says from the study door. "Finally."
I glance up. Sybil leans against the door frame, dressed in a white bathrobe, holding a steaming cut of coffee. Her bleached hair is tangled and matted, and there are dark bags under her eyes.
"Someone touched Dad's laptop," I say, pointing to it. Sybil shrugs.
"I wanted to see what he's been up to." She turns and starts down the hall towards the kitchen, and I run out after her.
"Has he done anything recently?"
"Other than get drunk?" she snorts. "No. The most recent update was months ago. And my savings are only going to last us so long."
Money, naturally. Does Sybil think about anything else? I mutter something under my breath and shove a small bagel into my mouth on my way out the door; a little fresh air seems to be in order.
I jump down the porch steps and turn my face up to the darkened sky. The rain isn't so bad. It isn't even cold, which bothers me a little bit, though I'm not sure why. The moisture makes my hair curl up around my face, and I claw it away with my fingers. Mom's used to fizz up like that, too.
Then I notice something out of the corner of my eye that makes my breath stop short. Daria's out in her yard. She's dressed in a black turtle-neck sweater and long pants, not the sort of thing I'd wear this time of year. Her hair flows loose down her back, and she's staring at something in her yard. The sale sign, I think.
I try to walk past without attracting her attention, but I'm barely six feet from my front door when Daria calls out to me from across the street. "Clara!"
I don't want to speak to her, but I can't exactly pretend I didn't notice. I turn slowly, forcing my face into a firm expression. "What?"
She beckons for me to come over to her. I do, dragging my feet all the way. Her face is set, expressionless, but the small lines around the corners of her mouth seem to show a little bit of nerves, or...fear?
"Clara," she begins, and I don't like the way she says my name. Too slowly, like she isn't sure how to pronounce it. "How is your father?"
"Very well, no thanks to you," I say. My attempts to sound neutral all fall to varying degrees of failure.
Daria looks confused for a moment. "I meant about the fire," she says, narrowing her eyes.
"So did I." The strange look stays on her face for a moment, and I feel the need to elaborate. "There were more footprints...handprints...things in the dust around his office," I say. "Like the ones in the Veller house. And I found your scarf."
The confusion vanishes from her face, leaving something far more certain...and far more unnerving: blank fear. She shakes her head mutely for a few seconds, then raises a trembling hand towards the sign on her lawn. "I did not do it," she says, and the words tumble out in a rush. "Clara, the office that exploaded...it was my realtor's."
I follow her pointing, and see the same logo on the sign as the one outside the wreakage. Daria looks truly terrified now, and that worries me far more than anything else.
"I need her," she whispers. "Oh, God..."
"But the...the things in the dust!" I exclaim. "Whatever made those was the thing that...that...killed all those people! I mean, it's yours, isn't it?"
Daria's head snaps around in my direction, so fast I'm surprised she doesn't break her neck. Her eyes are very wide now. "The prints?" she says, more to herself than to me. She nods briefly. "Yes...Clara!" She raises her hands suddenly. "I do not know how you got caught up in this mess, but there are things you need to know--"
"I know all I want to, thank you," I say, taking a quick step back. Daria's realtor? That information is still sinking in, but Daria is already running off on a new tangent. But what does she mean, she didn't do it? I saw the prints, and I held her scarf! But Daria won't allow me a moment to think, and she clutches out at my wrist.
"Come over to my house at 11:45 tonight," she says. "Please. I know what you think of me, but please--"
"How can you know what I think of you?" I interupt. "I barely know myself! There's something very wrong going on here, anyone with half a brain can see that! And you're at the center of it. I know what you're doing, and even if I don't know why you're doing it, I intend to stop you!"
"You have no idea what I am doing!" She shouts, and a horrible change comes into her voice. It sounds cold, very cold...almost like the voice at the Veller House. I shudder, and take another step back.
"I'll come," I say. "I'll be here at 11:45. I just...what will I find?"
But Daria shakes her head, turns around, and starts up the steps to her front door. She gives one quick backward glance at me, then goes into her house, slamming the door behind her.
The rain starts falling heavier, and I go back home.
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I'm still awake at 11:45 PM.
Sitting cross-legged on my bed, with a Bic ball-point in my hand but no paper nearby. I've been trying to write for hours, but each time I get a few words down, I crumple up the paper and toss it into the waste basket across the room. Nothing's coming out right, and I'm not sure what I want to say, anyway. Maybe this is why Dad drinks so much, because he always feels the way I do now.
I glance up at the clock again. 11:46. The blinds are drawn across my window, so I don't know if Daria's still awake waiting for me or not. The rain's been falling off and on all day. I can hear it patting against the window in a sort of drum beat. Should I, Should I not. Should I, Should I not. That's what it sounds like to me, anyway.
Sighing, I lay back on the bed and stare up at the ceiling. There's a few darker patches in the pale white paint, from when Mom and I recoated it back when I was six. Just before Mom got sick, but she wasn't feeling well at the time, and that's why she wasn't able to cover the whole ceiling.
To get my mind off of Mom, I look at the clock again.
11:48. Dad's not asleep yet, I can tell by the creaking coming through the wall. He's tossing and turning, and his mattress springs are broken. We don't have the money to buy a new one yet, though, so I've gotten used to the sound, and to what it means.
11:49. And then a flash of lightning comes, followed by thunder, and our power flares out. The red numbers on the clock sputter for a moment, and die.
I pick up my jacket from off the floor and head out of the house.
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Daria is waiting for me when I come over.
Her front door is wide open, and she's standing right inside. She's still dressed in the black turtle-neck, only now, she's wearing a white scarf around her neck, just like the one I found by Dad's office. When she sees me, her eyes light up a little bit, and she gestures for me to hurry inside.
"I was worried that you were not coming," she says. I shrug and pull my jacket closer around my body. Never have I been in a house so cold as Daria's is now.
The chandelier in the enterance hall is lit up spectacularily, and the light flashes off the crystals and the mirror by the staircase. Daria closes and bolts the door behind me, then wraps her fingers around my upper arm and leads me over to the mirror. It's free-standing, in an ornate gold frame decorated with Venus and Cupid figures. I find the whole thing repulsive, but Daria smiles at it fondly.
"Stand behind it," she directs me. I stare at her blankly, as though she just ordered me to run through the streets humming Bach at the top of my lungs.
"What?"
"Behind the mirror," she says, and pulls the mirror a little bit more away from the wall. There's a large enough space behind it for me to squeeze in, though I have no idea why I should. Sensing my hesitation, Daria sighs. "It is the only way for you to stay safe," she says. I notice that she's developed a new habit of fiddling with the scarf around her neck. She does so now, waving the lavender-scented lace around like a flag.
"What's going to happen?" I ask, watching her hands run along the scarf. "I thought you said--"
She shakes her head to cut me off. "Trust me."
"I'm finding that rather hard to do right about now."
We stand in front of the mirror, staring long and hard into each other's eyes. Then she takes a deep, shuddering breath and purses her lips.
"Go behind the mirror, or go home," she says, lethally slow.
I'm not so sure that going home wouldn't be a good idea at the moment, but the strange way Daria's acting tonight makes me want to stay. And so I squeeze back behind the mirror and find myself a vantage point between a couple of fat, ugly little cupids.
Daria smiles now, takes a few steps back from the mirror, and I don't much care for the way she starts running her fingers though her hair and licking her lips. It's like she's trying to beautify herself for someone. I notice that her fingers are heavy with pearl and amethyst rings.
"What does the mirror do?" I ask, raising my voice a little to be heard from my hiding place.
Daria turns to me, in the middle of some complicated hair twist. "It reflects...things," she says, raising one eyebrow slightly. I don't know if it's to tell me how stupid I am, or if she's trying out new facial expressions for whoever she's waiting for.
"No, it doesn't," I say. She laughs a little to herself and glances at the grandfather clock in the next room. 11:57. I've only been here eight minutes.
"No, it doesn't," she agrees. It's only now that I notice how strange the contraction sounds, coming from her mouth. She is about to say more, but a low sounds cuts her off. Like a wolf growling.
Her face goes white. I can hear her dog upstairs in the room directly above us, pawing the floor and shouting out short, stacatto barks.
"What is that?" I ask. My voice breaks on the last syllable.
Daria shakes her head and holds her finger to her smooth pink lips. The door knocker falls against the door once, twice, each pound sending a jolt down my spine. I push myself farther back into the shadow of the mirror. Daria glances again at the clock.
11:59.
Her dog is going wild. The barking from upstairs is almost worse than the rumbling snarls from outside. Daria, strangely, seems unaffected by it. Her face is as beautifully set as a model's before a camera. There's something in the way she shakes her head and sprays her hair out around her shoulders that reminds me eeriely of Sybil.
The knocking on the door continues, a little bit more frequently, but still with the elegant composure one would expect of Daria's House. Finally, the grandfather clock chimes the hour, and Daria opens the door.
A rush of icy air blows into the room, bearing with it a sweet but slightly rancid smell...myrh. I clamp my hand over my mouth and nose, both to avoid the scent and to keep from gasping out loud, as Daria's visitor steps into the candle light.
He's dressed in a long coat that looks like it might belong in the eighteenth century, made of a russet velvet that perfectly matches the lighter streaks in his dark hair. His face is turned away from me when he enters, and veiled a little bit by his long hair, but I can see enough to know that his skin is pure white, like a sheet of paper from Dad's printer. And when he speaks, his voice is at once perfectly sweet and perfectly cold. I'm not surprised to see Daria tremble.
"Daria Vane," he says, taking her hands in his. I notice that his gloves are trimmed with the same kind of lace as Daria's scarf. "It has been too long."
And I don't think he's talking about friendship. Very softly, as though he's picking up a priceless vase, he lays his hand against Daria's cheek and kisses her on the forehead. Daria shudders and nods mutely.
The stranger turns towards me for a moment, and I think I really do gasp aloud. His face is more perfect than any living man's could be, and his eyes...I've never seen such fire concealed in a pair of brown eyes.
He takes a few steps towards me, and I shrink back as far as I can. The paper backing on the mirror is pealing off a little bit, and it, like everything in this house, smells like lavender. I inhale deeply, trying to lose the scent of the myrh.
Luckily, it isn't me that he's looking at: it's the mirror. He leans in towards the strange glass for a moment. I wish I could see what he's staring at, but I'm not at the right angle, and from the look on Daria's face, that's a good thing.
"You still have my mirror," the stranger says, turning over his shoulder towards Daria. "Does it still work?"
"It told me you were coming tonight," Daria answers, very stiffly.
"Ah. Was there any particular reason why you left me waiting until twelve?"
"To be honest, I was never aware that you could come out before midnight."
Daria's visitor laughs, almost the same way Daria does. In the distance, the wolfish creature growls. "No rules that you can make will ever apply to me," the stranger says. Glancing once more at the mirror, he shrugs and walks back to Daria. It may be my imagination, but it looks like she is backing away from him.
"There was another death," she says. Her hand goes up to her scarf again. I'm starting to find that habit annoying.
Apparently, so is her visitor. He reaches out and catches her hand in his. "I know," he says. "The dogs are hungry, Daria. You have cheated them of their prize long enough."
She pulls away from him. "There was a fire."
"I know," he says again. "Your realtor, was it? A pity. It looks like you will have to go about releasing yourself from this prison all on your own." He shrugs. "You waited too long. They do not build houses like they used to. You have used up your years."
Daria shakes her head. "I must have time left, to sell it. Why did you--"
"Destroy your realtor friend?" The stranger laughs. A different laugh this time, far colder. I huddle behind the mirror and stop my ears as well as I can without attracting attention. "That is cheating, Daria. And you know the old phrase about cheating and the devil."
"I will sell the house, but I need more time," Daria repeats. "Surely the house can hold up for a few more weeks..."
"A few more days, at best. Any more, and you had best start bearing the burden of years yourself." He turns his head suddenly in my direction. "Clara, come out from there."
My heart stops for a second in my chest. I try feebely to pull back even more behind the mirror, but the charade is over. Daria beckons for me to come out to them. I do, shaking all the while.
The stranger glances down at me--he must be at least a foot taller than I am--and narrows his eyes. He turns to Daria. "You think she can help you?"
Daria shakes her head. "No, no, I do not. She thought I was behind...it all."
"Did she really?" He glances back at me. "Some advice for you, Clara. Keep that sparkling young mind of yours out of things that do not concern you."
"What happens to my neighbors is my concern," I say, with more courage than I feel. Hopefully.
"Then suffer the consequences."
I am liking the man less and less by the second. He kisses Daria once more, briefly, on the mouth, and then starts towards the door.
"You have seven days, Daria," he says, pausing on his way out. "Do not waste them."
And then he is gone, so quickly I could almost believe that he vanished into the rain. Abruptly, the growling from outside and the barking from upstairs are cut off at exactly the same time. Daria has her eyes closed, and leans back against the stair railing.
"Now do you believe me?" she asks under her breath.
I shudder. "You really had nothing to do with the fire?"
She nods. "Nothing to do with the fire, and nothing with the deaths, either."
"How do I know you're telling the truth?"
"You do not," she says simply, then points out the door. "But he is."
I follow her pointing, and watch the rain fall outside the windows. The night looks very, very dark now. "Who is he?"
"I stay young off people's houses, he stays young off their sins," Daria says. She smiles faintly. "Have you not guessed yet, Clara? He goes by many names, and many guises. But who else can be called on to collect on an overdue soul?"
That's when I start shaking. I've been trembling all night, but now I can see my hand waving beneath my eyes, so fast the fingers are a blur. I can just barely feel Daria's arms beneath me as I fall, and then everything goes dark. I can't see or hear anything: all I can smell is lavender, lavender and myrh.
And I'm not sure which one is worse.
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When I wake up, it is still raining.
I shove the blankets off and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I'm still dressed from yesterday, but my clothes are wrinkled. The clock on my dresser is flashing 10:44 AM. I've overslept.
So has Dad, apparently. His slightly drunken snores echo through the hallway when I open my door. I tip-toe down the stairs as silently as possible, careful not to wake him. Sybil mustn't be awake yet, either, because there isn't any music coming up from the kitchen.
As I walk down the hall, I notice the study door ajar a little bit. Everything seems to be in order, but as I walk around the room, I see that Dad's laptop isn't where I left it. And there's a delicate handprint on the dusty surface.
My eyes squeeze shut, and for a few moments, I focus on regulating my breathing. When I open my eyes a crack, the handprint is still there, but at least it looks human now. No claw marks, I mean.
"You're awake," someone says from the study door. "Finally."
I glance up. Sybil leans against the door frame, dressed in a white bathrobe, holding a steaming cut of coffee. Her bleached hair is tangled and matted, and there are dark bags under her eyes.
"Someone touched Dad's laptop," I say, pointing to it. Sybil shrugs.
"I wanted to see what he's been up to." She turns and starts down the hall towards the kitchen, and I run out after her.
"Has he done anything recently?"
"Other than get drunk?" she snorts. "No. The most recent update was months ago. And my savings are only going to last us so long."
Money, naturally. Does Sybil think about anything else? I mutter something under my breath and shove a small bagel into my mouth on my way out the door; a little fresh air seems to be in order.
I jump down the porch steps and turn my face up to the darkened sky. The rain isn't so bad. It isn't even cold, which bothers me a little bit, though I'm not sure why. The moisture makes my hair curl up around my face, and I claw it away with my fingers. Mom's used to fizz up like that, too.
Then I notice something out of the corner of my eye that makes my breath stop short. Daria's out in her yard. She's dressed in a black turtle-neck sweater and long pants, not the sort of thing I'd wear this time of year. Her hair flows loose down her back, and she's staring at something in her yard. The sale sign, I think.
I try to walk past without attracting her attention, but I'm barely six feet from my front door when Daria calls out to me from across the street. "Clara!"
I don't want to speak to her, but I can't exactly pretend I didn't notice. I turn slowly, forcing my face into a firm expression. "What?"
She beckons for me to come over to her. I do, dragging my feet all the way. Her face is set, expressionless, but the small lines around the corners of her mouth seem to show a little bit of nerves, or...fear?
"Clara," she begins, and I don't like the way she says my name. Too slowly, like she isn't sure how to pronounce it. "How is your father?"
"Very well, no thanks to you," I say. My attempts to sound neutral all fall to varying degrees of failure.
Daria looks confused for a moment. "I meant about the fire," she says, narrowing her eyes.
"So did I." The strange look stays on her face for a moment, and I feel the need to elaborate. "There were more footprints...handprints...things in the dust around his office," I say. "Like the ones in the Veller house. And I found your scarf."
The confusion vanishes from her face, leaving something far more certain...and far more unnerving: blank fear. She shakes her head mutely for a few seconds, then raises a trembling hand towards the sign on her lawn. "I did not do it," she says, and the words tumble out in a rush. "Clara, the office that exploaded...it was my realtor's."
I follow her pointing, and see the same logo on the sign as the one outside the wreakage. Daria looks truly terrified now, and that worries me far more than anything else.
"I need her," she whispers. "Oh, God..."
"But the...the things in the dust!" I exclaim. "Whatever made those was the thing that...that...killed all those people! I mean, it's yours, isn't it?"
Daria's head snaps around in my direction, so fast I'm surprised she doesn't break her neck. Her eyes are very wide now. "The prints?" she says, more to herself than to me. She nods briefly. "Yes...Clara!" She raises her hands suddenly. "I do not know how you got caught up in this mess, but there are things you need to know--"
"I know all I want to, thank you," I say, taking a quick step back. Daria's realtor? That information is still sinking in, but Daria is already running off on a new tangent. But what does she mean, she didn't do it? I saw the prints, and I held her scarf! But Daria won't allow me a moment to think, and she clutches out at my wrist.
"Come over to my house at 11:45 tonight," she says. "Please. I know what you think of me, but please--"
"How can you know what I think of you?" I interupt. "I barely know myself! There's something very wrong going on here, anyone with half a brain can see that! And you're at the center of it. I know what you're doing, and even if I don't know why you're doing it, I intend to stop you!"
"You have no idea what I am doing!" She shouts, and a horrible change comes into her voice. It sounds cold, very cold...almost like the voice at the Veller House. I shudder, and take another step back.
"I'll come," I say. "I'll be here at 11:45. I just...what will I find?"
But Daria shakes her head, turns around, and starts up the steps to her front door. She gives one quick backward glance at me, then goes into her house, slamming the door behind her.
The rain starts falling heavier, and I go back home.
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I'm still awake at 11:45 PM.
Sitting cross-legged on my bed, with a Bic ball-point in my hand but no paper nearby. I've been trying to write for hours, but each time I get a few words down, I crumple up the paper and toss it into the waste basket across the room. Nothing's coming out right, and I'm not sure what I want to say, anyway. Maybe this is why Dad drinks so much, because he always feels the way I do now.
I glance up at the clock again. 11:46. The blinds are drawn across my window, so I don't know if Daria's still awake waiting for me or not. The rain's been falling off and on all day. I can hear it patting against the window in a sort of drum beat. Should I, Should I not. Should I, Should I not. That's what it sounds like to me, anyway.
Sighing, I lay back on the bed and stare up at the ceiling. There's a few darker patches in the pale white paint, from when Mom and I recoated it back when I was six. Just before Mom got sick, but she wasn't feeling well at the time, and that's why she wasn't able to cover the whole ceiling.
To get my mind off of Mom, I look at the clock again.
11:48. Dad's not asleep yet, I can tell by the creaking coming through the wall. He's tossing and turning, and his mattress springs are broken. We don't have the money to buy a new one yet, though, so I've gotten used to the sound, and to what it means.
11:49. And then a flash of lightning comes, followed by thunder, and our power flares out. The red numbers on the clock sputter for a moment, and die.
I pick up my jacket from off the floor and head out of the house.
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Daria is waiting for me when I come over.
Her front door is wide open, and she's standing right inside. She's still dressed in the black turtle-neck, only now, she's wearing a white scarf around her neck, just like the one I found by Dad's office. When she sees me, her eyes light up a little bit, and she gestures for me to hurry inside.
"I was worried that you were not coming," she says. I shrug and pull my jacket closer around my body. Never have I been in a house so cold as Daria's is now.
The chandelier in the enterance hall is lit up spectacularily, and the light flashes off the crystals and the mirror by the staircase. Daria closes and bolts the door behind me, then wraps her fingers around my upper arm and leads me over to the mirror. It's free-standing, in an ornate gold frame decorated with Venus and Cupid figures. I find the whole thing repulsive, but Daria smiles at it fondly.
"Stand behind it," she directs me. I stare at her blankly, as though she just ordered me to run through the streets humming Bach at the top of my lungs.
"What?"
"Behind the mirror," she says, and pulls the mirror a little bit more away from the wall. There's a large enough space behind it for me to squeeze in, though I have no idea why I should. Sensing my hesitation, Daria sighs. "It is the only way for you to stay safe," she says. I notice that she's developed a new habit of fiddling with the scarf around her neck. She does so now, waving the lavender-scented lace around like a flag.
"What's going to happen?" I ask, watching her hands run along the scarf. "I thought you said--"
She shakes her head to cut me off. "Trust me."
"I'm finding that rather hard to do right about now."
We stand in front of the mirror, staring long and hard into each other's eyes. Then she takes a deep, shuddering breath and purses her lips.
"Go behind the mirror, or go home," she says, lethally slow.
I'm not so sure that going home wouldn't be a good idea at the moment, but the strange way Daria's acting tonight makes me want to stay. And so I squeeze back behind the mirror and find myself a vantage point between a couple of fat, ugly little cupids.
Daria smiles now, takes a few steps back from the mirror, and I don't much care for the way she starts running her fingers though her hair and licking her lips. It's like she's trying to beautify herself for someone. I notice that her fingers are heavy with pearl and amethyst rings.
"What does the mirror do?" I ask, raising my voice a little to be heard from my hiding place.
Daria turns to me, in the middle of some complicated hair twist. "It reflects...things," she says, raising one eyebrow slightly. I don't know if it's to tell me how stupid I am, or if she's trying out new facial expressions for whoever she's waiting for.
"No, it doesn't," I say. She laughs a little to herself and glances at the grandfather clock in the next room. 11:57. I've only been here eight minutes.
"No, it doesn't," she agrees. It's only now that I notice how strange the contraction sounds, coming from her mouth. She is about to say more, but a low sounds cuts her off. Like a wolf growling.
Her face goes white. I can hear her dog upstairs in the room directly above us, pawing the floor and shouting out short, stacatto barks.
"What is that?" I ask. My voice breaks on the last syllable.
Daria shakes her head and holds her finger to her smooth pink lips. The door knocker falls against the door once, twice, each pound sending a jolt down my spine. I push myself farther back into the shadow of the mirror. Daria glances again at the clock.
11:59.
Her dog is going wild. The barking from upstairs is almost worse than the rumbling snarls from outside. Daria, strangely, seems unaffected by it. Her face is as beautifully set as a model's before a camera. There's something in the way she shakes her head and sprays her hair out around her shoulders that reminds me eeriely of Sybil.
The knocking on the door continues, a little bit more frequently, but still with the elegant composure one would expect of Daria's House. Finally, the grandfather clock chimes the hour, and Daria opens the door.
A rush of icy air blows into the room, bearing with it a sweet but slightly rancid smell...myrh. I clamp my hand over my mouth and nose, both to avoid the scent and to keep from gasping out loud, as Daria's visitor steps into the candle light.
He's dressed in a long coat that looks like it might belong in the eighteenth century, made of a russet velvet that perfectly matches the lighter streaks in his dark hair. His face is turned away from me when he enters, and veiled a little bit by his long hair, but I can see enough to know that his skin is pure white, like a sheet of paper from Dad's printer. And when he speaks, his voice is at once perfectly sweet and perfectly cold. I'm not surprised to see Daria tremble.
"Daria Vane," he says, taking her hands in his. I notice that his gloves are trimmed with the same kind of lace as Daria's scarf. "It has been too long."
And I don't think he's talking about friendship. Very softly, as though he's picking up a priceless vase, he lays his hand against Daria's cheek and kisses her on the forehead. Daria shudders and nods mutely.
The stranger turns towards me for a moment, and I think I really do gasp aloud. His face is more perfect than any living man's could be, and his eyes...I've never seen such fire concealed in a pair of brown eyes.
He takes a few steps towards me, and I shrink back as far as I can. The paper backing on the mirror is pealing off a little bit, and it, like everything in this house, smells like lavender. I inhale deeply, trying to lose the scent of the myrh.
Luckily, it isn't me that he's looking at: it's the mirror. He leans in towards the strange glass for a moment. I wish I could see what he's staring at, but I'm not at the right angle, and from the look on Daria's face, that's a good thing.
"You still have my mirror," the stranger says, turning over his shoulder towards Daria. "Does it still work?"
"It told me you were coming tonight," Daria answers, very stiffly.
"Ah. Was there any particular reason why you left me waiting until twelve?"
"To be honest, I was never aware that you could come out before midnight."
Daria's visitor laughs, almost the same way Daria does. In the distance, the wolfish creature growls. "No rules that you can make will ever apply to me," the stranger says. Glancing once more at the mirror, he shrugs and walks back to Daria. It may be my imagination, but it looks like she is backing away from him.
"There was another death," she says. Her hand goes up to her scarf again. I'm starting to find that habit annoying.
Apparently, so is her visitor. He reaches out and catches her hand in his. "I know," he says. "The dogs are hungry, Daria. You have cheated them of their prize long enough."
She pulls away from him. "There was a fire."
"I know," he says again. "Your realtor, was it? A pity. It looks like you will have to go about releasing yourself from this prison all on your own." He shrugs. "You waited too long. They do not build houses like they used to. You have used up your years."
Daria shakes her head. "I must have time left, to sell it. Why did you--"
"Destroy your realtor friend?" The stranger laughs. A different laugh this time, far colder. I huddle behind the mirror and stop my ears as well as I can without attracting attention. "That is cheating, Daria. And you know the old phrase about cheating and the devil."
"I will sell the house, but I need more time," Daria repeats. "Surely the house can hold up for a few more weeks..."
"A few more days, at best. Any more, and you had best start bearing the burden of years yourself." He turns his head suddenly in my direction. "Clara, come out from there."
My heart stops for a second in my chest. I try feebely to pull back even more behind the mirror, but the charade is over. Daria beckons for me to come out to them. I do, shaking all the while.
The stranger glances down at me--he must be at least a foot taller than I am--and narrows his eyes. He turns to Daria. "You think she can help you?"
Daria shakes her head. "No, no, I do not. She thought I was behind...it all."
"Did she really?" He glances back at me. "Some advice for you, Clara. Keep that sparkling young mind of yours out of things that do not concern you."
"What happens to my neighbors is my concern," I say, with more courage than I feel. Hopefully.
"Then suffer the consequences."
I am liking the man less and less by the second. He kisses Daria once more, briefly, on the mouth, and then starts towards the door.
"You have seven days, Daria," he says, pausing on his way out. "Do not waste them."
And then he is gone, so quickly I could almost believe that he vanished into the rain. Abruptly, the growling from outside and the barking from upstairs are cut off at exactly the same time. Daria has her eyes closed, and leans back against the stair railing.
"Now do you believe me?" she asks under her breath.
I shudder. "You really had nothing to do with the fire?"
She nods. "Nothing to do with the fire, and nothing with the deaths, either."
"How do I know you're telling the truth?"
"You do not," she says simply, then points out the door. "But he is."
I follow her pointing, and watch the rain fall outside the windows. The night looks very, very dark now. "Who is he?"
"I stay young off people's houses, he stays young off their sins," Daria says. She smiles faintly. "Have you not guessed yet, Clara? He goes by many names, and many guises. But who else can be called on to collect on an overdue soul?"
That's when I start shaking. I've been trembling all night, but now I can see my hand waving beneath my eyes, so fast the fingers are a blur. I can just barely feel Daria's arms beneath me as I fall, and then everything goes dark. I can't see or hear anything: all I can smell is lavender, lavender and myrh.
And I'm not sure which one is worse.
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