FicWad

The House of Daria Vane

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Larson and I carry Daria up to the bedroom. Her skin is cold and very dry: she fells fragile, like she could crumble at the lightest touch. We lay her down on the torn mattress, and the bed sags under her sudden dead weight. Her breathing comes slow and shallow.

Larson stays with me until sunset. We take turns sitting at Daria's beside, holding her icy hands and arranging the blankets. On Larson's watch, he sends me down to the kitchen for rags to soak in hot water, which he lays across her forehead. When it's my turn, he goes to the cellar and covers Sybil with a sheet. We say no more about it.

I wonder what Larson thinks of all this. It must be a very strange show to walk into during the last act, but he carries out his duties gently, if automatically, and I'm glad for his company. I don't want to go home until Daria wakes up, and I really don't want to be alone in the house for long.

What will Dad say when he finds out about Sybil? The thought almost makes me burst out in hysterical laughter. How am I ever going to explain this? No matter how much Grandma and Dad have been drinking, there's no way for me to break this news without sounding crazy.

I hear the front door slam as Larson leaves, and then I'm alone in a broken house with Daria and my stepmother's corpse. The strangeness of the situation does not escape me in the least.

Daria wakes up a little while later. Her eyelids flutter weakly, but her hand clamps down on mine with an iron grip.

"Clara!" she gasps. She sounds relieved. "Thank goodness. Sybil---"

"She's dead." I remember the words engraved on the dining room table, and my stomach clenches as I realize, This could just as easily have happened at my house. "Why did she come over here?"

"The mirror." Daria pulls herself into a sitting position, tightening her clutch on my hand. "She explained it all to me. Sybil used the diamond in her wedding ring to search--she said she could feel Him, and she saw something in the ring, but she needed to check my mirror to be certain. I let her, and then...then we heard the dogs." She narrows her eyes. "I cannot figure out how she learned about the mirror. You did not tell her, did you? No? I thought not."

She smiles weakly. I nod, and we sit in silence for a minute. The only sound is the setttling of the house. "Why?" I ask. Daria gives me a confused look. "I mean, why did he come for Sybil? Why now? It can't have had anything to do with the house, otherwise, he could have killed me long ago for entering. Or Nicole and Richard, for that matter." I decide not to mention Larson. The knowledge that she was so close to a sale would break her heart.

"It is not you he wants to kill, Clara--or Nicole and Richard. He wants to stop you from helping me, and to do that, he needs to destroy our deal." Daria shrugs. "And he has suceeded. You kept your end of the deal, Clara, but I cannot keep mine."

"What do you mean? Sybil's dead, isn't she?"

"Yes, but not by my work."

"So your house..."

"I know." She shrugs again, with a small sigh. "You do not have to help me anymore. The house cannot sell, anyway. It is finished."

"I'm sorry." I don't know what else to say.

Daria's house must be sold by midnight tomorrow.

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When I get home, I immediately go to the kitchen and rummage through the junk drawer. Sybil's personal calendar is in the far back, with all her notes scribbled across it. I take it up to my bedroom, along with a pad of paper and Sybil's favorite pen.

I take a long time composing the note, getting the wording and handwriting just write. When I am finished, it is as close to Sybil as I can make it.

Gone out, don't know when I'll be back. Don't call, don't write. I need time. Sybil.

In the early days of their marriage, Sybil and Dad used to fight, a lot. It scared me a little. She often left notes like this one, taped to the microwave, where Dad was sure to see them during his morning coffee. She always came back a few days later: I always hoped that one day she'd go away for good.

It feels very, very strange to have suddenly gotten my wish.

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Dawn, August 11. I cross the date off on my snow-covered calendar and sit at the window, watching the sun rise over the House of Daria Vane.

I've been scared before, but never, never so terrified as I am now.

To clam my nerves, I decide to go on a bike ride. I don't have a destination in mind, but after a half hour of riding, I realize where it is I'm about to end up.

The Veller house looks stronger this morning, tenser, as though it's anticipating...what? Whatever is going to happen tonight. The walls seem to quiver in excitement. The dangling blue shudder rocks softly in the wind as I park my bike beneath it.

Almost before I cross the threshold, I know I'm not alone. Heavy piano notes fall through the house from the upstairs library--Camille Saint-Saen's "Danse Macabre". A shadow drapes across the green-carpeted stairs. I near the creature: it growls, revealing long white fangs. But I know, instinctively, that it won't hurt me.

I climb the stairs, brushing past it with carefully measured steps. See? I'm not afraid of you. I don't need to look in the mirror to know that he is here.

The door to the library is open. Light floods into the room, far more light than could come in through the window. The dust is gone from the persian rug, and the books are neatly arranged on the shelves. The furniture, what I can see of it, is upright and in good repair. This is what the house looked like, back when it was alive, I think. The thought chills me.

But I am not afraid. Not of the house, anyway. It's just that: a house, a building, an empty wooden shell with the soul torn out. It can claim no more victims, and after tonight...well, who knows if it will still be standing tomorrow morning?

"Clara?" The music doesn't stop, but it flows into a different movement. "Come in here."

I obey. My feet drag on the carpet, but some immaterial part of me is drawn into the library, forcing my body to follow.

I step over the threshold. He sits at the piano across the room, moving his fingers over the keys so gently, I'm amazed they can make such powerful sounds. When he turns his face to me, his eyes are wide and feverish, but his posture and voice seem firmly controlled.

"Firstly," he begins, before I can say anything, "Let me apologize for the nasty business with Sybil. I did not want such a gruesome discovery to be yours. Larson might have proved very convenient, if you had been more obedient."

"Larson?" Larson, working for him? I refuse to believe it.

"Of course." Da, da-de-da-de-Da! Da-de-da-de-da! The notes are mockingly cheerful. It occurs to me that the song seems rather ill-named. "Not all of my servants are like Sybil or Daria. Everyone in the world does my bidding at some point, willingly or not."

"Why did you kill Sybil?"

For the first time, he looks genuinely confused, but his fingers never falter on the piano keys. "I thought that was what you wanted."

The creature on the stairs whines like an injured dog. I wince at the sound. "I never wanted anything from you."

"Oh, but you do." Now he stops playing, in mid-note, and spins around on the piano stool. "Everyone does. I can offer you the one thing that no one in the world can resist, Clara." His voice drops to a harsh whisper. "Freedom."

I laugh, a barking, spiteful laugh that isn't my own. "I've seen what your 'freedom' has done to Daria. That is no gift."

"Your mother said the same thing. I showed her the meaning of mortality. Don't make your mother's mistakes, Clara: she was brave, but a fool. When I want something--and I want you--I cannot be refused."

"I refuse you." My voice is taunt. "What power do you have over me?"

"I rule over your life, just as I will one day rule over your death--a death you don't need to die. I am powerful, and old as the world...older, even."

"Death cannot be older than Life."

He smiles. It does nothing to reduce the evil in his beautiful face. "You're very brave, Clara. Very like your mother in that respect."

"Don't speak of her!" I shout. "You know nothing about her!"

"I know everything about her." As I watch, horrified, a terrible change is taking place. The long brown hair becomes lighter, wavy and soft like...like mine. The features soften, becoming smoother, more feminine. Then the entire form wavers as though I'm watching it through water. Only the eyes are the same: brown, reflective mirrors. I try to focus on the eyes.

"No..."

"Yes." Mercifully, the change reverses, and he--she--it takes the form of a young man again. I wonder if this is what Daria feels like every time she sees him in her husband's form. "As I said, courage cannot save you from everything."

"I'm not brave like she was," I say. In the pit of my stomach, I know it's the truth. "I'm scared. Terrified."

"But that didn't stop you from helping Daria, did it?"

"I just wanted to stop Sybil."

He laughs. "Well, you need not fear Sybil anymore. Still, it was a worthy cause."

I shake my head. "I was scared! I couldn't stand losing another parent."

"Ah." He stands up and walks over to me, gently laying his hands on my shoulders. "Is it your father you speak of, Clara?"

If I close my eyes, I could imagine it's my mother holding me...but his eyes are inches from mine, and I can't blink. He is very beautiful. Perhaps I should have accepted his offer...perhaps I do want the freedom, I do want to live forever, no matter the cost...

"Or were you thinking of Daria Vane?"

I see a flicker of motion reflected in his mirror-eyes--the thing from the stairs, crouched behind me. He leans in until his mouth is over my ear. "Join me?" he whispers. His breath is hot on my neck.

"Never."

The creature lunges, man and wolf at once. I break out from between the two of them and run down the stairs, swinging myself over the railings. I don't know if they're following.

My bike is still leaning against the wall by the broken window. I leap on and pedal away as fast as I can.

As I go past the house, I see him staring down at me from the library window. His breath forms little clouds of ice on the glass, like clusters of snowflakes, falling down over a tombstone...

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When I get home, Daria is standing in her yard. She beckons me over with a tilt of her head.

"You know what tonight is," she says. It is not a question. Her voice is resigned, but firm.

"Yes."

She sighs. I wonder if I should tell her about my meeting at the Veller house, but I decide not to burden her further. She has enough problems of her own.

"Will you stay with me, tonight? I don't want to be alone..."

She doesn't finish the sentence. I'm gald. "Of course I will."

"Thank you." Daria presses my hand. I want to flinch--her touch is ice--but I don't.

I leave her standing in the front yard, staring up at her house. Before I go to bed, I look out the window again. She is still standing there.

Hot tears cloud my eyes. I wipe them away with the back of my hand, pull up the blankets, and fall asleep.