Categories > Original > Horror > The House of Daria Vane
The House of Daria Vane
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I open my eyes.
Blackness. I don't know if it's the dark of a moonless night, or the black of an enclosed room, or even the strange blindness that came over me in Daria's kitchen. Hesitantly, I move my hand to my sore neck--there's a gash across my throat, gummy with blood. My hand trembles. Shouldn't I be dead?
Well, if I am dead, this may very well be my tomb. But then why does it smell like lavender?
The ground beneath me is warm and damp. I pull myself into a sitting position and peer uselessly into the dark.
With much squinting, I can see a sort of rectangular halo of light a little ways in front of me. I crawl towards it, and fumble along the edges until I feel a doorknob. It's warm, elaborately tooled brass--with a sight of relief, I know where I am.
But how did I get here? I can't have fallen down the basement steps, because I'm almost certain this closet door wasn't open when I came down with Daria and Reproba. Someone must have brought me down and locked me in here...someone, or something. The edges of the wound on my throat feel decidedly more jagged.
I pull on the door handle, but it wiggles uselessly against the lock. Is it just my imagination, or is the light on the other side of the door fading? The thought of being stuck here in pitch blackness again is more than I can endure, and I aim a forceful kick at my obstruction, directly behind the knob.
It takes a few more tries, but finally the closet door swings open. The basement beyond, the area Daria showed Reproba before, is blindingly illuminated by something in the kitchen at the top of the stairs.
I climb, cursing every creak and pop of the staircase with each breath. When at last I reach the top, I find every lightbulb and low-burning candle in the kitchen lit. The sink is running, washing something dark brown down the drain.
And I suddenly notice how quiet the house is. Not just the abscence of sound after my noisy climb up the staircase, but really, truely too quiet. Even the water is silent, slipping down the drain without a whisper.
Outside, the world is still, sky overcast by great redclouds. A ghastly shape still swings from the tree in the yard. I turn away and walk into the enterance hall.
Nothing seems to be out of place, so I know instinctively that something is. I look towards the mirror, the greatest source of wrong in this whole house. But the image hasn't changed since morning. The grotesque little cupids sneer down at me from the frame, taunting, while the Nymphs watch impassively, coyly trying to hide something.
I think Daria's whole house is trying to hide something.
It occurs to me that maybe I should run home and get Dad, or Sybil. But what could either of them do? I don't even know what's wrong with this place, or even if anything is wrong with this place...
And then I remember the dog.
I don't want to look in the living room, but my legs start carrying me there of their own accord. My footsteps make no sound on the wooden floor, and even worse, my sense of smell seems muted. Lavender, Daria's ever-so-characteristic perfume, is nowhere to be found.
Neither is Daria. I push open the living room door wiht my fingertips, afraid to put my whole hand on the knob for some vague fear that it might hurt me, burn me maybe. The living room is just as collected as the enterance hall, except for the formal chairs, which seem ot have crept back away from the door in fear.
Yes, everything looks normal. But then I see a flash of cloth from Reproba Spero's horrible blouse, sticking out from behind the chairs.
Time seems to slow as I cross the floor, and force myself to look down. It's a gory sight--Reproba's face is splattered with blood, and her neck is even worse, though the scarf that must have been used to strangle her covers much of it.
I turn away from the body and nearly purge my stomach of its contents.
Someone laughs, in the emotionless sort of way that suggests he isn't quite sure what he's laughing about. It's that uncertainty, however imagined on my part, that gives me the courage to turn around.
He looks the same as he did two nights ago, with features that might be beautiful on anyone else, though on him they are cold as marble. He still wears the handsome overcoat, but his scarf is missing, and he habitually folds and refolds a blood-speckled towel.
"What did you do to her?" I manage to spit out, pointing to Reproba, though Daria's the "her" I have in mind.
"That should be obvious enough," he replies. "A better question might be, what am I going to do to you?"
He drapes the towel over the back of hte couch and takes a few slow, almost hesitant, steps towards me. With one finger, he trances the gash across my throat. The skin tingles hotly, and then I feel it closing up.
"I told you not to help her," he says. His lips curve in a sad, almost wistful expression: but his eyes are smiling.
"I need to." I take a step back, and trip over the chair. Suddenly I'm sprawled across the floor. A black shape darts across my line of vision.
"Because you think that Lady Daria can save you from the dread clutches of Miss Sybil--or should I say, Mistress Sybil." He stands over me, combing his hair with one hand inthe feminine motion Daria uses so often. "You waste your time. Did you think your finding of her father's diary was an accident? Of course not. You would know nothing of Sybil if I had not willed it, and you cannot stop her now. Only I can take back the gift--"
"Like what you're doing to Daria now," I interupt. "You have a strange sense of Justice."
"No one likes a Just God."
The black shape covers my vision again, and I recognize it for what it is. At least, for what I think it is: it's still wolf shaped, but the paws responsible for the horrible phantom prints still have that unshakable human aspect. The creature moves closer to me, flicking its gray tongue through the air like a snake tasting for its prey.
"Leave her alone."
The creature vanishes, so quickly it must have literally gone into thin air. I sit up, and see footprints snaking around the room, even in places where I know the wolf never stepped.
Daria stands in the doorway, very pale and trembling like a branch in a strong wind. He glares at her, and tilts his head to beckon her closer.
She comes to him. He brushes his fingers along her cheek, and she shivers at his touch.
"Have you seen your potential victim?" he asks softly, turning her face towards Reproba's body. "Unfortunately, I seem to have reached her first."
His words are punctuated sharply by a thunder crash, and the heavy thud of raindrops against the window. I roll over to glance outside, and try blinking to clear my vision: something must be wrong with it, because the rain appears red. And it's leaving stripes on the window, wider than water normally does.
"The Rain," he says, and for a split second, I think I can see fear in his eyes. "You have five days more, Daria..."
And then another splash of lightening fills the room. When it fades, so do all the lights in the house. The power goes out, plunging the house into blackness.
For a tense minute, I hear footsteps scattering around the room, blending in with the pounding of the rain. Then Daria is bending over me with a candle, gently shaking me.
"I'm fine," I say, rubbing my forehead. "Where is he?"
"I do not know," she says. And then she starts crying.
As the bloodied rain pounds against her house, I know that he has begun to win: already, Daria's face looks years older.
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I open my eyes.
Blackness. I don't know if it's the dark of a moonless night, or the black of an enclosed room, or even the strange blindness that came over me in Daria's kitchen. Hesitantly, I move my hand to my sore neck--there's a gash across my throat, gummy with blood. My hand trembles. Shouldn't I be dead?
Well, if I am dead, this may very well be my tomb. But then why does it smell like lavender?
The ground beneath me is warm and damp. I pull myself into a sitting position and peer uselessly into the dark.
With much squinting, I can see a sort of rectangular halo of light a little ways in front of me. I crawl towards it, and fumble along the edges until I feel a doorknob. It's warm, elaborately tooled brass--with a sight of relief, I know where I am.
But how did I get here? I can't have fallen down the basement steps, because I'm almost certain this closet door wasn't open when I came down with Daria and Reproba. Someone must have brought me down and locked me in here...someone, or something. The edges of the wound on my throat feel decidedly more jagged.
I pull on the door handle, but it wiggles uselessly against the lock. Is it just my imagination, or is the light on the other side of the door fading? The thought of being stuck here in pitch blackness again is more than I can endure, and I aim a forceful kick at my obstruction, directly behind the knob.
It takes a few more tries, but finally the closet door swings open. The basement beyond, the area Daria showed Reproba before, is blindingly illuminated by something in the kitchen at the top of the stairs.
I climb, cursing every creak and pop of the staircase with each breath. When at last I reach the top, I find every lightbulb and low-burning candle in the kitchen lit. The sink is running, washing something dark brown down the drain.
And I suddenly notice how quiet the house is. Not just the abscence of sound after my noisy climb up the staircase, but really, truely too quiet. Even the water is silent, slipping down the drain without a whisper.
Outside, the world is still, sky overcast by great redclouds. A ghastly shape still swings from the tree in the yard. I turn away and walk into the enterance hall.
Nothing seems to be out of place, so I know instinctively that something is. I look towards the mirror, the greatest source of wrong in this whole house. But the image hasn't changed since morning. The grotesque little cupids sneer down at me from the frame, taunting, while the Nymphs watch impassively, coyly trying to hide something.
I think Daria's whole house is trying to hide something.
It occurs to me that maybe I should run home and get Dad, or Sybil. But what could either of them do? I don't even know what's wrong with this place, or even if anything is wrong with this place...
And then I remember the dog.
I don't want to look in the living room, but my legs start carrying me there of their own accord. My footsteps make no sound on the wooden floor, and even worse, my sense of smell seems muted. Lavender, Daria's ever-so-characteristic perfume, is nowhere to be found.
Neither is Daria. I push open the living room door wiht my fingertips, afraid to put my whole hand on the knob for some vague fear that it might hurt me, burn me maybe. The living room is just as collected as the enterance hall, except for the formal chairs, which seem ot have crept back away from the door in fear.
Yes, everything looks normal. But then I see a flash of cloth from Reproba Spero's horrible blouse, sticking out from behind the chairs.
Time seems to slow as I cross the floor, and force myself to look down. It's a gory sight--Reproba's face is splattered with blood, and her neck is even worse, though the scarf that must have been used to strangle her covers much of it.
I turn away from the body and nearly purge my stomach of its contents.
Someone laughs, in the emotionless sort of way that suggests he isn't quite sure what he's laughing about. It's that uncertainty, however imagined on my part, that gives me the courage to turn around.
He looks the same as he did two nights ago, with features that might be beautiful on anyone else, though on him they are cold as marble. He still wears the handsome overcoat, but his scarf is missing, and he habitually folds and refolds a blood-speckled towel.
"What did you do to her?" I manage to spit out, pointing to Reproba, though Daria's the "her" I have in mind.
"That should be obvious enough," he replies. "A better question might be, what am I going to do to you?"
He drapes the towel over the back of hte couch and takes a few slow, almost hesitant, steps towards me. With one finger, he trances the gash across my throat. The skin tingles hotly, and then I feel it closing up.
"I told you not to help her," he says. His lips curve in a sad, almost wistful expression: but his eyes are smiling.
"I need to." I take a step back, and trip over the chair. Suddenly I'm sprawled across the floor. A black shape darts across my line of vision.
"Because you think that Lady Daria can save you from the dread clutches of Miss Sybil--or should I say, Mistress Sybil." He stands over me, combing his hair with one hand inthe feminine motion Daria uses so often. "You waste your time. Did you think your finding of her father's diary was an accident? Of course not. You would know nothing of Sybil if I had not willed it, and you cannot stop her now. Only I can take back the gift--"
"Like what you're doing to Daria now," I interupt. "You have a strange sense of Justice."
"No one likes a Just God."
The black shape covers my vision again, and I recognize it for what it is. At least, for what I think it is: it's still wolf shaped, but the paws responsible for the horrible phantom prints still have that unshakable human aspect. The creature moves closer to me, flicking its gray tongue through the air like a snake tasting for its prey.
"Leave her alone."
The creature vanishes, so quickly it must have literally gone into thin air. I sit up, and see footprints snaking around the room, even in places where I know the wolf never stepped.
Daria stands in the doorway, very pale and trembling like a branch in a strong wind. He glares at her, and tilts his head to beckon her closer.
She comes to him. He brushes his fingers along her cheek, and she shivers at his touch.
"Have you seen your potential victim?" he asks softly, turning her face towards Reproba's body. "Unfortunately, I seem to have reached her first."
His words are punctuated sharply by a thunder crash, and the heavy thud of raindrops against the window. I roll over to glance outside, and try blinking to clear my vision: something must be wrong with it, because the rain appears red. And it's leaving stripes on the window, wider than water normally does.
"The Rain," he says, and for a split second, I think I can see fear in his eyes. "You have five days more, Daria..."
And then another splash of lightening fills the room. When it fades, so do all the lights in the house. The power goes out, plunging the house into blackness.
For a tense minute, I hear footsteps scattering around the room, blending in with the pounding of the rain. Then Daria is bending over me with a candle, gently shaking me.
"I'm fine," I say, rubbing my forehead. "Where is he?"
"I do not know," she says. And then she starts crying.
As the bloodied rain pounds against her house, I know that he has begun to win: already, Daria's face looks years older.
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