Categories > Original > Horror > The House of Daria Vane
The House of Daria Vane
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The fifth day until Daria's judgment passes without a flicker, and the sixth threatens to do the same.
The Rain stops, sometime around three AM, luckily, so no one notices whose opinion will actually be believed. From my window, I see lights on in Daria's entrance hall, and then she begins walking around the yard with a spade in her hand. She pauses, stares wistfully at the sign by the door, and continues on with her gruesome work.
Daria spends the day calling real estate magazines and posting adds: I spend the day drifting idly between the living room and the study. Sybil seems to be shadowing me. I finally scream at her, and lock myself in my room for the rest of the day.
There's a calendar hanging above my bed, with pictures of snowy landscapes. I try to ignore it, but today it's glaring down at me with all the ferocity of a snowstorm. August's image is strange--a snow-covered beach. What kind of beach has snow on it? But then again, the whole calendar is wrong. I only keep it because Dad gave it to me for Christmas, and because it has all my little scribbles in it. Today is August 8th. Daria's house must be sold by the 11th.
Mom's birthday is the 18th.
I pull the calendar down and flop onto the bed with it cradled in my lap. The other pictures are just as snow-covered and just as stupid. July has a white-powdered watermelon slice. September is a schoolhouse, half hidden in icicles. October's is a graveyard.
"Clara!" Sybil pounds at my door like she's trying to break it in.
"What?" I call, not bothering to open the door for her. It's unlocked, if she really wants to come in.
"Telephone!"
I sigh. I won't surrender my comfortable bedroom so easily. "Who is it?"
There's a short pause as Sybil apparently repeats my question into the phone. I'm a little embarrassed: I didn't think she would actually have it with her. But all my apprehension vanishes when Sybil gives me the answer.
"It's Daria Vane. She says to come over to her house now, something about--"
Whatever Daria says something about, I don't hear. I am out the door in a second, and pacing Daria's doorstep a minute later.
The house is as clean as I left it two days ago. Free of dust, and cobwebs, and spiders. Daria knells on the floor in the dining room when I come in, dabbing at the cream-colored wallpaper with a wet rag.
"More cleaning, Daria? Didn't we get this place in perfect order already?"
Her only answer is to lift the cloth off the wall for a moment and watch as red liquid wells up in the cracks between sheets of paper. I nod.
"You want help cleaning it?" I ask, fighting down panic. The prospect of spending a moment longer in this house, after the events of two days ago, is enough to leave me shaking. I know something will go horribly wrong: and the worst part is, I don't know what yet.
"Yes," Daria says. "A couple is coming over today--some stupid names I can't remember. Vicky and Harry, or something like that. They sound awful, but any port will do in a storm. If you can live with it, I can live with it."
Yes, but can they live with it? I keep my mouth shut, though, and take the rag from Daria.
In every room of the house, there is one panel of wallpaper peeling away and leaving a trail of blood in its wake. With a wet cloth and a bowl of wallpaper paste, we work methodically across the first story. We would like to do the upstairs, too, but someone starts hammering on the front door hard enough to make it creak on its hinges.
Daria goes to the door. I go to the dining room window and watch through the thin white curtains. A young couple stands on the doorstep, arm in arm, grinning stupidly. The woman is small and mouse-like, with a face so narrow it doesn't seem like her mouth should be able to fit on it when she smiles. Her husband slouches. His eyes are watery green, and he never seems to be able to look at one thing for very long.
The door opens, and they are in the entrance hall instantly. The man sniffs the air, taking in as much of the house as he can in one slow glare. His wife sulks in the corner, staring at Daria with undisguised jealousy.
"Hello," Daria says dryly, extending her hands. I'm not entirely sure what the gesture is supposed to do: it looks like she's trying to direct to everything at once.
"Grumf," the man returns. And without another word, he walks into the dining room.
I scamper up from my place by the window. But he doesn't look at me. His gaze slides across the table, over the plaster ceiling, and through the door to the kitchen. Nothing about his expression does anything to help me guess what's going on behind those sickly eyes.
"It's old," he says, as Daria comes into the room behind him.
She frowns. It occurs to me--and I think it occurs to her, too--that nothing about the house in itself should suggest its age. Yes, the architecture is old fashioned, but this particular style was revived about twelve years ago. And, no matter what Reproba may have thought, the Daria's house is kept well enough--on the inside, at least. Why does everyone seem to instinctively know its age?
"Yes," Daria says, at the same time I say, "Why do you ask?"
"Who's she?" the man snorts, pointing to me.
"No one," Daria says. She places her hand lightly on my shoulder, and digs in sharply with her thumbnail. Even through my shirt, her skin feels very cold. "Clara, darling, go upstairs for a moment."
I want to protest--I really don't want to be anywhere in this house alone--but her tone of voice stops me. Besides, I know she wants me to check the wall-paper in the bedrooms. So I hastily excuse myself and run up the stairs, two at a time.
I don't look in the mirror.
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Upstairs, all is in order. I go into Daria's bedroom an lay down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. The whole room is papered in a light, powdery blue, and fluffy white clouds are painted above me. If I ever redecorate my room, I decide, then I'm going to paint it like Daria's.
Without the bloody wallpaper, of course.
Another panel is pulling away, high above the door. I moan. There's no way I can reach it without a stepladder, and I'm not sure where Daria keeps her stepladders. I pull all the pillows off the bed and stack them against the door. There's a bucket of paper paste out on the staircase: I grab it, climb up my make-shift tower, and stick the paper back against the wall as quickly as I can. Strange, that I should be more afraid of the heights than of the fact that I'm gluing together a bleeding house.
But I am afraid of the house. I don't like the noises, and the blood, and most of all, I hate the mirror. It's Daria herself that I'm no longer afraid of. Her life is strange, I'll admit, and her temper can be horrible. But I know she won't hurt me, at least not while I'm helping her.
And that's the other thing I'm afraid of. That I won't really be able to help her, when the clock is really ticking...
Thud. I nearly topple off the pillows. The sudden crash came from somewhere upstairs, but where? I toss the pillows back onto the bed, double check that the paste is holding the wallpaper, and run out into the hallway to investigate.
Everything is clear on the landing. I check the bathroom, the study, the spare bedroom--nothing. Maybe I imagined the sound...but just as the thought crosses my mind there comes another low thud. It seems to be coming from right above my head.
There is no way Daria can convince me to go up on the roof.
I go back into her study. There are papers spread across the heavy mahogany desk. The uppermost one is a daily planner, like my calendar, but without the stupid snow scenes. Daria's calendar has paintings by the Pre-Raphaelites: August's picture is Gather ye Rosebuds while ye May. Scribbled across today's square is meeting with Nicole and Richard Follett.
The 11th says only, Midnight.
I glance down the rest of the page. Nothing, except for...is that a faint pencil scribble on the 18th? I look closely.
Cytheria's Birthday. Beside it, sketched in the same pale pencil line, is a rosebud.
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I hear footsteps on the stairs, Daria's light tread, followed by the heavy booming of Nicole and Richard. I'm sitting in a leather chair in the study. The bucket of wallpaper paste on the floor behind me--periodically, I've run though the second story, making sure no other paper is pealing away. And, just in case it is, I have a bloody rag in one of the desk drawers.
The strange noises from above seem to have stopped for now. I wonder if I should tell Daria about them, when she suddenly enters the room, with the Folletts sticking close behind.
She nods to me briefly. She doesn't say a word--she doesn't need to. The sour turn of Richard's mouth is enough to tell me how well the run-though is going.
"This is the third bedroom," she says, turning back to her visitors. They shrug as she gives the room's history, from the plaster ceiling that's as old as the cornerstone to the carpet that hasn't been redone since before I was born. I lean back in the chair. This is the boring part of selling a house, I suppose.
Something hot and sticky drips on my hand.
I stifle a small squeal of disgust and look up. Directly above my head is a growing splotch of scarlet, flowing over the fleur-de-lis molding like a flooded river. Before I have time to consider the consequences, I wipe my hand off on my shirt and tap Daria's shoulder.
"What?" she hisses.
I put my fingers to my lips and point up.
"Oh..." And then she says the words I'm absolutely dreading.
"Go get a ladder."
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The fifth day until Daria's judgment passes without a flicker, and the sixth threatens to do the same.
The Rain stops, sometime around three AM, luckily, so no one notices whose opinion will actually be believed. From my window, I see lights on in Daria's entrance hall, and then she begins walking around the yard with a spade in her hand. She pauses, stares wistfully at the sign by the door, and continues on with her gruesome work.
Daria spends the day calling real estate magazines and posting adds: I spend the day drifting idly between the living room and the study. Sybil seems to be shadowing me. I finally scream at her, and lock myself in my room for the rest of the day.
There's a calendar hanging above my bed, with pictures of snowy landscapes. I try to ignore it, but today it's glaring down at me with all the ferocity of a snowstorm. August's image is strange--a snow-covered beach. What kind of beach has snow on it? But then again, the whole calendar is wrong. I only keep it because Dad gave it to me for Christmas, and because it has all my little scribbles in it. Today is August 8th. Daria's house must be sold by the 11th.
Mom's birthday is the 18th.
I pull the calendar down and flop onto the bed with it cradled in my lap. The other pictures are just as snow-covered and just as stupid. July has a white-powdered watermelon slice. September is a schoolhouse, half hidden in icicles. October's is a graveyard.
"Clara!" Sybil pounds at my door like she's trying to break it in.
"What?" I call, not bothering to open the door for her. It's unlocked, if she really wants to come in.
"Telephone!"
I sigh. I won't surrender my comfortable bedroom so easily. "Who is it?"
There's a short pause as Sybil apparently repeats my question into the phone. I'm a little embarrassed: I didn't think she would actually have it with her. But all my apprehension vanishes when Sybil gives me the answer.
"It's Daria Vane. She says to come over to her house now, something about--"
Whatever Daria says something about, I don't hear. I am out the door in a second, and pacing Daria's doorstep a minute later.
The house is as clean as I left it two days ago. Free of dust, and cobwebs, and spiders. Daria knells on the floor in the dining room when I come in, dabbing at the cream-colored wallpaper with a wet rag.
"More cleaning, Daria? Didn't we get this place in perfect order already?"
Her only answer is to lift the cloth off the wall for a moment and watch as red liquid wells up in the cracks between sheets of paper. I nod.
"You want help cleaning it?" I ask, fighting down panic. The prospect of spending a moment longer in this house, after the events of two days ago, is enough to leave me shaking. I know something will go horribly wrong: and the worst part is, I don't know what yet.
"Yes," Daria says. "A couple is coming over today--some stupid names I can't remember. Vicky and Harry, or something like that. They sound awful, but any port will do in a storm. If you can live with it, I can live with it."
Yes, but can they live with it? I keep my mouth shut, though, and take the rag from Daria.
In every room of the house, there is one panel of wallpaper peeling away and leaving a trail of blood in its wake. With a wet cloth and a bowl of wallpaper paste, we work methodically across the first story. We would like to do the upstairs, too, but someone starts hammering on the front door hard enough to make it creak on its hinges.
Daria goes to the door. I go to the dining room window and watch through the thin white curtains. A young couple stands on the doorstep, arm in arm, grinning stupidly. The woman is small and mouse-like, with a face so narrow it doesn't seem like her mouth should be able to fit on it when she smiles. Her husband slouches. His eyes are watery green, and he never seems to be able to look at one thing for very long.
The door opens, and they are in the entrance hall instantly. The man sniffs the air, taking in as much of the house as he can in one slow glare. His wife sulks in the corner, staring at Daria with undisguised jealousy.
"Hello," Daria says dryly, extending her hands. I'm not entirely sure what the gesture is supposed to do: it looks like she's trying to direct to everything at once.
"Grumf," the man returns. And without another word, he walks into the dining room.
I scamper up from my place by the window. But he doesn't look at me. His gaze slides across the table, over the plaster ceiling, and through the door to the kitchen. Nothing about his expression does anything to help me guess what's going on behind those sickly eyes.
"It's old," he says, as Daria comes into the room behind him.
She frowns. It occurs to me--and I think it occurs to her, too--that nothing about the house in itself should suggest its age. Yes, the architecture is old fashioned, but this particular style was revived about twelve years ago. And, no matter what Reproba may have thought, the Daria's house is kept well enough--on the inside, at least. Why does everyone seem to instinctively know its age?
"Yes," Daria says, at the same time I say, "Why do you ask?"
"Who's she?" the man snorts, pointing to me.
"No one," Daria says. She places her hand lightly on my shoulder, and digs in sharply with her thumbnail. Even through my shirt, her skin feels very cold. "Clara, darling, go upstairs for a moment."
I want to protest--I really don't want to be anywhere in this house alone--but her tone of voice stops me. Besides, I know she wants me to check the wall-paper in the bedrooms. So I hastily excuse myself and run up the stairs, two at a time.
I don't look in the mirror.
-------------------------------
Upstairs, all is in order. I go into Daria's bedroom an lay down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. The whole room is papered in a light, powdery blue, and fluffy white clouds are painted above me. If I ever redecorate my room, I decide, then I'm going to paint it like Daria's.
Without the bloody wallpaper, of course.
Another panel is pulling away, high above the door. I moan. There's no way I can reach it without a stepladder, and I'm not sure where Daria keeps her stepladders. I pull all the pillows off the bed and stack them against the door. There's a bucket of paper paste out on the staircase: I grab it, climb up my make-shift tower, and stick the paper back against the wall as quickly as I can. Strange, that I should be more afraid of the heights than of the fact that I'm gluing together a bleeding house.
But I am afraid of the house. I don't like the noises, and the blood, and most of all, I hate the mirror. It's Daria herself that I'm no longer afraid of. Her life is strange, I'll admit, and her temper can be horrible. But I know she won't hurt me, at least not while I'm helping her.
And that's the other thing I'm afraid of. That I won't really be able to help her, when the clock is really ticking...
Thud. I nearly topple off the pillows. The sudden crash came from somewhere upstairs, but where? I toss the pillows back onto the bed, double check that the paste is holding the wallpaper, and run out into the hallway to investigate.
Everything is clear on the landing. I check the bathroom, the study, the spare bedroom--nothing. Maybe I imagined the sound...but just as the thought crosses my mind there comes another low thud. It seems to be coming from right above my head.
There is no way Daria can convince me to go up on the roof.
I go back into her study. There are papers spread across the heavy mahogany desk. The uppermost one is a daily planner, like my calendar, but without the stupid snow scenes. Daria's calendar has paintings by the Pre-Raphaelites: August's picture is Gather ye Rosebuds while ye May. Scribbled across today's square is meeting with Nicole and Richard Follett.
The 11th says only, Midnight.
I glance down the rest of the page. Nothing, except for...is that a faint pencil scribble on the 18th? I look closely.
Cytheria's Birthday. Beside it, sketched in the same pale pencil line, is a rosebud.
----------------------------
I hear footsteps on the stairs, Daria's light tread, followed by the heavy booming of Nicole and Richard. I'm sitting in a leather chair in the study. The bucket of wallpaper paste on the floor behind me--periodically, I've run though the second story, making sure no other paper is pealing away. And, just in case it is, I have a bloody rag in one of the desk drawers.
The strange noises from above seem to have stopped for now. I wonder if I should tell Daria about them, when she suddenly enters the room, with the Folletts sticking close behind.
She nods to me briefly. She doesn't say a word--she doesn't need to. The sour turn of Richard's mouth is enough to tell me how well the run-though is going.
"This is the third bedroom," she says, turning back to her visitors. They shrug as she gives the room's history, from the plaster ceiling that's as old as the cornerstone to the carpet that hasn't been redone since before I was born. I lean back in the chair. This is the boring part of selling a house, I suppose.
Something hot and sticky drips on my hand.
I stifle a small squeal of disgust and look up. Directly above my head is a growing splotch of scarlet, flowing over the fleur-de-lis molding like a flooded river. Before I have time to consider the consequences, I wipe my hand off on my shirt and tap Daria's shoulder.
"What?" she hisses.
I put my fingers to my lips and point up.
"Oh..." And then she says the words I'm absolutely dreading.
"Go get a ladder."
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