FicWad

Daria leaves me in charge of keeping the Folletts entertained while she digs a ladder out of storage. I'd rather not stay in a room with blood dripping from the ceiling, so I lead Nicole and Richard into the bedroom--first checking that all the wallpaper was still in place.

It is, for the most part. I lean against the wall, sheilding a pealing flap near the headboard, and wipe the wall clean with the back of my hand. Nicole and Richard don't notice: they are craning their necks to examine the ceiling, seizing up the Renaissance painting with sour looks.

Mercifuly, I don't have to deal with them for long. Daria comes into the room and gestures for me to follow her into the study.

"Do you know what it is?" I ask, as soon as she closes the door. A dangerously tilted stepladder stands beneath the bloody patch of ceiling.

"What? The blood? It is coming from the attic. I never thought to clear it out." She laughs softly. "I hope the spiders never came there. I forgot to look."

I shudder. Her vocalized thoughts aren't doing much to calm my nerves. "So what am I supposed to do about it? Break through the ceiling?"

In answer, Daria climbs the ladder and pushes up on the plaster fluer-de-leis with her fingertips. A square of ceiling pops up an inch or two. "There are hinges on the inside, here," Daria explains, tapping one corner. "But they've rusted pretty badly. You may have to break them. Once you get up there, find the source of the blood and glue it back up. I'm sure they don't need to see the attic. Just clean it up well enough that they don't notice anything amiss."

"What about the blood that's already showing?"

"We will say that it has always been there."

"It looks too fresh."

Daria drops down to the floor and taps the ladder. "Go," she says. "I can handle the Folletts."

"Do you really think they're going to buy the house?"

"No--" Daria cuts herself off with a wave of her hand. "That is my business. Your business is to find out what is wrong with the attic, and fix it."

Then she slips out of the study. With a sigh, I begin climbing the ladder.

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Things start to go wrong even before I reach the top rung.

First of all, the blood has stopped clinging to the plaster and started dripping down on to the ladder. The thin steps become slick--as if they weren't hard enough to climb already--and even if they weren't, I don't like the idea of stepping in blood.

Secondly, the hinges at the edge of the trapdoor aren't just rusted stuck: they're gummed down with age and wood rot, and some poorly applied plaster. It takes all my strenght to bust them out, and when I do, paint flakes off the ceiling and falls across the study like little bits of snow.

When I finally reach the attic, I pull myself up onto the floor, slicing my palms on the rough edges of the door. Two of the walls here slant together to form the ceiling. Three alcoves branch out along the back wall, and my heart flutters as I realize there's not one place where I can stand and see the entire attic at once.

The walls are bare wooden slats: wherever the blood is coming from, it isn't just the wallpaper. The floor is covered with thick, faded rugs, except for the dusty patch over the trapdoor. It's there that the blood is soaking through.

I try to examine the danage without closing the door, but because of the way the ceiling lights are situated, it proves impossible. I look over my shoulder. The attic--what I can see of it--looks harmless and empty enough. Forcing my thoughts away from the noises I heard earlier, I close the door.

It's only a light tap, but the sound of plaster against wood echoes in the tight space. I listen to it fade. For a moment, I think I can hear something else beneath is: thud, scrape, thud-a, scrape-a, thud, like dragging footsteps. More than ever, the hidden alcoves scare me.

I brush the layer of dust off the trapdoor with slow, measured sweeps. It's very thick, and parts are sticky. I hope it's from the blood: I'm afraid it's not.

Daria's right: there are spiders up here. One scuttles along the rug beside me. I work faster: now all the dust is clear, and I can see a wide patch on the wood, very dark. It doesn't seem to be growing, or to have a clear source. It isn't coming from the walls...maybe it's dripping from the roof.

Just to be safe, I get up and search for a container of some sort to put over the bloody patch. The end of the attic where I stand is clear, but there's a cluster of boxes around a piano along the opposite wall, and the alcoves must have even more. I'm not sure--I don't want to look in them, if I can help it.

So I rummage around the piano first. All the boxes are empty and cardboard, except for an old travel chest, which holds a pile of unraveling lace and white cloth. I dump the fabric out onto the piano bench adn drag the chest over to the trapdoor.

I leave it over the blood spot, and double check the ceiling for leaks. Nothing...but a small spider web sways above my head in a breeze I can't feel. Hesitantly, I brush my finger across it: a trail of blood apears on my hand. I pull back, snapping the web off the wall and stumbling over the travel chest.

Thud.

I know I didn't make that sound. Whirling around, I examine as much of the attic as I can. There's a cloud of dust flowing out of one of the alcoves.

I push on the travel chest, trying to pull if off the door--my only escape route. The cover slams shut on my fingers. I try to claw it off, eyes watering, but it won't ease it's grip. A thick pounding fills my ears, but whether it's my own pulse or something external, I can't tell.

My hand is slick with blood now, my own. I pull it out through the thin gap between chest and cover. The fingers are crooked and gory, and horribly numb, but I don't have time to worry arout them. I hold my hand against my side and run, into the alcove farthest from the dust cloud.

I round the corner, and come face to face with a wolf.

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I sheild my face with an arm and bite down on my tongue to keep from screaming. My hand slides across a flat, irregular surface.

The wolf is an oil painting.

I look around the alcove. The walls are filled with canvases, of all sizes and styles and qualities. The wolf is the largest, crouched in a field of snow. Another painting is of a manor house on a cliff overlooking the sea. It's very small, about the size of my palm, but so detailed that I wouldn't be able to tell it from a photograph.

The other paintings are similar: all of landscapes or animals, no people, and all bonechillingly beautiful. I glance out into the main body of the attic: it looks empty, and the noise seems to have stopped. Heartened by my discovery of the oil painting, I work up the courage to explore the other two alcoves.

I go into the middle one first. It holds more paintings: these, I think, are recreations, plastered on thin paper, with titles and dates set along the bottom in a bold, Gothic font. Everything from Da Vinci to Monet to Picasso hangs here, among cardboard boxes and discarded furniture. I tremble as I realize what it is: it's a timeline, displaying all the centuries of Daria's life, each in it's own particular aesthetics.

But it's what I find in the third alcove that makes me tremble.

The canvases here lie along the floor, blank side up. The stings that used to hang them have snapped, soaked through with blood. I go to the nearest one, and flip it over.

It's him.

Or is it? The same beautiful features, the same clothing, even...but the eyes are different, a warm amber color. He holds something in his hand, a small miniature, of a beautiful blonde woman. I can't see her face clear enough to know for sure, but I think I can guess who it is.

The next canvas is larger, and it takes all my strength to right it. It's a portrait of Daria.

Her features are unmistakable. She sits on an elegant velvet chair, dressed in a gown that seems vaugely familiar. Lacy, white, full-skirted--I know I've seen her wear it before. A little girl sits on Daria's lap, and there is such a similarity between their faces, I have no doubt who she is.

"The Folletts are gone."

Daria's voice takes me by surprise: I didn't even hear her come up. I turn to her guiltily, sheiling the painting with my body, as if I can pretend I didn't notice it.

"Did they...are you...did..."

"They said they will call back," Daria says, guessing at my question. She is staring at the painting of the amber-eyed man. "But I do not think they will. Did you clean it up?"

"I think so."

She nods. "Good."

We stand there in silence for a few minutes. Her eyes never leave the painting. After a while, I step away from her portrait.

"Who is he?"

"I was afraid you would not ask," Daria says. Her face is carefully blank. It's strange to see her without an emotion. "He was my husband. That," she points to the painting behind me, "That was my daughter."

"I'm sorry," I say, though I'm not sure what it is I'm sorry for. "What happened to them?"

"They died."

"Oh. Why does he...why does your husband look like...?"

"You have it backwards. My...friend...takes the form that he believes will hurt me most."

"Does it?"

"No." Daria recoils from her husband's portrait, as if she's seen something there she'd hoped not to.

I look at her daughter. "She looks a lot like you."

"Yes," she smiles sadly. "Your mother used to say the same thing. Yes," she says, noting my surprise, "Cytheria was my friend, one of the few I could find anywhere. She was the only one I ever told my secret to, besides you, of course." I think Daria's eyes are watering, but it's hard to tell, because my own vision is blurred by tears.

"I miss her so much," I say.

"So do I," Daria sighs. "But you grow used to it. Losing people, I mean. I have lost so many friends...so many." She shrugs, as if she's trying not to show too much emotion. "It's the true price of immortality. What is it to lose my home every few decades? What is it to live in constant fear, of the dogs and the spiders and the blood, and of far worse things? I've buried my parents too, Clara. And my children."

Her hand brushes against the painting, resting on her daughter's pale face. "You see the rose in her hand?" Daria taps the tiny painted rosebud. "She loved the smell of roses, and violets...and lavender."

"What was her name?" I ask gently.

"Your mother thought it was a pretty name," Daria says, more to herself than to me. "Old fashioned, maybe, but so beautiful." She closes her eyes and leans against the painting. "Her name was Clara."


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