The Valancourt Book of World Horror Stories

by James D. Jenkins

  (Ir)Realidades, it was recently selected for inclusion in an anthology of the best speculative fiction by women writers from Latin America and Spain, and we’re pleased to be able to make it available to English-­speaking readers as well.

  Julian headed hurriedly to his date. Two months ago he had met the most beautiful woman in the world. All his friends would have envied his luck, were it not for the fact that he couldn’t tell anyone about his relationship. That was one of the many conditions that Diana imposed. Another was that she refused to spend the night with him. She never explained why, but he assumed she had strong religious convictions.

  Thus Julian hadn’t yet enjoyed intimate relations with the young woman. But he didn’t care much about that. She was so beautiful that he felt satisfied just looking at her, and what’s more they got along perfectly, they liked the same music, the same writers, the same films. It had in fact been this that had recently made him start to question the relationship. How much longer would such a ‘perfect’ relationship survive? Sometimes it’s so boring to agree on absolutely everything. Not that he wanted a stormy relationship, he’d had those in the past and knew that they were destructive in the end. He enjoyed the peace he felt with Diana, but a little jealous scene every so often might have spiced things up a little.

  As if she sensed what he was thinking, Diana decided all of a sudden to agree to spend an entire weekend with him. In light of her proposal, Julian resolved to put aside his doubts for now. Mysterious like always, she asked him to pick her up at a roadside café. From there they would go to a place she knew well and which she was sure he would love.

  Since he met her, Diana had seemed more than mysterious; secretive would be the right word. He didn’t even know for certain what kind of work she did. She had told him she was a professional collector and that the nature of her activity required the utmost discretion. Discarding the possibility that such a sweet and intelligent woman could be involved in any illicit business, Julian came to the conclusion that Diana bought pieces of various kinds at auctions for millionaires who didn’t want their identities known. And that explanation left him satisfied. Why think any more about it?

  Julian arrived at the appointed place half an hour before their scheduled rendezvous. The café was logically located next to a gas station that was more than dilapidated. There were two old men there working as attendants; Julian wondered how much longer they could go on working. They looked tired, decrepit.

  He stopped the car and asked them to fill up the tank. One of the old men looked at him with amusement and started laughing like a madman. Shaking his head, he entered the disorderly room that served as their office. The other man slowly approached.

  ‘Don’t mind him, he has a screw loose from being here so long.’

  ‘Well . . . he was a little rude, wasn’t he?’

  The old man began filling the tank without saying anything. He seemed to be on the lookout for something; he cast fearful, sneaking glances at the café. He gave Julian the impression of someone who is being watched.

  ‘Do many people come this way?’

  ‘Those come who have to come. If you don’t have a date, it’s not worth the trouble of coming all the way here. That’s what brought me, and here I’ve stayed.’

  The coincidence of talking about a ‘date’ seemed more than strange to Julian. But he said nothing, only smiled.

  ‘How much do I owe you?’ he asked when the old man finished his work.

  ‘You’ll pay later, on the way out. Because I’m sure you’re going in the café, right?’

  Julian couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable with what the old man was saying. First the reference to the date, then to the café. It was as if he knew exactly what Julian was going to do. It could be just a coincidence; in the end, if the place Diana had spoken to him about was nearby, surely many couples passed by the gas station on the way to their destination. On the other hand, the journey from the city to that place was long, so it was perfectly natural after so much traveling to decide to have a coffee at the only available place in sight. However, deep down Julian felt a certain unease that signaled to him that something wasn’t right.

  ‘Take this, I’ve written down how much you owe. Don’t forget to check it before you go in, please,’ he said, taking Julian’s hand desperately and looking around in all directions.

  Julian pulled his hand back nervously. The other old man came out of the office and shouted between laughs:

  ‘Don’t forget to try the pie!’

  The man who was attending to Julian looked wild-­eyed at his companion as he shook his head no.

  Julian could barely stop himself from running towards the café. He didn’t want to spend any more time with those old men, who were obviously disturbed. As he walked away, he could hear them both discussing in whispers.

  Once inside the café he was surprised to see that the place contrasted with the condition of the gas station. Everything was immaculately clean and tidy. There were several men there of different ages, all of them looking as if they were spending a weekend in the country: hand luggage, comfortable clothing. Apparently the place Diana had spoken to him about was very popular. He sat down at the counter.

  ‘What can I get you?’ The woman waiting on him was middle-­aged, neither pretty nor ugly, quite friendly and neat.

  ‘Just a coffee, please.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to try my apple pie? I make it myself every morning. It’s very popular.’

  ‘So it seems. At the gas station they recommended that I try it.’

  ‘That’s right, everybody here likes my pie.’

  ‘But no, thanks. I’m not very hungry, maybe another time. I’ll be in the area all weekend.’

  The woman served him the coffee and retired with a smile.

  Julian looked at his watch. There were still several minutes left until the agreed-­upon time. He took a sip of the coffee, which turned out to be quite good and fresh. He looked around. He noticed that all the customers were men. It struck him as odd. Suddenly he realized he hadn’t seen any cars parked outside and he wondered if these might be locals? But they all had hand luggage . . .

  The woman approached him with a slice of pie.

  ‘On the house. Don’t turn me down – look, I’ve only given you a little, you won’t regret it.’

  Julian thought she must be one of those women who feel proud of the one thing they’re good at and insist that everyone try it. Out of politeness, he took a mouthful. The pie melted in his mouth, it had just the perfect amount of sugar. They say that even the most insignificant small town has its hidden gems, and this one’s was the gas station’s pie.

  ‘It’s really delicious!’

  ‘I told you, it’ll make you forget your cares, you’ll see.’

  Julian took another greedy mouthful. Suddenly he noticed there was no one in the kitchen.

  ‘You don’t have a cook?’

  ‘I don’t need one. I prepare everything very early, before opening.’

  ‘Then I congratulate you, the coffee is more than fresh, the pie is a delicacy . . .’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ she said, smiling again.

  He continued eating that magnificent pie. He looked at his watch. Diana would arrive at any moment. He wanted to ask for the check, but the woman wasn’t there, she’d prob­ably gone into the kitchen. He took out his wallet and opened the paper the old man had given him to see how much he had to pay. There wasn’t a single number on it, only scrawled in nervous handwriting: ‘Whatever you do, leave this place. And don’t eat the pie.’

  Julian froze. He looked around. All men, all with hand luggage, like someone going away for a weekend, and all of them eating the same pie as him. He eavesdropped on their conversations: they were all talking about the magnificent woman they had met. The descriptions varied; for one she was blond, for
another brunette, further on she was tall and thin and for the person beside him she was small and chubby, but to all of them she was the perfect woman. They were all there waiting for her, for she had made a date with them in that remote place.

  Julian thought about getting up, but it was already very late. All of a sudden he only wished to stay there, eating that delicious pie. What’s more, he had to wait for Diana, who would surely be arriving soon.

  The woman approached him again at seeing his plate empty.

  ‘Here’s another slice. I’m sure you want it, isn’t that right, Julian?’

  He looked her in the eyes and found himself looking into Diana’s gaze.

  Translated from the Spanish by James D. Jenkins

  Bernardo Esquinca

  Señor Ligotti

  It probably shouldn’t surprise anyone that the same country that gave us Día de Muertos and the films of Guillermo del Toro should have an active horror literature scene, but for some reason we don’t seem to hear much about it. A partial list of important contemporary Mexican writers in the genre would have to include names like Amparo Dávila, Alberto Chimal, and Raquel Castro, all of whom have had work published in English, and F. G. Haghenbeck and Cecilia Eudave, whose horror fiction seems only to be available in Spanish. But there was one name in particular we kept coming across on every list of the best Mexican horror writers: Bernardo Esquinca. Esquinca (b. 1972) is a prolific author of horror novels and short stories and has also co-­edited two volumes of fantastic tales from Mexico City. His works often blend the genres of horror or weird fiction with the crime novel, a formula that has proved successful with both readers and critics (he was awarded the Premio Nacional de Novela Negra in 2017). If you’ve ever been frustrated that people in other countries get to read things before you do because of the long lag time to translate and publish them in English, you’re about to get a little bit of revenge. The following story, taken from the author’s forthcoming collection El libro de los dioses (The Book of the Gods), hasn’t even appeared in Spanish yet, meaning this is its first appearance anywhere.

  Señor Ligotti showed up at the end of a conference. As usual, Esteban signed some books, listened to his readers with studied politeness and gave quick, concise tips to the ones aspiring to become writers. When he was preparing to leave the auditorium, with that mixture of satisfaction and emptiness he felt after every presentation – yes, he had readers, but he always wanted more – he saw him seated in the last row, with his red canvas bag, the bowtie in place of a necktie, the snow-­white beard, with the tips of his mustache ending in points, in the style of some figures from the Revolution, and a walking stick with a silver-­plated handle.

  Señor Ligotti rose to his feet with an unexpected agility, extended his hand in a vigorous manner – Esteban could feel the hardness of several rings pressing against his skin – and spoke to him without beating about the bush.

  ‘I’d like to make you a business proposition. Will you let me buy you a coffee?’

  Normally Esteban would have refused. He didn’t like chatting with people from the audience beyond what was necessary; talking with strangers was something that made him uncomfortable. He would often receive invitations to workshops, reading groups, and even to bars, which he rejected while trying to hide his irritation. This time he had the perfect excuse: his wife was in the final stage of pregnancy and he had to get home as soon as possible. Maybe that’s what made him accept, the need to distract himself from the stress of the imminent childbirth, from the anxiety that didn’t let him concentrate to read or write.

  Esteban soon found himself seated in a private booth at a Vips cafeteria with this elderly eccentric, who seemed plucked off a theater stage and who at the same time had an impeccable bearing and an overwhelming dignity. He was spending time with a stranger. Having kids changes you, was the phrase he’d gotten used to hearing since Adela had gotten pregnant.

  Señor Ligotti fixed him with an inquisitive look.

  ‘How are things going? Does one make a good living writing?’

  A typical question. Before responding, Esteban glanced at the book display stands next to the cash register, filled with bestsellers. Every time he went in a Vips, he lamented that his novels didn’t form part of that club: the books that were sold in bookstores, but also in supermarkets, shops, restaurants.

  ‘I make a living from what I write, but it could be better.’

  ‘For all of us it could be better. Worse too. It’s all about knowing how to take advantage of opportunities. Do you own your own home?’

  ‘No. No matter how much I save, I never have enough.’

  Señor Ligotti took a sip of his coffee and set it back down on the table. Then he moved his ring-­filled fingers, making them chime against the mug.

  ‘Si non oscillas, noli tintinnare . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s an old saying, as old as I am. If you don’t swing, you don’t ring, like bells. I’ve been one of your readers for a while: I think you’re a talented writer, that you deserve better luck. I know you’re obsessed with the Colonia Juárez neighborhood, since many of your stories take place there. I own an apartment in the Berlín building, which I’m putting up for sale. Are you interested?’

  Esteban looked at his beer: he had hardly touched it. On the other hand, Señor Ligotti was going for his third coffee. Maybe he didn’t sleep?

  ‘I’ve rented my whole life. I dream of buying a house . . .’

  ‘How much do you have?’

  ‘Not even a million pesos.’

  Señor Ligotti stroked his beard with his ring-­laden hand. The one on his pinky finger had the logo of the National University: a shield borne by two birds of prey.

  ‘Give me what you have and it’s yours. I’d rather that someone who values old buildings live there and care for it. I have a great fondness for that apartment.’

  Señor Ligotti’s eyes glazed over. He paused to let out a long sigh.

  ‘I lived there with my wife. She died last year.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘The money isn’t an issue for me. It’s a sentimental thing: I can’t leave all those memories to just anyone.’

  The old man stood up and placed a card on the table. Before leaving, he said:

  ‘Come and see me at my office. And bring your lawyer, if that makes you feel more comfortable.’

  Esteban was thoughtful. It was the type of offer he fantasized about getting, but he didn’t want to take advantage of a melancholy old man. He looked out the window: a luxury car pulled up to collect Señor Ligotti. The chauffeur got out and opened the back door for him.

  He went to the cash register. The bill had already been paid.

  Adela was suspicious. Sitting at the kitchen table with her hands on her belly to feel the baby when it moved, she had listened to the story Esteban told her as he walked back and forth, more and more euphoric. She asked him to be cautious. Things didn’t happen so easily. Not to them. Nor did she believe in coincidences. Everything had a reason, a consequence.

  ‘It smells like fraud.’

  Esteban opened the refrigerator. He looked inside, took out a slice of ham and closed it again.

  ‘Why would a rich old man commit a fraud? It’s absurd.’

  ‘We don’t know anything about him. He could be a decoy, the tip of the iceberg of something we can’t even imagine.’

  ‘Do you hear yourself? We should write a suspense novel together. You’re more paranoid than I am.’

  ‘I’m suspicious, which is different. And more intuitive than you. Let’s suppose that he really is a rich, lonely widower. An eccentric man who commits frauds in order to . . .’

  ‘In order to what?’

  ‘. . . amuse himself.’

  Esteban knelt down beside Adela. He put his hands on her belly in an attempt to reassure
her.

  ‘Some of our friends have had similar opportunities. People who make them a good offer. And we always say, “What a lucky devil!” Well, now it’s our turn. Don’t they say that babies bring good luck?’

  ‘That money is all we have. And we’re on the verge of being parents. At least bring a lawyer to the meeting, someone to advise you.’

  ‘Lawyers are expensive. I have experience with contracts, remember that I’ve signed lots of them for my books. Trust me.’

  Adela felt exhausted. For eight months she’d had something living inside her that she couldn’t see but that she could feel moving within her, growing, feeding. She slept little and badly. She didn’t want to go on arguing; she got up and went silently to bed.

  Esteban remained in the kitchen. He looked out the window to contemplate the pitch-­dark night, barely illuminated by the poor lighting of Colonia Juárez.

  In the middle of that darkness was their new home, waiting for them.

  Esteban entered the lobby of a luxurious building that housed various offices. He saw from the wall directory that the office of Ligotti Industries shared a floor with the corporate offices of Grau Press, an important transnational imprint that had rejected his work on several occasions. That coincidence upset him, stirring up old frustrations. What was wrong with his writing that made it unworthy of being included in their catalog? Grau Press published renowned authors, but also a lot of rubbish. Esteban didn’t fool himself: he knew he’d never win a prestigious award – he wrote thrillers, a genre scorned by critics – but at the same time he knew that his books had quality. And what’s more, they sold. So what was the problem? He was thinking about that when he got off the elevator on the top floor and was still considering it when, after a short wait, the secretary told him to go in.

  Señor Ligotti’s office impressed him: marble floor, mahogany furniture, leather chairs, cut glass ashtrays, and books: the walls were covered with shelves. As he sat down in front of the desk and Señor Ligotti handed him the sale contract to review, he realized that a good part of that library consisted of Grau Press titles. Curiosity got the better of him and he asked his host why.