The House That Silently Keeps Its Accounts

The Mansion’s Iron Gates Stood Open.

Vance Remembered Them Being Chained Shut, Their Metal Rusted and Covered in Vines. Now They Looked Freshly Cut, As Though Someone Had Recently Forced Their Way Inside.

He Parked in The Yard.

The Garden Smelled of Wet Soil and Dead Roses. A Stone Fountain Stood in The Center, Filled with Black Water. Something Pale Floated Beneath the Surface.

Vance Pointed His Flashlight Towards It.

A Porcelain Doll.

Its Painted Eyes Followed Him.

He Blinked

The Doll Did Not Move.

“Get A Drip, Vance,” He Muttered to Himself.

The Front Door Opened Before He Touched It.

Inside, The Mansion Looked Almost Exactly as He Remembered. The Mansion Smelled of Dust and Cedar. The Grand Staircase Curved Toward the Second Floor. Dust Covered the Furniture, And Faded Portraits Watched from The Walls.

Yet Something Was Wrong.

There Was No Dust on The Piano.

His Mother’s Piano.

A Single Sheet of Music Lay Open on Its Stand.

Vance Approached Slowly.

The Title Was Written in His Mother’s Elegant Handwriting.

For My Little Stars

It Was the Lullaby She Used to Play for Him and Clara.

He Touched the Keys.

One Note Sounded.

From Somewhere Upstairs, Another Note Answered.

Then Another.

The Lullaby Began Playing by Itself.

Vance Stepped Away from The Piano.

“Who’s There?” Vance Shouted.

A Floorboard Creaked Above Him.

He Raised His Flashlight.

At The Top, The Staircase Stood a Girl in A White Dress.

“Clara?” Vance Muttered in Surprise.

The Girl Tilted Her Head.

“You’re Late, Vance.” The Girl Smiled at Him.

His Breath Caught.

She Looked Twelve Years Old. Her Hair Fell Over Her Shoulders, And Her Bare Feet Rested on The Wooden Steps.

“Clara, It’s Me.” Vance Walked Towards the Staircase.

“I Know.” She Smiled Knowingly.

He Climbed the Stairs, His Heart Pounding.

“Where Have You Been? What Happened That Night?”

She Smiled Sadly.

“You Still Haven’t Learned How to Listen.” She Said Sadly

“What Does That Mean?” He Replied in Confusion.

Her Expression Changed.

For A Fraction of a Second, Her Face Became Horribly Distorted, As Though Someone Had Stretched the Skin Over a Skull.

Then She Was Gone.

The Lights Flickered.

A Door Slammed at The End of The Corridor.

Vance Ran Toward It.

It Was the Door to His Childhood Bedroom.

Inside, The Furniture Remained Untouched. His Toy Soldiers Stood in A Row on The Windowsill. His Old Drawings Covered the Walls.

On The Bed Lay a Small Notebook.

He Recognized Clara’s Handwriting.

The First Pages Contained Ordinary Childhood Things: Stories, Drawings, Complaints About School.

Then The Entries Became Strange.

September 4, 2006. Father Locked the Basement Again. I Heard Mother Crying Downstairs.

September 12. The Villagers Came to Our House. They Brought Candles and A Black Box; Father Told Me Never to Speak About It.

September 19. Mother Says the House Is Hungry.

Vance Turned the Page with Trembling Hands.

October 2. I Saw a Woman in The Mirror. She Looked Like Me, But Older. She Told Me That One of Us Must Stay.

His Hands Tightened Around the Notebook.

The Final Entry Was Dated October 23, 2006.

Vance Doesn’t Know What Father Did. He Thinks Our Family Is Good. I Wish That Were True.

Below It, Written in Trembling Letters, Was One Final Sentence.

If He Comes Back, Tell Him the Truth: Father Opened the Door.

A Noise Came from Behind Him.

Vance Turned.

The Bedroom Door Was Closed.

Someone Was Standing on The Other Side.

He Could See the Shadow Beneath the Gap.

“Clara?”

A Cold, Serious Voice Answered.

It Was His Father’s.

“Come Downstairs, Son.”

Vance Froze in Fear.

The Shadow Moved Closer to The Door.

“There’s Something I Need to Show You.”

Then, Softly, The Voice Added:

“Before I Kill You Too.”