Let the Right One In

by John Ajvide Lindqvist

  Benke folded the gauze into a thick compress and pressed it against the wound. How the hell was he supposed to secure it with tape? The rest of the man’s neck was so mangled there was almost no area of undamaged skin to attach the tape to. But what did he care? He wanted to go home now. He pulled off long strips of adhesive, weaving them this way and that across the neck, an arrangement he would probably be criticised for later, but what the hell.

  I’m a janitor, not a surgeon.

  When the compress was in place he wiped off the stretcher and mopped the floor. Then he rolled the corpse into room four, rubbed his hands together. Mission accomplished. A job well done and a story to tell in the future. While he made a last check and turned off the light he was already working on it.

  You know that murderer who fell from the top floor? Well, I was in charge of him later and when I wheeled him down to the morgue I saw something strange… He took the elevator up to his room, washed his hands thoroughly, changed and threw his coat into the laundry on his way out.

  He walked down to the parking lot, got into his car and smoked a single cigarette before he started the engine. After he stubbed it out in the ashtray—which really needed to be emptied—he turned the key in the ignition.

  The car was resisting as it always did when it was cold or damp. It always started in the end, though. You only had to keep at it. As the wah-wah sound on the third attempt transformed into a hacking engine roar he suddenly realised:

  It doesn’t coagulate.

  No. The stuff seeping out of the man’s neck was not going to coagulate under the compress. It would soak through and then spill onto the ground…and when they opened the door in a few hours…

  Shit!

  He pulled the key out of the ignition, thrust it angrily into his pocket, got out of the car and headed back to the hospital.

  The living room was not as empty as the hall and the kitchen. Here there was a sofa, an armchair and a large coffee table with a lot of little things on it. A lone floor lamp sent a soft yellow glow over the table. But that was all. No carpets, no pictures, no TV. Thick blankets had been draped over the windows.

  It looks like a prison. A big prison cell.

  Oskar whistled, tentatively. Yes. There was an echo, but not too much. Probably because of the blankets. He put his bag down next to the armchair. The click when the bottom of it landed on the hard cork flooring was amplified, sounded desolate.

  He had started to look at the things on the table when Eli came out of the next room, now wearing her too-big chequered shirt. Oskar waved his arm indicating the living room.

  ‘Are you two moving?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘I was just thinking.’

  You two?

  Why didn’t he think of it before? Oskar let his gaze travel over the things on the table. Looked like toys, every last one of them. Old toys.

  ‘That old man who was here before. That wasn’t your dad, was it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was he also…?’

  ‘No.’

  Oskar nodded. Looked around the room again. Hard to imagine anyone could live like this. Except if…

  ‘Are you sort of…poor?’

  Eli walked over to the table, picked up a box that looked like a black egg and handed it to Oskar. He leaned over, held it under the lamp in order to see better.

  The surface of the egg was rough and when Oskar looked more closely he saw hundreds of complex strands of gold thread. The egg was heavy as if the whole thing was made of some kind of metal. Oskar turned it this way and that, looked at the gold threads embedded on the egg’s surface. Eli stood next to Oskar, he smelled it again…the smell of rust.

  ‘What’s it worth, do you think?’

  ‘Don’t know. A lot?’

  ‘There are only two of them in the world. If you had both of them you could sell them and buy yourself…a nuclear power plant, maybe.’

  ‘Nooo…?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. What does a nuclear power plant cost? Fifty million?’

  ‘I think it would cost…billions.’

  ‘Really? In that case I guess you couldn’t.’

  ‘What would you do with a nuclear power plant?’

  Eli laughed.

  ‘Put it between your hands. Like this. Cup them. And then you let it roll back and forth.’

  Oskar did as Eli said. Rolled the egg gently back and forth in his cupped hands and felt the egg…crack, collapse between his palms. He gasped and removed the upper hand. The egg was now just a heap of hundreds…thousands of tiny slivers.

  ‘Gosh, I’m sorry. I was careful, I—’

  ‘Shhh. It’s supposed to be like that. Make sure you don’t drop any of it. Pour them out onto this.’

  Eli pointed to a piece of white paper on the table. Oskar held his breath as he gently let the glittering shards fall from his hand. The individual pieces were smaller than drops of water and Oskar had to used his other hand to wipe his palm free of every last one.

  ‘But it broke.’

  ‘Here. Look.’

  Eli pulled the lamp closer to the table, concentrated its dim light on the heap of metal slivers. Oskar leaned over and looked. One piece, no bigger than a tick, lay on its own to one side of the stack, and when he looked very closely he could see that it had indentations and notches on a few sides, almost microscopic light bulb-shaped protrusions on the other. He got it.

  ‘It’s a puzzle.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But…can you put it together again?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘It must take forever.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Oskar looked at more pieces that were spread out next to the pile. They looked to be identical to the first, but when he looked closer he saw there were subtle variations. The notches were not in exactly the same place, the protrusions were at another angle. He also saw a piece was all smooth, except for a gold border a hair’s width across…A piece of the outside.

  He slouched down into the armchair.

  ‘It would drive me crazy.’

  ‘Think about the guy who made it.’

  Eli rolled her eyes and stuck her tongue out so she looked like the dwarf Dopey. Oskar laughed. Ha-ha. When he stopped the sound still vibrated in the walls. Desolate. Eli sat down on the couch and crossed her legs, looking at him with…anticipation. He looked away and looked at the table, and the toys that made a landscape of ruins.

  Desolate.

  All at once he felt tired in that way again. She wasn’t ‘his girl’, couldn’t be that. She was…something else. There was a big distance between them that couldn’t be…he shut his eyes, leaned back in the armchair, and the black behind his eyelids was the space that separated them.

  He dozed off, gliding into a momentary dream.

  The space between them was filled with ugly, sticky insects that flew at him and when they got closer he saw they had teeth. He waved his hand to get rid of them, and woke up. Eli was sitting on the couch watching him.

  ‘Oskar. I’m a person, just like you. It’s just that I have…a very unusual illness.’

  Oskar nodded.

  A thought wanted to get out. Something. A context. He didn’t catch hold of it. Dropped it. But then that other thought came out, the terrifying one. That Eli was just pretending. That there was an ancient person inside of her, watching him, who knew everything, and was smiling at him smiling in secret.

  But that can’t be.

  In order to have something to do, he dug around in his bag for the Walkman, took out the tape that was in it, read the title, Kiss: Unmasked, turned it over, Kiss: Destroyer, put it back.

  I should go home.

  Eli leaned forward.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘This? It’s a Walkman.’

  ‘Is it for…listening to music?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She doesn’t know anything. She’s super-intelligent but she doesn’t know anything. What does she do al
l day? Sleep, of course. Where does she keep the coffin? That’s right. She never slept those times she came over. She simply lay there in my bed and waited for the sun to come up. I must be gone…

  ‘Can I try it?’

  Oskar held it out to her. She took it and looked as if she didn’t know what to do with it, but then put the headphones on and looked inquiringly at him. Oskar pointed at the buttons.

  ‘Press the one that says Play.’

  Eli read the top of the buttons, selected play. Oskar felt a calm settle over him. This was normal; playing your music for a friend. He wondered what Eli would think of Kiss.

  She pushed in the button, and even from his armchair Oskar could hear the whispery, noisy jangle of guitar, drums and vocals. She had ended up in the middle of one of the heavier songs.

  Eli’s eyes opened wide, she screamed in pain. Oskar was so shocked he was thrown back in the armchair. It tipped back, almost falling over while he watched Eli tear the headphones off so violently that the wires detached, threw them down, pressed her hands against her ears, whimpering.

  Oskar gaped, staring at the headphones that had hit the wall. He got to his feet, picked them up. Completely destroyed. Both of the wires had been torn out of the earpieces. He put them on the table and sank down into the armchair again.

  Eli removed her hands from her ears.

  ‘Sorry, I…it hurt so much.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Was it expensive?’

  ‘No.’

  Eli took down a box that was stacked on top of the others, reached into it and fished out a couple of banknotes, holding them out to Oskar.

  ‘Here.’

  He took them, counted them out. Three thousand-kronor bills and two hundreds. He felt something akin to fear, looked at the carton she had taken the money from, back at Eli, back at the money.

  ‘I…it cost fifty kronor.’

  ‘Take it anyway.’

  ‘No, but, it…it was only the headphones that broke and they…’

  ‘But you can have it. Please?’

  Oskar hesitated, then crumpled the notes into his pants pocket while he mentally calculated their worth in advertising flyers. Around one year of Saturdays, maybe…twenty-five thousand delivered flyers. One hundred and fifty hours. More. A fortune. The bills in his pocket rubbed uncomfortably against him.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Eli nodded, picked something up off the table that looked like a knot of wires but was probably a brain teaser. Oskar looked at her as she fiddled with the knots. Her bent neck, her long thin fingers that flew over the wires. He went over everything she had told him. Her dad, the aunt who lived in the city, the school she went to. Lies, all of it.

  And where had she gotten the money from? Stolen?

  He was so unaccustomed to the feeling he didn’t even know what it was at first. It started like a kind of tingle in his head, continued into his body, then made a sharp cold arc from his stomach to his head. He was…angry. Not desperate or scared. Angry.

  Because she had lied to him and then…and who had she stolen the money from anyway? From someone she had…? He crossed his arms over his stomach, leaned back.

  ‘You kill people.’

  ‘Oskar…’

  ‘If this is true then you must kill people. Take their money.’

  ‘I’ve been given the money.’

  ‘You’re just lying. The whole time.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘What part is true? That you’re lying?’

  Eli put down the tangle of knots and looked at him with wounded eyes, threw her arms out. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Prove it to me.’

  ‘Prove what?’

  ‘That you are…who you say you are.’

  She looked at him for a long time. Then she shook her head.

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘Why not.’

  ‘Guess.’

  Oskar sank deeper into the armchair. Felt the small wad of bills in his pocket. In his mind saw the bundles of advertising flyers that had arrived that morning. That had to be delivered before Tuesday. Grey fatigue in his body. Tears in his head. Anger. ‘Guess.’ More games. More lies. Wanted to leave. To sleep.

  The money. She gave me money so I would stay.

  He got up out of the armchair, took the crumpled bills from his pocket, placed everything on the table except a hundred kronor note. Put it back in his pocket and said, ‘I’m going home.’

  She leaned over, grabbed his wrist. ‘Stay. Please.’

  ‘Why? All you do is lie.’

  He tried to move away from her, but her grip on his wrist hardened.

  ‘Let me go!’

  ‘I’m not some freak from the circus!’

  Oskar clenched his teeth, said calmly, ‘Let me go.’

  She did not let go. The cold arc of anger in Oskar’s chest started to vibrate, sing, and he threw himself on top of her. Landed on top of her and pressed her backwards into the couch. She weighed almost nothing and he had her pinned up against the armrest, sat down on her chest while the arc bent, shook, made black dots in front of his eyes as he raised his arm and hit her in the face as hard as he could.

  A sharp slapping sound bounced between the walls and her head jerked to the side, drops of saliva flew out of her mouth and his hand burned. The arc cracked, fell to pieces and his anger dissolved.

  He sat on her chest, looked bewildered at her little head, turned in profile against the black leather of the couch, as a flush bloomed on the cheek he had struck. She lay still, her eyes open. He rubbed his hands over his face.

  ‘Sorry. Sorry. I…’

  Suddenly she turned around, threw him off her chest, pushed him up against the back of the couch. He tried to get a grip on her shoulders, but missed, got a hold of her hips and she landed with her belly right over his face. He threw her off, twisted around and both of them tried to get a hold of the other.

  They rolled around on the couch, wrestling. With tensed muscles and utter concentration. But with care, so that neither would hurt the other. They snaked around each other, bumped against the table.

  Pieces of the black egg fell to the floor with the sound of raindrops on a metal roof.

  He didn’t bother going up to his room to get his coat. His shift was over.

  This is my time off, and this is something I’m doing for the sheer pleasure of it.

  He could help himself to a spare pathologist’s coat in the morgue if it was really…messy. The lift came and he walked in, pushed the button for lower level 2. What would he do in that case? Call the ER and see if someone could come down and sew him up? There was no protocol for this kind of situation.

  Probably the bleeding, or whatever it was called, had already stopped, but he had to make sure. Would not be able to sleep otherwise. Would lie there and hear the dripping.

  He smiled to himself as he got out of the lift. How many normal people would be prepared to take care of this kind of thing without batting an eye? Not many. He was pretty pleased with himself for…well, for doing his duty. Taking responsibility.

  I’m not completely normal.

  And he couldn’t deny it: there was something in him that was actually hoping that…that the bleeding had continued; that he would have to call the ER, that there would be a scene. However much he wanted to go home and sleep. Because it would make a better story, that’s why.

  No, he was not completely normal. He had no problems with the corpses; organic machines with the brains turned off. But what could make him a little paranoid were all these corridors.

  Simply the thought of this network of tunnels ten metres underground, the large rooms and offices in some kind of administrative department in hell. So large. So quiet. So empty.

  The corpses are a picture of health by comparison.

  He punched in the code, automatically put his finger on the opener which only answered with a helpless click. Pushed the door open manually and walked into
the morgue, pulled on a pair of rubber gloves.

  What was this?

  The man he had left covered in a sheet now lay fully exposed. His penis was erect, pointing to one side. The sheet lay on the floor. Benke’s smoke-damaged airways squeaked as he gasped for breath.

  The man wasn’t dead. No. He couldn’t be dead…since he was moving.

  Slowly, in an almost dream-like way, the man turned over on the gurney. His hands fumbled for something and Benke instinctively took a step back as one of them—it didn’t even look like a hand— swept past his face. The man tried to get up, fell back onto the metal stretcher. The lone eye stared straight ahead without blinking.

  A sound. The man was uttering a sound.

  ‘Eeeeeeeeee…’

  Benke rubbed his face. Something had happened to his skin. His skin felt…he looked at his hand. Rubber gloves.

  Behind his hand he saw the man make another attempt to get up.

  What the hell do I do?

  Again the man fell down onto the gurney with a moist boom. A few drops of that fluid splattered onto Benke’s face. He tried to wipe it away with the rubber glove but only managed to smear it around.

  He took up a corner of his shirt and wiped himself with it.

  Ten storeys. He fell ten storeys.

  OK, OK, you’ve got a situation here. Deal with it.

  If the man wasn’t dead, he was surely in the process of dying. Needed care.

  ‘Eeeee…’

  ‘I’m here. I’ll help you. I’m going to take you to the emergency room. Try to lie still, I will…’

  Benke walked over and put his hands on the man’s struggling body. The man’s un-deformed hand shot out and grabbed Benke’s wrist. Damn, he was strong. Benke had to use both hands to free himself from the man’s grip.

  The only thing nearby to cover the man to warm him was the standard-issue morgue sheet. Benke spread three of them over the man who was writhing like a worm on a hook, still making that sound.

  He leaned down over the man. ‘Now I’ll take you down to the emergency room, OK? Try to keep still.’

  He pushed the stretcher to the door and, despite the situation, remembered that the door opener wasn’t working. He walked over to the head of the gurney, opened the door and looked down at the man’s head. Immediately wishing he hadn’t done so.