But Now Is

FOUND

THE OUTERS TRILOGY

PART TWO

Feedback (good, bad, indifferent, just want to bother me, whatever) is appreciated. Please write to: theangstguy@yahoo.com

Synopsis: In this sequel to “Who Once Was Lost,” twelve-year-old Daria Morgendorffer, the only human known to have been kidnapped by aliens, tries to return to a normal life in her new home in Lawndale. Now younger than her sister Quinn, Daria finds fitting into school again is tough—but the trouble has only started. Someone is looking for her and will stop at nothing to find her, and what will happen if she’s found, no one can say.

Author’s Notes and Acknowledgements appear at the end of this story.

Chapter One:

Sensitivity Draining

Old habits are sure hard to break, Daria Morgendorffer ruefully thought. School was over for the day—but here she sat, trapped in a seminar classroom on the second floor of Lawndale Middle School. I shouldn’t have let that stupid World Literature teacher get under my skin, and I especially shouldn’t have called her a rank, swag-bellied, surly mannered harpy, even if she is one. Shakespeare will be the death of me yet.

Her cheek twitched beneath her long brown hair. If the boogieman doesn’t get me first, that is.

It was a Tuesday in early November. A cold wind blew against the windows under an overcast sky. Daria was finding her eight-grade class work to be challenging, which she felt was good. She had also found some of her teachers to be challenging, which was not so good. A thick cloud of notoriety followed her wherever she went—notoriety she could not possibly help—and people reacted to it in different ways. Most were okay with it, in the sense of being only mildly annoying, but she knew that a few felt an irresistible desire to bring her down to earth by poking holes in what they perceived to be her sense of superiority and privilege.

The World Lit teacher was a prime example. She had made fun of Daria the previous week during class for her six-page report on Russian novels, not believing for a moment that Daria had actually read any. Thus followed the Shakespearean insults. And thus Daria, after a parent-principal conference, was being kept after school to attend a sensitivity-awareness seminar twice a week for the next four weeks. This came despite her parents’ proof that Daria had read at least a half dozen Russian novels and even seemed to like them.

I don’t have a sense of privilege, Daria fumed, sitting with her arms crossed over her chest as she and the other students in the class waited for the teacher to arrive. I don’t want special treatment. I just want everyone to leave me the hell alone. I won’t argue the superiority part, though. I’m a hell of a lot smarter than that bonehead World Lit teacher. Maybe that’s why the aliens kidnapped me and froze me for three years underground, before I could escape. They knew I was a superior human and they wanted me for . . . for something, maybe their extraterrestrial bug collection. Maybe I was like a rare butterfly with pretty wings. And one day, the aliens will come back and find me and stick a pin through me to make sure I don’t get away again. Or they’ll have me for a snack. There’s not a thing I can do about it, either way.

Anyone who could have eavesdropped on her thoughts would have thought Daria insane, but the three-year kidnapping part had really happened. At a summer camp in June 1994, she had fallen into a sinkhole. She climbed out after a minor earthquake destroyed the cave, unaware that it was now September 1997 and she was listed as a missing child. Her parents, thinking she was dead, had disposed of all her things, moved away, and gotten new jobs and a new house. Only her sister Quinn had really believed she was still alive, and only Quinn was able to see Daria through the turmoil that followed when she was reunited with her family.

Over a month after her recovery, Daria was still a top story in the news. She had fallen into the sinkhole at age twelve and a half. When she came out, she was still twelve and a half, having not aged in the slightest. Medical tests had confirmed it. It was now widely believed she had been caught in some sort of high-tech trap set by unknown beings—probably not human ones—who had kept her in suspended animation for over three years until pure luck freed her. Fourteen-year-old Quinn, once Daria’s younger sister, was now her older one; once Daria’s nemesis, Quinn was now her primary support—a cosmic jest without parallel.

Daria’s notoriety lay in the fact that she was probably the only person ever to have had an encounter with a superior nonhuman intelligence. She was also the only person to have been restored, unharmed, from suspended animation. People read into that anything they wished. The media followed her without end. Paparazzi with telephoto-lens cameras, following her every move, were a common part of the landscape. So were tabloid covers in supermarkets showing doctored photos of her talking to Gray Aliens, Satan, Elvis, or Bigfoot. Adults trying to ask her about UFOs, time machines, the future, and the afterlife were the everyday norm. Most people did not believe her when she said she remembered nothing of those lost three years, which was a shame because it was true.

Sighing, Daria played with a pencil at her desk and reflected on the irony of it all. Before she fell into the sinkhole, in the days when she was just an unknown kid, she was an outcast. Other school kids thought of her as weird, and she ignored them and had no friends. Now, unquestionably one of the most famous people alive, she was still an outcast, still thought of as weird, and still had no friends. Other students were fearful of her or thought she had made up the whole thing. Bitter at the constant rejection she received, and frustrated at the inability of anyone to communicate with her on her level, Daria refused to make the effort to be nice. She spoke her mind and let the chips fall where they may.

Which was what finally brought her to the sensitivity awareness class.

The classroom door opened, and a tall African-American woman entered. She had a short Afro, gold hoop earrings, elegantly tailored clothing, and an annoyed expression. She dropped a notebook on the desk at the front of the classroom and put her fists on her hips. All talking in the room ceased.

“My name is Michele Landon,” said the woman, with all the charm of a drill sergeant. “I’m your Sensitivity Awareness Scholastic Session teacher for the next eight Tuesdays and Thursdays, not counting holidays. We will cover the basics of sensitivity awareness and why you’re being kept after school to learn about it, if for some reason you can’t already guess. Sensitivity Awareness Scholastic Sessions are for your own good. Though I’m not a regular teacher, I was asked to be your instructor by the principal of this school and the Lawndale Businesswoman’s Alliance, and this is my third time—” She stopped and glared at someone to Daria’s left. “Is something I’m saying funny to you?”

A boy with a half grin sat up in his seat. “Well,” he said, “it’s funny that the initials for this class . . . never mind.”

“The initials what?”

His grin faded. “They . . . nothing.”

“Do you think this class is funny?” said Ms. Landon, her temper skyrocketing.

“I said, no. I mean, no, ma’am.”

“You think there’s something funny about me?” she pressed on.

“No, I was just—”

“Do I look funny to you? Is that it?”

“No, honest! I—”

“Then shut up when I’m talking to you, or I’ll call your parents! Do you understand me?”

The boy nodded rapidly.

“I don’t tolerate disrespect in my classroom!” Ms. Landon swung her gaze to take in the whole room. “You’re here because you showed a lack of respect or a lack of sensitivity or basic courtesy or common sense, or you did something else stupid, I don’t care what, and we’re going to fix it no matter what it takes—do you understand me?”

A reluctant chorus of “Yes, ma’am!” and “Yes, Ms. Landon!” followed.

Daria raised her hand. She suspected it was a mistake to speak up, and apparently so did the girl sitting behind her who gasped and whispered, “Don’t!”

However, it was too late. “You!” Ms. Landon called, pointing at Daria. “What’s your problem?”

Daria lowered her hand. “What if someone shows a lack of respect to us?” she said. She meant to talk about her World Lit teacher’s cutting remarks about her honesty.

“Are you saying I’m not respecting you?” Ms. Landon shouted. “Do you have a problem with how I’m talking to you?”

Oh, crap! “No, Ms. Landon,” Daria said, wishing she could dig a hole and hide in it. “I meant—”

“I am not going to put up with this kind of thing!” Ms. Landon snapped. “I don’t have to be here! I used to be a senior vice president at U. S. World, I’m only doing this for your benefit until I can get a nanny for my son and get back into the workforce, and I will not tolerate disrespect!”

Another Shakespearean insult, a nasty one, hovered on the tip of her tongue—but Daria chose the hard-learned path of wisdom. “I’m sorry,” she said aloud, and meant it. She made a promise to herself to zip her lips from now on when Ms. Landon was around.

Ms. Landon glared hard at Daria—then, mollified by the apology, turned her attention elsewhere. “Can anyone tell me what the most important part of sensitivity awareness is? Anyone? Speak up, damn it!”

Something brushed against Daria’s left shoulder. She reached up to feel around—and encountered a scrap of paper being passed by the girl behind her. Carefully taking the paper without Ms. Landon seeing it, she opened the scrap and read: SHE’S VERY SENSITIVE ABOUT SENSITIVITY.

Daria checked on Ms. Landon, then quietly wrote a reply. HOW AM I GOING TO LEARN TO BE SENSITIVE IF I CAN’T ASK THE TEACHER ANYTHING BECAUSE SHE’S TOO SENSITIVE?

While Ms. Landon berated several students on the other side of the room, the paper came back. PLAY DUMB. TRUST ME, IT’S YOUR ONLY HOPE.

Daria groaned and tore out a new scrap of paper, the old one being used up. PLAY DUMB IN SCHOOL, WHERE I’M SUPPOSED TO BE SMART?

The note came back when Ms. Landon’s back was turned, as she wrote on the chalkboard. IF YOU PLAY DUMB, YOU ARE BEING SMART, it read.

Daria risked a glance behind her. A tall, thin girl sat there, another eighth grader Daria recalled from her other classes. She had silky black bangs and blue eyes and today was dressed primarily in black, though with a bright red sweater tied around her waist by the sleeves. Their eyes met. The girl smiled at Daria.

For the first time in years, Daria smiled back at another student. The tall girl then looked at the teacher and quickly motioned for Daria to turn around again, which she did in the nick of time. Ms. Landon was finished with writing down the six most important elements of sensitivity awareness.

“Get out your notebooks and write this down!” she shouted at the class. “I didn’t put it up here for decoration!”

Between taking notes, Daria managed to get another note to the girl behind her. TALK AFTER CLASS?

SURE. CAN YOU COME OVER TO MY HOUSE?

PARENTS WON’T LET ME OUT. THEY’RE PICKING ME UP AT THREE. CAN YOU COME OVER INSTEAD?

I’LL CALL HOME, SHOULD BE OKAY. ARE YOU DARIA?

YES, I’M THAT DARIA. IS THAT A PROBLEM?

BEATS ME. I’M NOT SENSITIVE ENOUGH TO KNOW.

Daria smiled. This was promising. She wrote back, WHAT’S YOUR NAME?

The note came back right before class ended.

ELSIE SLOANE.

Chapter Two:

Knowing Me, Knowing You

“So,” said Elsie as they waited at the middle school’s front doors for Daria’s parents to pick them up, “what are you in the slammer for?”

“Sarcasm,” said Daria. “Disrespect. Mouthing off. Being a public nuisance.”

“Not bad for a newbie,” said Elsie. Her tone became more defiant. “I’m practically a lifer. This is my third time through SASS.”

“Third? You’re kidding.”

“Nope. I told someone in the hall last Monday the assistant principal got his yard-work clothes mixed up with his school clothes, and the A. P. was right behind me. After all that, he still doesn’t dress any better.”

Elsie’s interest in clothing set off alarms in Daria’s head. “I’m not into fashion,” she said glumly. “If you dump me, I won’t hold it against you.”

“Oh, I’m not into the let’s-all-dress-like-hookers thing,” said Elsie. “I want to be a costume designer in theater—do up the actors for plays, musicals, whatever. I wanna shake things up a little. My dream is to see Hamlet done with Chicago gangsters. Could you see it with everyone in the Mob? Pinstripes, machine guns, the works? The ghost some old guy like Marlon Brando in The Godfather?”

Daria looked at Elsie with renewed respect. “Yeah,” she said. “I could see that.” She hesitated, then said, “I’d like to be a writer.”

“Hey, perfect! You do the plays, I’ll do the costumes, and we’ll both rock Broadway!”

“Yeah,” said Daria softly, already starting to picture it. For the first time in ages, she wasn’t thinking about how miserable life was.

The driver of a dark blue Lexus sitting outside the doors honked the horn and waved at the girls in frustration through the windows.

“Oops,” said Else. “That your dad?”

“Yeah.” Daria pushed open a door and held it for Elsie. “Don’t expect too much.”

“You haven’t met my family yet.”

“Hey, kiddo!” said Jake Morgendorffer as the girls got into the back seat. “Mom called from the office and said you were having a friend over. Is this Elmer?”

Daria clenched her teeth as if in pain.

“Elsie,” said Elsie in a flat voice. “No one’s done the cow joke for three weeks now. It was almost a record.”

“El—oh! Damn it! Sorry about that, really! I—ah—I kind of got confused, you know, with—”

“Dad,” said Daria sharply, “just drive.”

“Okay,” Jake groaned. “Sorry.” He turned the radio to an oldies rock station and put the car in gear.

“Sorry,” Daria whispered to her friend, mortified. “I’d like to say I was adopted, but I haven’t found where they hid the paperwork.”

Elsie shrugged. “He’s not you,” she said. “Tell me about your writing.”

“Mmm . . . it’s probably awful. I gave up on poetry after one of my teachers said he liked it. I’m trying to do short stories. I haven’t tried plays yet. I’d better get on it.”

“How do you think Cats would go over if, instead of little cats, they were saber-toothed tigers?”

Daria considered this. “Would there be blood?”

“As much as the budget allows. Maybe more.”

“I’ll buy a season ticket.”

“People aren’t using their imaginations enough. When I think of all the opportunities that were wasted in The Sound of Music, I could—”

“Oh,” said Jake from the front seat, “um, El—”

“Elsie!” said both girls at once.

“Elsie! Yeah! Your last name is Sloane, right?”

“Uh-oh,” Elsie said under her breath.

“Is that Sloane as in Grace, Sloane and Page? The investment firm in Halcyon Hills, with the whole top floor of that big gold cube building?”

“It’s kind of amber-ish, actually.”

“Wow!” Jake grinned. “Say, think your dad could slip me a little of that inside information? Give me a few hot stock tips?”

Daria buried her face in her hands. “I know I’m adopted,” she muttered. “I just know it.”

“Mister Morgendorffer, he could,” Elsie said calmly, “but it’s kind of like illegal, you know? And he kind of like told me I have to tell him about anyone who asks about that so he can kind of like turn them over to the government for an investigation, like, you know?”

“Uh—oh! Hey, that was a joke! Heh, heh! Yeah, Ol’ Jakey was just pulling your leg! I don’t need any inside info! Don’t you worry about! I’ve got my own stock-market secrets! Just kiddin’ around, yeah, that’s me. Always making jokes. I’m like that all the time—isn’t that right, Daria?”

“Look out for the truck, Dad.”

“What? Where?” The car slowed. “Did you see a truck?”

“I wish I drank,” said Daria, her face red. “Life would be more tolerable if I did.”

A few minutes later, the girls closed the door to Daria’s bedroom and dropped their backpacks on the floor. “Homework now or later?” said Daria.

“Break time first,” said Elsie. “Don’t worry about your dad. Everyone asks that, and I always tell them they’re being investigated, but I never tell anyone.”

“Damn it,” said Daria. “My hopes are dashed.”

“Mind if I ask a weird question?”

“My mom’s sort of strange, too. She’s a lawyer. Dad’s a business consultant.”

“No, that wasn’t it.”

“Then it’s probably about Elvis or Bigfoot. They’re married and have a kid now.”

Elsie burst into laughter and had to sit down on Daria’s bed until it passed. “That wasn’t it, either. It . . . oh, forget it.”

“Go ahead and ask. I can’t be any more humiliated than I already am with my parents around.”

Elsie’s expression grew serious. “Do you mind that about my dad?”

Daria drew a blank. She hadn’t expected this question. “Do I mind what about your dad?”

“Well, that we’re rich. He makes a lot of money. A lot.” For a moment, Daria thought Elsie looked fearful. “We’re probably the richest family in Lawndale. People sometimes don’t know how to handle that.”

Daria nodded. That made sense. “Do you mind me being Daria?” she said.

Elsie looked down at her hands, her fingers interlocked and elbows resting on her knees. “I guess I sort of thought it would be cool to be you, but I got to thinking about it, and I thought maybe it . . .”

“—wasn’t cool,” Daria finished. “You’re right. It isn’t.” She sat down on the bed near Elsie. “It sucks. I can’t go anywhere without some jerk trying to get me to contact his dead uncle or tell him when Earth’s being invaded. I hate it.” She reflected a moment. “Some of the endorsement offers look interesting, though.”

“Endorsements? Oh, right.”

“Yeah. They’d help pay for college, for my sister and for me. On one hand, I’d hate to make money off of something I can’t help, something that’s probably going to kill me in time, but on the other—”

“Excuse me,” said Elsie, her eyes widening. “What was that you said? About killing you?”

Daria became quiet. “Well,” she said at last, “I don’t know.” She was quiet again for a while. “I don’t know what they’re going to do when they come looking for me.”

Elsie blinked. “They,” she said.

Daria nodded.

“You don’t really know that they’re going to do that, right?”

“I don’t know.” Daria’s voice grew softer as she spoke. “I say they were aliens, but they could be anything. I never really saw anything or anyone, just the cave. I only got out of there by accident. I don’t think I was supposed to get out. They might be peeved about that.” She licked her lips. “I think about it a lot, mostly at night.”

It took time for Elsie to frame a response. “That’s kind of defeatist, isn’t it?”

“I think the word is realistic. You could put the whole U. S. Army outside our house, but it probably wouldn’t help.” Her shoulders drooped. “If they want me, they’ll get me.”

“What’s your sister like?” Elsie suddenly asked, leaning back on the bed on her elbows.

“Oh.” Daria shook herself out of her funk. “Uh . . . she’s all right. We get along pretty well. She sticks up for me against Mom and Dad when things are tense. You might actually like her. She’s into the teen fashion thing pretty deep.”

“Eh, people like that don’t get into the costume aspect too much. If they can’t wear it and get a boy toy, it’s no use to them.”

“What did you do for Halloween?”

“Nothing. Oh, I did put a mustache on my brother when he was asleep. Looked sort of like Hitler if you squinted a lot.”

“Older brother or younger?”

“Tom’s older. He’s a sophomore at Fielding Preparatory Academy. It’s a preppie high school on the north side. I’ll probably go next year. Dad says this is my last tuition-free year of education, so I should make the most of it.”

“What’s he like? Tom, I mean?”

Elsie swung her legs back and forth as she lay flat on her back on the bed. “Full of himself, acts like he’s Mister Casual Suave. He wears these old clothes and pretends he’s a regular guy who’s half-broke, and when people find out he’s not, he acts like it’s nothing, like ‘I’m not really rich, I’m just like you are.’ He’s such an ass.”

“How about your Mom and Dad?”

Elsie sighed. She stopped swinging her legs and sat up, looking at the floor. “The truth is,” she said softly, “they’re okay. Dad’s all right, mostly, when he’s not working or golfing.” Elsie tensed. “I don’t get along with my mom too well. We don’t agree on anything, and we fight a lot.” She got up from the bed and tugged up on her black pants. “I don’t want to be like her, sitting around living off some rich guy I married. She says all I need from college is my M.R.S. degree, then I can do what I want. That so pisses me off. Your mom’s a lawyer, that’s gotta be all right somehow.”

“Maybe. She works like it’s her religion. You’d think the phone was glued to her head. I know more about her case load than about her.”

“What kind of law?”

“Corporate. She works for a little firm that’s—wait, that’s wrong. That was in Highland, Texas. That was before. She’s with a big legal company now, I keep forgetting the name. I can’t get used to how everything’s changed.”

They began talking about school and quietly settled into finishing their math homework. Afterward, they watched TV.

“This looks like a rerun,” said Daria.

“That’s disgusting!” said Elsie, making a face. “I’d never go out with anyone from the British Royal Family, much less all of them at once! Unless they wore that Elizabethan get-up from the 1500s. That was pretty cool. What show is this?”

“‘Sick, Sad World.’”

“I think it’s horrible. This must be the worst TV show ever. How often does it come on?”

“Weekdays about this time for new shows, but they alternate with reruns. The specials are on Sunday nights.”

“I’ll have to put it in my PDA calendar. Oh, hey—tomorrow they’re talking to Bigfoot’s hair dresser!”

Elsie’s mother called to say she would pick her daughter up at seven, before the Morgendorffers had dinner. Quinn came back from an afternoon date and was preparing for an evening date when she wandered by Daria’s room and peeked in. Daria made the introductions.

“If Daria likes you, you’re okay with me,” Quinn told Elsie. “How old is your brother again?”

“Sixteen,” said Elsie. “He’s kind of—”

“What kind of car does he drive?”

“He has to borrow my Dad’s old BMW, but—”

“I’m free Saturday—no, all day Sunday, yeah. Have him give me a call. Thanks!” She hurried off to her room to put on makeup.

Daria and Elsie looked at each other. They both shook their heads.

“Let’s just pretend that didn’t happen,” said Daria.

“Tom won’t be around much this weekend anyway,” said Elsie. “He’s going out with this girl in Fielding’s science club. She has a meteor-watching project, and he’s helping her with it.”

“Somewhere dark,” said Daria. “Somewhere secluded.”

“At the overlook above the abandoned rock quarry.”

“Ah.”

“Yup.”

“That would be the Leonids,” said Daria. “It’s a meteor shower that comes every year about this time. It should be an interesting night, if the sky’s clear and they bother to look.”

“You should come over this weekend. I’m working on this costume and need a little help.”

“You’ve mistaken me for someone who can sew.”

“If you can stand in place with your arms out, I’ll get Mom to spring for pizza.”

“I don’t know if my parental units will agree. They’re a little . . . paranoid.”

“Mom’s very persuasive. I’ll give her that. Don’t worry about it.”

“Done, then.”

“Cool.” Elsie smirked. “Maybe we can go outside and see a few shooting stars ourselves.”

Chapter Three:

Wake-Up Call

Helen Morgendorffer and Katherine (“Oh, call me Kay!”) Sloane, Elsie’s mother, met for lunch during the week and negotiated all the details of future sleepovers. Over dinner that evening, Helen shook her head. “I had no idea that they were—you know, so—so—”

“Rich?” said Daria. “Influential? Jocular? Enormous? Purple?”

“Stop it. Anyway, I gave her our unlisted numbers, the cell-phone numbers, and the code to get past the answering service if they use our old number.” She fixed Daria with a meaningful look. “And we both agreed that this would be the last after-school sensitivity session either you or Elsie would ever need to take—or else. If you get my drift.”

“Don’t beat me,” Daria said. She pointed across the table at her sister. “Beat her. She made me misbehave.”

Quinn did not respond, as she was eating her salad. When Helen looked in another direction, however, Quinn good-naturedly scratched her nose with her middle finger while giving Daria a faint smile.

The week passed slowly enough, but Friday morning eventually came and with it the promise of a night away from home. Putting on her black jeans and boots, forest-green tee, and the gold windbreaker of which she was increasingly fond, Daria went downstairs for breakfast in a good mood. She thought it odd that no one else in the family could tell.

“I thought you’d be more cheerful,” said her mother as she served microwave-heated, syrup-flavored waffles. “It’s your first sleepover, Daria. I don’t think you ever had one in Highland.”

“I am cheerful,” Daria replied in a slightly annoyed deadpan. “And I did go to sleepovers in Highland. Don’t you remember the Tysons?”

“Oh, I remember,” said Quinn, spearing a strawberry on her fruit plate with a fork. “I was there, too. There were six of us, and you read to us from that book. What was the name . . . Valley of the Dolls.”

“Was that a horror movie?” asked Jake, reading the business section of the morning paper.

Startled, Helen spilled a spoonful of shredded wheat back into her bowl. “You what?” she cried. “Daria, where did you get that dreadful novel?”

“Library,” said Daria, buttering her toast. “I had an adult card.”

“But you . . . you were eleven!”

“You and Dad got me the card, remember? So I could check out books on s-e-x instead of calling you at work to ask about it?”

“I remember now!” said Jake, looking up from the newspaper. “That was the movie about the dinosaur and the cowboys, right? Only it was called Valley of . . . what was the dinosaur’s name? It began with a G. Damn it!”

“I remember those s-e-x books,” said Quinn, spearing another strawberry. “Boy, some of those had the funniest pictures I’d ever—”

“Daria!” said Helen. “You weren’t supposed to show them to anyone else!”

“I couldn’t keep Quinn out of my room.”

“You still can’t,” said Quinn through a mouthful of strawberry.

Daria fixed her sister with a narrow-eyed gaze.

“Teas-ing!” said Quinn in a singsong voice.

“Anyway,” said Daria with a half-hearted glare across the table, “I am happy about the overnight.”

“Ah, Daria,” said her father, looking uncomfortable, “remember, when you see the Sloanes—I was only kidding about the, um, you know, the—”

“The what?” asked Helen.

“Nothing!” said Jake. “Just a joke, but be sure to tell them that.”

“I’d bet they’d be willing to forget the whole thing for a small fee,” said Daria, cutting up her fried egg.

She went to school with a fifty-dollar bill in her pocket. “Any chance we’ll visit a bookstore while I’m over?” she asked Elsie in their first-period history class.

“I hope so,” said Elsie. “I need some picture books on Japanese theater. I was wondering about an Oriental version of Julius Caesar, only with a ten-minute samurai-and-ninja battle when the conspirators are trying to stab him.”

The second SASS meeting of the week had been the day before, so they were picked up immediately after school by Elsie’s brother, Tom. It was Daria’s first time seeing him.

Tom looked good, and the longer Daria looked at him, the better he looked. Cool gray eyes, casually combed brown hair, a rakish grin—Daria bumped into the door of the BMW and dropped her overnight bag as she tried to get in the back seat.

“You must be Daria,” said Tom in a warm voice. He reached back from the driver’s seat to shake her hand after she was seated. “I’m sure Elsie’s told you all about me. She lies a lot, though.”

“Good to meet you,” Daria said faintly. His hand was huge, and his grip warm and firm. She felt her face burn. Tom looked like the kind of self-confident, easy-going guy who would later become a secret agent. He could probably shoot a dozen bad guys and never get a wrinkle on his shirt or speck of blood on his tux. He had that kind of cool—in Daria’s suddenly fevered mind.

Elsie poked Daria in the ribs with her elbow. “He’s evil!” she said in a loud stage whisper. “Eee-vil!”

“Aw, what’s wrong with a little evil?” said Tom with a bright smile. “It makes life fun. That’s what the Borgias said, and look what party animals they turned out to be.” He gave Daria a wink and turned around to start the car.

“Um, yeah,” said Daria, completely tongue-tied.

“Remember your promise,” Elsie said to Daria. “You’re going to try on the space vixen costume I designed for Annie when we get in.”

“This I’ve got to see,” said Tom, pulling onto the main highway.

Daria thought she would catch fire from embarrassment. The blush spread across her face and downward over her shoulders, upper arms, and chest.

“Is it too hot in here for you?” Elsie asked, looking at Daria with concern. “Hey, turn on the A/C, driver!”

“As you command, El Sickie,” said Tom, complying.

The Sloanes’ house was in the easternmost part of the most exclusive subdivision in Lawndale, Crewe Neck. A narrow road led up a hill and through a woodlot to the mansion, which looked like it could hold two houses the size of Daria’s home. In the back was a playground with a swing set and now-unused wooden fort. After putting Daria’s overnight bag in Elsie’s enormous bedroom, the two girls went outside and sat on the swings, their jackets zipped up against the chill wind and blowing leaves. The sky grew dark, threatening rain later.

“If Tom goes out with that girl tonight, you know it won’t be for skywatching,” Elsie said, leaning back on her swing and looking at the gray overcast. “It’s just a game to him. Dating, I mean. He’s not serious about anyone.”

“Hmmm,” said Daria, concentrating on the ground. She felt an irrational surge of jealousy among a host of other emotions, but it was good to know he was just playing the field. Forcing thoughts of Tom out of her head, she tried to sort out what else was bugging her. The visible extent of the Sloanes’ wealth took some getting used to, and Daria felt very out of place within it. I’m no more out of place here than anywhere else in this stupid world, she reminded herself. I’m the odd one, not the Sloanes. Not Elsie—and not Tom. She shook her head, trying to jar Tom out of her mind again. I’m too young for him, anyway. If he could wait for me, though, then—

“The thing that drives me crazy,” said Elsie, “is the game-playing that goes on. Some of it’s cutesy stuff, like Mom and Dad bickering over Dad’s old shoes and why doesn’t he ever get a new pair, and some of it’s serious, like having to go to formal parties and meet people I don’t give a crap about and pretend I’m interested in what they did over the last year, when I know they don’t give a crap about me. Tom’s a lot better at sucking up than I am. One of my uncles calls me ‘Miss Mouth.’ I don’t do half the backbiting he does, though.” She shrugged. “At least they know I’m honest.”

Daria dug the toe of her boot into the dead leaves below the swing. “I didn’t get along with my parents when I got back,” she said. “My dad thought I might be brainwashed or psycho, and my mom thought I just ran away. Then, then the doctors were testing me and finding out a lot of weird stuff, my mom and I had a big problem. She kind of lost it.” She bit her lip. “Quinn talked to her and got her straightened out, I think, but things are still kind of rough. I don’t think they know how to deal with me some days. I’m glad your mom got them to let me come over. I feel like I’m in this cage sometimes, and—”

She broke off and looked around. “What’s that?” she said.

Elsie sat up and listened. “What?”

“That tone,” said Daria. She got up from the swing seat, a puzzled look on her face. “I can’t tell where it’s coming from.”

“Is this a joke?” Elsie got up, too. “I can’t hear anything but that weed trimmer at the Robinsons’ place. Is that it?”

Daria shook her head, her confusion deepening. After a moment, she put her hands over her ears, listened, then jammed her index fingers in her ears to seal them completely shut. She turned in place to face Elsie.

“I can still hear it,” she said. She waited a few more seconds. “I think it’s inside my head.”

“Oh, it’s that tinny thing,” said Elsie. “You know, the ringing in your ears. It’ll go away. I get it sometimes.”

Daria nodded doubtfully. She dropped her hands, and Elsie showed her the rest of the extensive backyard. They went inside afterward when Elsie’s mother called from the spacious back deck.

“Hello, Daria!” said Mrs. Sloane. She was tall and had short dark hair, piercing eyes, and the most pleasant voice. Her manners were impeccable. “It’s wonderful to see you again! Would you girls care for a snack?”

“If we have to,” grumbled Elsie.

“Thank you,” said Daria, still fiddling with her right ear.

“Is something wrong?” Mrs. Sloane asked, giving Daria a longer look. “Earache?”

“No. I’ve got some kind of ringing in my ears. Like a tuning fork, high pitched.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No. Just weird.”

“Let me know if it gets to be a problem, and we’ll call your parents. Come on inside, it’s getting too cool out. I’ve got brownies and milk waiting.”

As they passed through the kitchen, Mrs. Sloane walked over to the radio, which was putting out loud static. “What’s wrong with this thing?” she said. “It was fine just a minute ago.” She twisted the dial, which had no effect, rapped the radio once on the top with her knuckles, then shut it off. “I hate it when I can’t get my talk radio in the afternoons. Go have a seat in the dining room, girls, and let me get the brownies.”

“She does make good brownies,” Elsie reluctantly confided.

Daria felt grossly underdressed as she and Elsie took their seats at the long table in the elegant French dining room. Mrs. Sloane seemed very nice despite Elsie’s comments, but Daria understood the political problems arising from supporting either mother or daughter when the wrong one might hear. She discarded the issue and tried pressing on her ears again. The tone continued just as before. It wasn’t particularly loud or annoying, but it didn’t stop. It seemed to come from everywhere at once.

Mrs. Sloane brought out a small tray with chocolate-chip brownies on it and two glasses of milk. While looking around the dining room, Daria spotted a small television set on a tabletop. “Want to see ‘Sick, Sad World’?” she asked after Mrs. Sloane left. “It’s about time for it to come on.”

“Sure.” Stuffing a brownie in her mouth, Elsie went over and turned on the set. The picture came up, but the reception was poor. Moving the antenna around did not seem to help.

“Let me try,” said Daria. She got up and walked over to tweak a few knobs. As she approached the set, the picture got worse until it was a mass of static. Daria frowned and stopped a few feet short of the set.

“What’s wrong with this thing?” said Elsie, repeating her mother’s words from earlier. She smacked the set with her open hand. “C’mon, work! I command you!”

“Move back a moment,” said Daria. Elsie looked around, then did so. Daria slowly approached the set. The static grew even worse. She raised a hand and put it on the TV screen—and the picture went completely out. A loud hum came out of the speakers.

“Whoa,” said Elsie, backing up. “What was that?”

Daria dropped her hand and backed up, too. The farther she got from the set, the better the picture became. When she stood against the far wall, the TV had almost normal reception. She began walking toward the set again. The static quickly returned.

“Girls?” called Mrs. Sloane from the kitchen. “Are you playing with the TV in there?”

Daria listened. She could hear the radio playing in the kitchen. A talk show was on. “Does your radio work now?” she called.

“Yes, it seems to be fine. I never know what’s wrong with these things. They just do whatever they please, don’t they?”

Daria and Elsie looked at each other, then Daria left the dining room for the kitchen again. As she did, she could hear the talk show on the radio begin to disappear into the hiss of static. “Oh, fudge,” said Mrs. Sloane, looking up from a salad she was making. “I’m going to have to get a new radio.”

“Wait a minute,” said Daria. She walked into the kitchen, straight for the radio. The static hissing from the radio became worse until it was a loud roar when she stood next to it and moved her hand across the front of the set.

Daria slowly turned to Elsie, who regarded her with an open mouth. The high tone still rang inside her head. “It’s me,” Daria said, her voice almost a whisper.

“Back up a moment,” said Mrs. Sloane, watching carefully.

Daria walked back to the doorway into the dining room. The radio static faded. The talk show came on.

“Wow,” said Elsie. “Can you always do that?”

“No,” said Daria. “I never have before.” She put her fingers in her ears again, then looked at Elsie. “I think something inside my head is doing it,” she said. “I think it’s that tone I hear.”

“Mom!” came Tom’s shout from the stairway to the second floor. “Can you come up here for a minute?”

“Just a minute, Tom!” Mrs. Sloane called back.

“Now, Mom! Just come up here!”

“Tom, we’re busy! Can’t it wait?”

“There’s something on TV! Come on!”

With a last concerned look at Daria, Mrs. Sloane left the kitchen for the stairs. Elsie turned off the radio. “Come on,” she said, and Daria followed her back into the dining room. “Stand over there,” Elsie said, pointing to the corner of the room farthest from the small TV. Daria did, and Elsie turned on the TV. She went through the cable channels until she came to a news station. As thin lines of interference ran across the screen, a reporter stood beside a road in a forested area, speaking into a microphone. LIVE FROM CAMP SUNRISE, ARKANSAS read the type at the bottom of the screen.

Daria’s heart sank. “Oh, no,” she whispered.

“Shhh!” Elsie turned the volume up.

“—no comment from the FBI officer in charge at the scene,” said the reporter. “We understand that six workers on the site were injured in the explosion. Most of them are said to have suffered severe cold injuries, including frostbite, possibly from a refrigerant being used in the investigation of the collapsed cave. Frankly, though, I have no idea what the refrigerant would have been used for. It’s not a standard item in any sort of recovery efforts I know of.”

A woman’s voice-over spoke next. “Frank, thank you, and we’ll get back to you when you have further word on what happened.” The picture changed to a woman anchor at a news desk. “Once again, an explosion is reported to have occurred within the last twenty minutes at the cave in Arkansas near which a missing child, Daria Morgendorffer, was found two months ago. Six recovery workers at the site were injured and are being transported to an area hospital. Stay tuned for further developments. In Washington today, President Clinton called upon—”

Elsie turned the volume down again.

“They blew up the cave,” Daria said, her voice dead. “That has to be it.”

“Why would they do that?” said Elsie. “They were trying to dig it out, weren’t they? To see what was in it?”

Daria shook her head. “Not them,” she said, pointing at the screen. “The others. To keep everyone from finding what was in there. They’re back.”

A reply died on Elsie’s lips. She stared at Daria with large round eyes, seeing her anew.

Putting her fingers in her ears, Daria listened to the tone. She walked toward the TV. The screen began to fill with lines of static until it showed nothing but electronic snow.

“I’m sending a signal,” she whispered. “Something’s inside me, sending a signal like with radio waves. They did it to me.”

“Why?” Elsie whispered back.

Daria looked at her friend. “So they could find me.”

Chapter Four:

Nightfall

One of Daria’s secret hopes was that she would live to see her next birthday, only six days away on Thursday, November 20th. She and her parents had agreed that she would, for family purposes, turn thirteen that day, though official records would continue to list her as sixteen. The full consequences of suspended animation were not yet worked into the legal system. No matter—Daria would have a birthday once more, and that was the bottom line.

As she stood in the Sloanes’ dining room, the hiss of static in her ears from the television set, Daria felt a shadow pass over that secret hope and conceal it from view—perhaps forever.

“Daria?”

She blinked and looked at Elsie, returning to the present.

“Daria,” Elsie repeated, “do you want to call home?”

“I think I’d better,” Daria said. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. “I’m sorry.”

Elsie ignored that. “Does it hurt?”

“What?”

“What—” Elsie gestured at Daria’s head “—what’s happening with you.”

“Oh. No.” Her voice sounded faint in her ears. “I still have that ringing in my head, that’s all. Where’s the phone?”

“In the kitchen. Come on.”

Elsie showed Daria the kitchen phone, a neo-antique model in the same French style as parts of the house appeared to be. Daria lifted the handset—and her finger paused above the rotary dial. What the hell? After a moment, she remembered how to use it. It felt strange, forcing the dial around in a little circle. A faint buzz of static came from the earpiece (I’m even screwing up the phone system? she thought in amazement), and it took forever for someone to pick up.

The line clicked. A burst of static came and faded. Daria heard the sound of giggling and shushing on the other end. “Morgendorffers,” came Quinn’s voice.

“Quinn?”

“Daria? We seem to have a bad line. I can hardly hear you. You’re still at the Sloanes?”

“Yeah.” Daria swallowed. “Listen—”

“Are Mom and Dad there?”

“No, they’re not here.” Daria frowned. “Aren’t they there with you?”

“No, they went out to photocopy a huge stack of legal briefs Mom needs for work on Monday, and then they were going to dinner at that French place, Chez Pierre. It’s right next to where you’re at.” Quinn’s voice became very distant. “Jeffy, be careful with that. That’s—oh, no! That was my dad’s! Jeffy!”

That Quinn had a boy over with no one else present, in total violation of every parental rule that existed, was irrelevant at the moment. “Quinn, please! Listen to me!”

“Wait—just put it down, Jeffy! Forget it! It’s already broken!” Quinn’s voice returned. “What is it?”

“Something bad is happening.” Static in the line rose and fell. “I think I need to get home, but—I don’t know what I can do about it.”

Quinn’s tone abruptly changed to older-sister apprehension. “What’s wrong? Did you get your first period?”

Daria felt her face turn red. “No! It’s not that!”

“Well, are you hurt? Is someone with you over there?”

“I’m not hurt, but the news said something happened at that cave I was trapped in, back at Camp Grizzly—Camp Sunrise, whatever it is. There was an explosion there. And about the same time that happened—” How in the world am I going to explain to her what’s happening with me? How is she of all people going to understand it? “—I felt sick. I have this ringing noise in my head that won’t go away, and I feel bad, like something’s going wrong with me.”

“Hold on!” Quinn shouted. Her voice became distant again. “Jeffy! We have to go get my sister!” A male voice said something Daria couldn’t make out. “I don’t care what your dad said about you being out with the car, we have to go! Are you taking me, or do I have to call Jeremy? I don’t care what his name is! Are you taking me? Then get out your keys and let’s go!” Quinn’s voice became loud again. “I’ll be right there, okay?”

“Shouldn’t we call Mom or Dad on their phones? They could get me right away.”

“Mom’s cell phone died and it’s being recharged, and I called Daddy earlier about something but he doesn’t have his phone turned on and I had to leave a message and I am so going to scream at him for it! It’s faster if we get you. We’re on our way!”

“Okay,” said Daria. She hoped this Jeffy was a good driver. The issue of what he was doing at the house with Quinn could wait. The other end clicked off, and she hung up. Seeing Mrs. Sloane walk back into the kitchen, Daria gave her a depressed look. “I’m sorry everything got so screwed up,” she said. “I swear this isn’t a joke.”

“Dear, I know. Tom said there was something on the news about . . . well, anyway, we can’t do a thing about it. Did you want to call your parents?”

“My sister’s coming to get me.” Daria rubbed her ears. The tone carried on in her head. “I shouldn’t have come here,” she said dejectedly. “Everything has been nothing but trouble since I got back.”

“No way!” said Elsie. “You can come over again some other time. Don’t worry about it.”

Mrs. Sloane crouched down in front of Daria so she was eye level with her. She put a gentle hand on Daria’s arm. “Daria,” she said, “your mother told me what happened to you, and I still wanted you to come over. It’s not your fault, what happened, and this isn’t, either. I admit I don’t know what’s going on right now, but we’ll find a way to set things right. Okay?”

Though she did not believe for a second that anything would be set aright, Daria nodded and said, “Okay.”

“Good.” Mrs. Sloane stood upright. “Elsie, take Daria and her things upstairs until her sister gets here. I’ll call Angier, my husband. He’s at work. He’s supposed to get off at five, but maybe he can cut loose a little early if we need him. It’s only four fifteen.”

Daria automatically looked out the dining-room windows. Sunset was about five thirty, she remembered, but it was dark already, thanks to the low overcast sky. The view out the window was of the front lawn, taking in the driveway down to the gates leading onto the property. Daria squinted. A white van was parked outside the closed gates. Two men knelt on the van’s roof, holding telephoto cameras aimed in her direction.

“If I felt like laughing, I’d say that was almost funny,” she said, pointing. “I forgot they might follow us here.”

“What?” Mrs. Sloane looked out the window as well. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Say, ‘cheese,’” said Daria flatly. “It makes for a better picture on the tabloids at the checkout counter.”

“Do they always hound you like this?” asked Elsie, at Daria’s side.

“Like the sun and the moon and the wind and the stars. Endless and eternal.” She thought. “Hmmm. I should use that in a story sometime.” If I live past tonight.

“I’m going to call the guards at the gatehouse,” said Mrs. Sloane. “That van shouldn’t have even been allowed into Crewe Neck. It’s ridiculous, grown men behaving like that.” She walked quickly away to the kitchen.

“We should let them know they’re appreciated,” said Elsie—and she promptly flipped her right hand up, only the middle finger extended, and pressed her hand to the window.

Daria noticed. “Your picture won’t appear in the newspapers, but you can count on seeing copies of it on eBay by noon tomorrow.”

Elsie dropped her hand as quickly as she’d raised it. “Let’s go upstairs,” she said, leaving the window. “Bastards.”

Once back in her bedroom, Elsie closed the door and they walked idly around the room. As she looked at the shelves full of costuming books Elsie had collected, Daria suddenly began to talk about her life—what things were like before Camp Grizzly, and how they had changed afterward. It hadn’t been her intention to talk about it, as she felt she’d been forced to go far overboard in relating the same information to her parents, law-enforcement officers, child psychiatrists, and the like. Elsie listened in silence, looking out a window at the darkening evening.

A knock at the door stopped the monologue. “Elsie?” called Mrs. Sloane. “Your father’s going to be late tonight. He’s meeting with clients. Daria?”

“Yes?”

“When will your sister be here?”

“I’m expecting her at any time. We don’t live that far from here.”

“If you don’t mind, then, I’m going out to the Crewe Neck gatehouse and file a complaint to keep those vultures out of here. I have to do it before the supervisor goes off his shift at six. Tom’s in charge until I get back. Make sure he comes downstairs to answer the door personally.”

“Can you pick up a pizza on the way home?” Elsie called back.

“Don’t be silly. We’re having fish tonight, like we always do on Fridays.”

Elsie made an angst-ridden noise and flopped on her back on the bed, the very picture of preteen disgust with authority. “Whatever!” she shouted. In a more normal tone, she added to Daria, “Just as well you’re going. She’s not the perfect fish chef she thinks she is.”

“At least it isn’t microwaved lasagna, like we’ll be having,” said Daria. As Mrs. Sloane’s footsteps went down the staircase, Daria glanced at the wall clock. It was just after five. “Quinn should be here already,” she said. “I bet she stopped at a clothing sale somewhere.” Despite her comment, she felt a touch of worry. Quinn was pretty reliable of late when it came to sticking up for her sister. She hoped there hadn’t been an accident. Teenage boys weren’t good risks behind the wheel, especially if they were in a hurry.

“As long as we’re still here, let me get out the space vixen costume and see what you think of it,” said Elsie, getting off the bed. “You don’t have to put it on. I don’t want Tom to get all drooly over your legs.”

“Thanks for looking out for me,” said Daria, fighting down another blush.

“You wouldn’t have anything to worry about anyway,” said Elsie, looking through the clothing in her large-sized walk-in closet. “Tom only goes for girls his own age. He hasn’t finished going through the Rachels, Madisons, Monicas, and Heathers in the sophomore class yet.”

Figures, thought Daria, feeling downcast. It would look too weird, a high-school guy going out with a wacko eighth grader. Not something the parents would want to see in the society pages of the newspaper. God, listen to me. My hormones must have finally kicked in. She heard a garage door open downstairs at the rear of the house as Mrs. Sloane prepared to leave. “Where’s Tom?” she asked.

“In his room with the earphones on, probably,” said Elsie, coming out of the closet with a plastic-covered outfit that looked like a cross between a NASA spacesuit and a one-piece Mylar bathing suit with long gloves. “It’s supposed to have boots, but I haven’t found any I like yet. The evil lady in charge of the orphanage in Annie wears it. She’s actually from Neptune and plans to sell the orphans as appetizers to other Neptunians.”

Though this sounded uncomfortably like one of Daria’s imagined scenarios for her own future, she had to smile. “It has a certain appeal, when you put it like that,” she said. “Cool outfit.”

“Thanks. I should get a few mannequins, but Mom doesn’t want my room looking like a sweatshop for underage dressmakers.”

“You know,” said Daria, eyeing the clock again, “we’d better go downstairs in case Quinn gets here. We won’t hear her knocking otherwise.”

“Yeah.” Elsie sighed and put the costume on the bed, then led the way to the door. “What are you going to do when you get home?”

“Um . . .” Daria realized she hadn’t thought about that. If the beings that captured her were actually coming back for her, what should she do? She listened to the omnipresent high-pitched tone in her ears. Any beings that could put a transmitter inside a person’s head that couldn’t be detected by x-rays or MRIs were powerful indeed. If they came for her tonight, what would they do to her family? If they would kidnap a child and hide her away for three years, tagging her with an internal transmitter the way humans tagged elk or banded migratory birds, they weren’t limited by thoughts of human morality. They would do what they pleased. Blowing up the fallen cave in Arkansas while humans were nearby fit their style. Humans were not important to them except in the abstract.

Following the dark logic to its conclusion, if Daria went home tonight, it might result in the deaths of everyone in her family. Staying here would similarly doom the Sloanes. There was no way for her to know, for instance, that she herself was not rigged to explode like the cave must have been. She had assumed she was valuable to her captors, though they might in the end kill her, sacrificing her like a research animal to study her one last time before discarding her remains.

“Hey,” said Elsie. She snapped her fingers in front of Daria’s face. “You okay?”

“What? Oh, yeah. Let’s go.”

Maybe I should run away once everyone at home is asleep, she thought as she followed Elsie down the stairs, her overnight bag in hand. I know how to turn off the house alarm—no, wait, that won’t work. The damn paparazzi will see me right off! Damn it to hell! I wish I’d never come out of that cave!

At the bottom of the stairs, Daria looked back up, thinking of Tom. She shook her head and went to the front door. “May as well see if Quinn’s here,” she said.

“She might have pulled around back to the garage,” said Elsie. “Wait, she couldn’t if the driveway gate is shut. It closes and locks automatically when someone leaves.”

“The car might on the street outside, down the hill.” Daria reached for the doorknob. “She sounded like she was in a hurry to get—”

The lights went out.

Chapter Five:

The Uninvited

The world went black. Daria gasped and jerked her hand back from the doorknob. “No way I did that!” she cried. “No way!” She turned around in the Sloanes’ main foyer, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. Faint gray illumination came through windows around the house. A rising wind rumbled against the walls.

“God, that scared the crap out of me,” said Elsie. She yelled up the stairs. “Tom! Hey, Tom! Come downstairs!”

A door opened on the second floor. “I know, I know!” her brother called. “I’ll start the generator in a minute!”

“Start it now!” she shouted back.

“I’m changing clothes for my date! You start it, Edison!” His door slammed shut.

“Ooo, he’ll be in trouble!” Elsie growled. “He knows he can’t leave until Mom or Dad gets back!” She marched off toward the kitchen. Daria glanced at the front door, then gave up and followed her friend. They passed through the kitchen to a door that Daria guessed led into the garage. It did; Elsie went through it and descended a few steps to the concrete floor, walking past a spotless new black Corvette Stingray by the kitchen door. The vast garage had space for two other cars, both of which were gone.

Daria stopped in the doorway. A cold wind blew against her face. Mrs. Sloane had left the wider of the two garage doors open when she drove off to see the guards. The door looked out into the backyard, on the side that turned into a dense woodlot about a hundred feet from the house. The swing set and children’s fort were to the right, she remembered. Dry leaves blew into the garage, whirling in the wind.

Elsie stopped on the far side of the garage, standing before a large gasoline engine with several large electrical cords leading into it. She checked the gas gauge, then called back to Daria. “Tom’s gonna have to fill the tank up when he comes down. When this starts, it’ll be really loud. You can shut the garage door.”

Nodding, Daria reached up for the garage door switch. As she did, she again looked out the garage door into the wooded side of the backyard.

A human figure was coming toward the house.

“Elsie?” Daria called, her voice rising.

“Get ready!” Elsie shouted, a hand hovering over a large red button as she tried to shield her ears with her other arm.

“Someone’s in your yard!” Daria shouted back, pointing. Elsie looked out the garage door.

The figure moved out of the evening shadows between the trees with a strange, stiff-legged gait, dragging one foot. It appeared to be a man with a camera hanging from a shoulder strap. The camera bounced against his abdomen as he moved. His clothes were stiff, as if made of cardboard. A white substance was spattered over his tattered leather jacket and long beige cargo pants. He was making directly for the open garage, his left hand extended before him as if begging, the other arm held in an odd pose close to his side. An injured photographer? she wondered—but something about him shouted wrong.

“Shut the door!” screamed Elsie. Slapping the red start button, she ran for the kitchen. The generator came to life with a painful, ear-splitting roar. Daria punched the button to shut the garage door—but nothing happened. She jammed the button down in a panic as Elsie fled past her into the house. The foot-dragging man reached the paved driveway. He was all wrong, a rigid-limbed mummy from a bad horror film. He groaned through a mouth that did not close, and then gestured at Daria with his left hand. The camera strap suddenly broke in several places. The camera hit the pavement, shattering the telephoto lens. Fragments of the strap bounced on the blacktop and broke again.

The garage and house lights came on. With a bang, the garage door began to descend at a seeming snail’s crawl, yet it covered the image of the approaching man and thumped to the ground before he came through. Daria spotted a smaller button below the garage door control that read LOCK, and she hit that one as well before she went inside, slammed the door, locked the knob, and threw the deadbolt.

Out of Daria’s sight, Elsie continued to shriek as she ran through the house: “Lock the doors and windows! Lock everything!” Daria swiftly checked the kitchen’s many windows and the door to the back deck, found them secure, and then hurried on to the dining room.

“Hey!” came Tom’s angry shout from upstairs. “What the hell are you doing down there? Cut it out, or I’ll tell Mom!”

Daria took a different path than Elsie had taken, running into the living room on the side of the house opposite the garage and kitchen. The living room had a large door with a full-length window that led out onto an open porch. She locked the doorknob and the deadbolt, but it was clear all someone on the outside had to do was smash out the window and reach inside to undo the locks. Damn stupid architects! Seeing no immediate cure for it, she ran after Elsie to tell her.

Elsie was in the kitchen again, dialing the telephone. “Come on! Work!” she yelled at it. Daria started to approach—then remembered her overpowering effect on electronic circuitry. The high tone still rang in her head, though she was no longer paying attention to it. She backed away from the phone—and bumped into someone behind her. Strong hands seized her shoulders as she let out a frightened yelp.

“What are you two doing?” Tom shouted, steadying Daria after she’d backed into him. “Stop playing around! Is the generator on?”

“The phone’s dead!” Elsie shouted, pounding on the hang-up switch in an attempt to stir it to life again.

“Someone’s in the backyard!” Daria said, trying to be calm and rational but still shouting.

“Where?” Tom walked to the kitchen windows—and stopped short. Elsie looked up from the phone and screamed. Daria reached for the kitchen light switches and shut them all off, flipping other switches until she found the toggle to turn on the outside lights around the wooden deck.

The staggering man was coming around the side of the house from the garage. He moved more slowly through the grass than on the pavement, but he kept his head turned in the direction of the kitchen windows. Only his left eye moved in his face, the other frozen in place looking ahead, so he seemed cross-eyed. The rest of his features were set rigidly in place, with his mouth open as if shouting. He still held his left arm forward, his fingers outstretched as if pleading. It was clear that he was making for the steps leading up to the deck—and then to the kitchen door.

“What the hell?” said Tom. He turned and snatched a large cutting knife from a wooden block containing a number of chef’s tools, but he backed up anyway. “Elsie, you and your friend go upstairs!”

“Daria!” said Daria. “I’m Daria!” She saw something moving through the grass and dead leaves behind the man. It was small and light in color, but hard to see even with the deck lights on. An animal?