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The House of Daria Vane

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Two days after the Follett's less than promising run-through of Daria's house, Grandma comes to visit.

She must be here to "help" Dad with his writing, because when Sybil orders me to bring the luggage upstairs, I find myself carrying suitcase after suitcase full of books, and at least one full of alcohol. I can hear the bottles jingling against each other. When Sybil isn't looking, I hide that case away in the linen closet.

Grandma collapses on the couch in the living room as soon as I come down the stairs. "Humph," she mumbles in greeting, before demanding that Sybil turn down the volume "on that rock junk". With a griviously wounded air, Sybil turns the dial on Edvard Grieg and sends me away. I don't get very far before Grandma beckons me over to her chair and presses a dollar into my hand.

"Whenever your mother did something helpful without being asked, I'd give her a dollar," she says. "I'd tell her to save it for something really special. You look a lot like her now, you know."

"I know." I tuck the dollar into my pocket. "But I didn't do it without being asked. Sybil told me to carry your luggage."

"She didn't tell you to hide the liquor, did she?"

I feel my face warming. "I didn't think you noticed that."

"I notice quite a bit. That scar on your neck, for example. How am I to suppose that got there?"

I self-conciously adjust my shirt collar. "It's nothing."

"Your father tells me you've been across the street for hours every day this week." Grandma snorts at my surprise. "What, you thought he wouldn't see you? He loves you, Clara. You should stop spending time with that vapid little woman across the street and start spending time with your father."

"He spends all his time with Sybil," I say, not bothering to mask the hurt in my voice. "He should spend it writing."

"He spent precious hours with Cytheria, too, and you never complained about it."

"He didn't drink then. Or if he did, I was too young to notice it."

Grandma shrugs. "Well, I'm just an old woman who drinks too much, anyways. What would I know?" She chuckles to herself, at some joke only she understands. "By the way, Grieg is an absolutely horrible thing to play before the middle of October, at the earliest. Tell Sybil I want some Rossini, prestissimo!"

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I search all over the house, but I can't find Sybil, so I pop in a disk of Rossini myself. The music is light but loud, and the doorbell has to ring twice before I can hear it.

I'm almost certain it's Daria. Understandably, I'm rather shocked when I open the door two minutes later to find a young man standing on our front step, dressed in a long black coat and staring at everything around with wide eyes.

"Can I help you?" I ask uncertainly.

He blinks. "I'm looking for the house that's for sale on this street." His voice is low and raspy, like he desperately needs a drink of water.

I raise a hand a point to Daria's house. "It's that one, across the road." I can't resist adding, "The one with the 'For Sale' sign in the front."

"Oh, yes," he mumbles, and hurries out to the sidewalk.

I watch him in silence for a moment. His motions are like a cockroach's, short and scuttling. I supress a shudder. "Wait!" I call. "I'll come over with you."

His face brightens. I wonder if he was afraid of going to Daria's house on his own. "Oh, good," he says. "My name's Larson Veller, by the way. Yours?"

"Clara." The name sounds very foreign to me, now that I know its source. Then something else occurs to me. "Veller? As in, the family Veller Road is named for?"

"Yes...You know the street? I thought it was rather out of the way."

"It is." I don't have time to stall for a plausible excuse, so I settle for the truth. "A friend of mine used to own a house there."

"Really?" Larson stops walking in the middle of the street. He seems dangerously interested now. "Which one? I grew up in the red brick thing down by the bridge."

"It was...a rather old house," I begin. His eyes widen even more, until they look as though they're about to pop out of their sockets. "I don't think it had a name," I say quickly.

"Oh." He looks disappointed. Then he shrugs, and walks the rest of the way up to Daria's door.

It takes a while for Daria to open up. A long while. I try to peer in through the windows, but her curtains are drawn. I think she may have gone out somewhere, but where would she go? For some reason, the idea of conventional errands just doesn't fit Daria Vane very well.

Beside me, Larson looks as confused as I feel. Lines crease his forehead above his thick eyebrows. "I hope..." he begins, but his voice trails off.

"What?" Fear makes my nerves taunt, and my voice comes out as a bark.

"I'd like to get a look at this house, and soon." He rubs his hand together like he's trying to warm them. "Veller Road...there are things happening there. Noises, in the middle of the night, moaning. And wolves, or dogs maybe, but the way they howl! I can't walk down the street anymore without feeling watched. You've probably heard about the murders already." He shudders theatrically. "I need to move, soon."

Elation mixes with horror in the pit of my stomach. This may be the man we've waited for--I just hope Daria's here to witness it.

"Don't worry," I hear myself say. "Daria will be thrilled to sell this house very, very soon."

"Oh. Good." He giggles nervously. Larson seems to be a very strange man, and I almost find myself liking him. Almost. Then I remember the fate this house has in store for him.

I knock on the door again, louder. There is no answer: I don't expect one. Something is seriously wrong.

"I think...I think I'm going to kick down the door," I say, more for myself than for Larson.

"Oh," he says, nodding absently. "Good. Very good."

The door is heavy. After several well-aimed kicks, it still clings tightly to its frame. I look helplessly at Larson, but he only shrugs.

"Daria!" I scream, at the door, at the house, at the world in general. No answer. I jump off the porch step and run to the dining room window. I hate to do this, but, well, it's now or never...

I kick in the window.

Slivers of glass spray inwards. A few small pieces dig into my leg, and I brush them off. It hurts, but an adrenaline rush dulls the pain. I climb over the glass-strewn widow ledge and into the dining room beyond.

My heart skips. The dining room is a disaster. The long table is covered in a thick layer of dust, and the surface itself is scarred with long, deep scratches. All the chairs are overturned, and some of them have legs broken off. Sparkling bits of crystal are scattered along the floor from the cracked chandelier.

Larson appears in the window behind me. "My God..." he whispers. "What the hell happened here?"

I don't answer him, but run through the butler's pantry and into the kitchen. It's the same story: dust, broken glass, destroyed furniture littered around the room. I peek into the living room: every couch and chair has been slashed, blowing feathers and other cushion fillings over the floor. More scratches mar the end tables. The paino keys are splayed out every which way, and the garish carpet pattern is lost beneath smoky-scented debris.

"Clara!" Larson calls from the dining room. I run in to him. He stands over the table and points to the long scratches.

"I know," I say. "They looks almost like claw marks, don't they?"

"Yes, but it's not that. Come over here."

I walk over to his side and glance at the marks from his perspective. They look straighter from here, more even, almost...purposeful.

"Oh!" I gasp. The scratches form letters. As I read them, they fill with a dark, foul-smelling liquid. They say:

The Price is Paid. With Interest.

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"Should we split up?"

Slowly, I become aware of Larson's presence again. He's leaning over me, looking very much terrified.

"What? No!" I can't be left alone in this house.

"Don't you want to find her? Daria, or whatever?"

The words swim before my vision again. "Of course I do," I say. I lean against the table for support. "Wait, how did you know her name?"

"You called it, when we were waiting outside. Remember?"

"Oh." I lift my hands off the tabletop, brushing off the dry grit. It stings. "Yeah, I guess we can split up."

He nods patiently. It reminds me of my mother. "I'll search this floor. Is there a cellar?"

"Yeah, the door's in the kitchen."

"Then I'll search that, too. There's an upstairs, right?"

His voice is so gentle, I can't help but nod. "Yes. I'll take care of it."

"Okay." He smiles reassuringly. "Everything's going to be fine, Clara. If you find anything, call for me."

If I find anything, I'm absolutely sure I'll scream loud enough for him to come running. Or perhaps not. While the adrenaline rush of moments ago is fading, something else seems to be taking its place. Hope? Unlikely. The words on the table were clear enough. Maybe it's revenge I'm after.

Whatever it is, it's strong enough to carry me away from the table and drag me up the stairs. On the landing, I stare in the mirror defiantly.

Daria stares back.

Or is it Daria? I can't be sure: the features are very blurred. But it's certainly a woman's figure, with a nimbus of golden yellow hair and large eyes, the color of which I can't be positive.Chilled, I race up the stairs to begin searching the second story.

The rooms are just as badly trashed as the ones downstairs. The study is especially horrible, with drifts of loose papers piled along the walls like snow. The bloody spot on the ceiling has faded away. The ladder still stands beneath the trapdoor, so I climb up to check the attic.

All seems to be in order. The travel chest has been returned to its place by the piano, and the paintings have been rehung along the wall, but otherwise, nothing is different from the way it was two days ago. One thing is for certain: Daria isn't here.

Just as I come to this conclusion, I hear my name called. Larson! I jump down the trapdoor, not even bothering with the ladder. Larson calls again. His voice is loud and clear, but there seems a slight catch in it. I don't want to think about what that might mean.

He's in the cellar. I run through the kitchen and down the darkened stairs. The first storage room is empty, but a small bit of light comes through under the door to the second chamber. I grab the doorknob and am about to turn it, when it suddenly catches.

"Clara," Larson says through the door. "Listen to me. There is something back here I don't think you're going to want to see."

I ignore him. "Is she there?"

There's a brief pause. "Yes..."

"Then let me through!"

"Clara!"

I don't listen. I shove at the door with all my strength, and then it bursts open.

I can't help but scream.

Daria lays on the floor, her hands crossed tightly over her heart. Her eyes are open and staring in her pale face. If it weren't for the gentle rise and fall of her chest, I'd fear the worst.

But it's not Daria I'm afraid of.

Something--or someone--else is on the floor beside her, in a pool of dark blood. Where the face should be, all is a bloody mess. Handprints--paw prints--mark the ground around the body. The hands are also clasped across the chest, the only parts still recognizeable.

It's not until I see my father's wedding ring on her finger that I know Sybil for what she is.