The Valancourt Book of World Horror Stories

by James D. Jenkins

  ‘I know the owner, we’re good friends. Every time a new title comes out, he gives me a copy. By the way, you should publish there: it’s an important publishing house, it would get your name out there.’

  ‘I’ve tried, but I haven’t had any luck.’

  ‘Talent isn’t a question of luck. It’s all about getting a push in the right direction. I can help you.’

  Esteban’s eyes shone with intensity. He began to flip through the pages of the contract and signed them without paying any attention.

  ‘Really? I wouldn’t dream of asking you for that favor . . .’

  Señor Ligotti moved his ring-­laden fingers over the glass ashtray, producing a sound similar to the one he had made with the mug at Vips. For a moment, Esteban felt that time had stopped, that nothing else existed but that rhythmic, hypnotic tapping.

  Si non oscillas, noli tintinnare.

  Señor Ligotti’s voice brought him back to reality.

  ‘You’re not asking, I’m offering. It’s in your best interest: several of the titles you see here were published thanks to my opportune intervention. And with great success. I have a good eye, my neighbor knows it.’

  ‘I should sit down to write. Lately things haven’t been easy for me. Pregnancy brings a lot of worries and complications with it. For example . . .’

  He was on the point of affixing his signature to the final page, but Señor Ligotti interrupted him:

  ‘Wait. Before we finish with this, I want us to make a verbal pact, a gentleman’s agreement.’

  Esteban’s mind remained overrun with the worries he hadn’t managed to express: diapers, ultrasounds, the birth.

  ‘Yes?’

  The old man was now holding his cane in his hands and stroking the silver handle. When had he picked it up?

  ‘That you let me visit you in the apartment. It’s the only condition I impose. We can talk about books, drink coffee, and discuss the progress of the work I’ll be proposing to Grau Press.’

  Esteban smiled, relieved. For a moment he thought that the agreement was going to slip through his fingers.

  ‘Of course.’

  He signed, sealing the pact.

  The move happened a week later. To celebrate, Esteban organized a party attended by his writer friends and some ex-­­colleagues from when he used to work in the cultural bureaucracy. He drank one beer after another as he showed the flat to each guest who arrived. The Berlín building was an old edifice, well maintained. Just the type of place he liked. The apartment had high ceilings, thick walls, hardwood flooring. Three bedrooms, two full bathrooms. There was a fireplace in the living room, which gave a touch of elegance. And the best part: it was located on the building’s ground floor, which would save him from having to climb the stairs with the stroller.

  At some point that night he went up to Clemente, an author of crime novels whom he’d known for many years and with whom he had the kind of friendship that usually develops between writers: not very honest, self-­serving, based more on gossip than a genuine interest in each other’s work.

  Clemente was drinking mezcal from a mug: there weren’t enough glasses.

  ‘This apartment is amazing. How did you manage to pay for it?’

  ‘I got a loan. There’s no other way except going into debt.’

  ‘And the down payment? Through the roof, I’m guessing.’

  ‘My mother-­in-­law helped us.’

  ‘And how are the neighbors? Have you gone to ask them for sugar?’

  Esteban was carrying two beers in his hand. One of them was for somebody else, but now he didn’t remember who. This time he responded truthfully:

  ‘I haven’t come across anyone. I haven’t heard them either. The good thing about old buildings is you don’t hear anything.’

  ‘If I were you I’d find out right away who I’m going to be surrounded by for the rest of my days.’

  A couple approached to say goodbye. Esteban took advantage of the opportunity to free himself from Clemente. Their conversation was starting to bother him. He decided to avoid him the rest of the night. He was a negative guy whose paranoia was usually contagious.

  Another thing Esteban made it a point to show his friends was the answering machine. A relic that he found amusing. He enjoyed showing people something that had gone obsolete. He found it appealing to think of the time when answering machines were in vogue, all those voices being recorded, being listened to within lonely houses. Ghosts talking to ghosts.

  The last guest left at six in the morning. Esteban managed to get his shoes off and collapsed beside Adela, who was in a deep sleep. He embraced her and gave in to the warmth emanating from her body, to the fog of alcohol, to sleep.

  The buzzer rang at seven in the morning. Esteban heard it between dreams, incapable of getting up. Adela woke him, shaking him.

  ‘He’s asking for you.’

  With his eyelids still shut, Esteban asked, ‘Who?’

  ‘Señor Ligotti.’

  His eyes opened in surprise.

  ‘What does he want? Tell him I’m sleeping.’

  Adela sat down on the bed.

  ‘I already told him. But he insists on seeing you. He says the two of you agreed on it.’

  ‘We agreed?’

  ‘That you would see each other. Go talk to him. It gives me the creeps thinking of him out there waiting.’

  Esteban got up reluctantly and put on his shoes. He didn’t splash water on his face nor comb his hair, hoping that his appearance would dissuade the inopportune visitor.

  He opened the apartment door. Señor Ligotti was waiting in the hallway, resting on his walking stick.

  ‘It’s about time.’

  Although he was half asleep, Esteban recognized the anomaly.

  ‘How did you get in the building?’

  ‘A neighbor was going out. Everyone here knows me.’

  ‘I haven’t seen anyone in days . . .’

  Señor Ligotti came closer.

  ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’

  Esteban hesitated. The old man’s visit was ill-­timed, but he couldn’t be rude to him. After all, he had helped him to buy the place. He stepped to one side and with a wave of his hand invited him to enter.

  ‘Of course, come in.’

  He added in an ironic tone:

  ‘Make yourself at home.’

  The visit was hell. Señor Ligotti chattered indefatigably and seemed to have no intention of leaving quickly. Esteban’s head ached from the hammering of his hangover. He could hardly follow the old man’s chit-­chat, which passed from one theme to another that was no less meaningless. Despite his discomfort, he realized something: he had idealized him. When he met him, he seemed to him a humanist, a philanthropist, an extinct species that he had had the luck to run across. Now he saw him clearly: he was a guy who was arrogant, maniacal, presumptuous. Why the hell had he come? And so early. That’s how loners were: they weren’t conscious of other people’s time. They required as much attention as an only child. On top of everything, Adela had fled, on the pretext that she had to visit her mother, leaving him at the mercy of his ‘guest’.

  Esteban dozed off at times. Every time he opened his eyes, he saw that Señor Ligotti was continuing his infinite monologue. He caught some phrases that troubled him, questions that the old man made without waiting for a response: ‘How’s the new book going? What’s it about? I suppose you haven’t got very far. Something will have to be done so that you make progress, so that you swing, so that you ring . . .’

  In the end he fell asleep. When he awoke, shaken again by Adela, it was already night. When had Ligotti left? He thought the visit had been a bad dream, a nightmare brought about by his hangover. But on the living room table he saw the ring with the National University logo.

  Adela picked it up and
said sarcastically:

  ‘Now your friend has an excuse to come back.’

  Señor Ligotti turned into a problem. He would appear at any day and time, with an attitude that bordered on demanding. Besides being annoyed, Esteban was worried: this wasn’t a question of indiscretion but of obsession. The old man returned on the day following his first visit. Esteban gave him back the ring, thinking that would keep him away for a while, but he kept coming back. Sometimes he rang the buzzer outside the building, other times he rang directly at the apartment door. What was most disturbing was his way of ringing, insistently, as if he were there to deliver an urgent package.

  Esteban began to avoid him. If Señor Ligotti came to the door, he would open it saying he had an important appointment and, after excusing himself, would set off down the street at a rapid pace. He would also pretend there was no one home until the old man left. One time when he was returning from the store, he saw him at a distance, standing in front of the building’s door. He immediately turned around, took a taxi and went to see a movie. At first this game of cat and mouse seemed funny. Adela spent most of her time at her mother’s; dodging the old man became a source of entertainment for Esteban. A kind of challenge: to see who wore out first. The old man won’t hold out longer than me, he told himself. Several days passed in this way, until the episode with the answering machine.

  It was on an afternoon that was gray with rain-­charged clouds. Esteban was reading Clemente’s recently published novel in his study. He was curious whether it would prove to be as bad as the previous ones. The intercom buzzer sounded. He peeked through the kitchen window, which looked out onto the street. It was polarized glass, which allowed him to look without being seen. He discovered it was Señor Ligotti and returned to his chair. After a few minutes, the buzzer stopped ringing. Esteban could go back to concentrating on his reading. He could hear thunder, a downpour was starting to fall.

  Something distracted him from the book. A strange feeling: he wasn’t alone. There was a presence, not within the house, but outside. Through the kitchen window he saw an image that disconcerted him: Señor Ligotti was still outside, in the rain, staring at the building. The old man took a cell phone from the inner pocket of his bag and dialed a number.

  The apartment’s telephone rang.

  Esteban let it ring. He felt the muscles in his body twitch, as if they were shrinking. The answering machine switched on. Señor Ligotti’s irritated voice boomed:

  ‘I know you’re there. Open up.’

  He tried to recall: had he given him his number?

  ‘You must let me in. Fulfill your part of the bargain.’

  He had an absurd, unsettling thought: the old man could see him, his gaze penetrated the polarized glass. He didn’t dare to move, like a cockroach surprised when a light is turned on.

  Señor Ligotti didn’t say anything more. He remained there with the telephone to his ear, getting soaked. The rain could be heard outside and through the answering machine as well. It was an unreal sound effect, the echo of a nightmare. The machine’s tape reached the end and the recording cut off, breaking the spell. Esteban reacted by going to his bedroom. He got in bed, hiding under the covers like when he was a child.

  Adela suggested they go on vacation. You’re very tense, she told him, it would do you good to get out of the city. The next morning they got in the car and took the highway. When the first cows appeared, Esteban started to feel better. They stayed at a resort with thermal baths. They were sunny days, with a lot of reading. Clemente’s novel was rubbish, and that contributed towards improving his state of mind. It had too many legalistic details that dragged down the plot. A lot of knowledge about the judicial system, not much of a story.

  Adela and Esteban devoted themselves to the vacation. They swam. They ate excessively. They made love slowly so they wouldn’t hurt the baby.

  A week later, Esteban felt back to normal. He thought about his behavior the preceding days, the irrational fear that the old man had awakened in him. Now he knew what to do. He would confront him. He would put a stop to the situation. If necessary, he would shout the truth at him. He was nothing more than a senile old coot, finished, pathetic. On the way home his confidence grew. The end of the problem was nearing, the solution was in his hands.

  He never imagined what would be waiting for him at home.

  He opened the apartment door. Señor Ligotti was inside, clinking his rings against a steaming cup of coffee.

  After the initial shock came the anger. Adela looked at Esteban, blurted out a Get him out of here, I don’t ever want to see him here again, and shut herself up in the bedroom. Señor Ligotti sipped his coffee with a carefree air, as if his presence were the most natural thing in the world, something which infuriated Esteban even more. He stood in front of him, containing his desire to hit him.

  ‘This time you’ve gone too far. How did you get in? The neighbors helped you with that too?’

  The old man shook his head no. Then he smiled, amused.

  ‘I have a set of keys. And since you didn’t want to fulfill your part of the bargain, I felt obliged to use them.’

  ‘What bargain?’

  ‘We agreed that I would visit you. It was the pact we made before signing the contract.’

  ‘You’re crazy. Don’t you get it? Nobody wants you here. Get lost or I’ll call the police.’

  ‘That’s no way to treat a guest.’

  Señor Ligotti stood up, but instead of going to the exit he headed towards the kitchen, where he served himself another cup of the coffee he had made.

  Esteban went after him, furious.

  ‘Get out of here! I’ll have you thrown in jail, I swear it!’

  The old man rested his hip against the kitchen sink; he took a sip of his beverage while he looked at him challengingly.

  Esteban turned around, went to the telephone and dialed the emergency number. ‘Home invasion,’ he said, raising his voice so that the elderly man would hear him.

  He went back to the kitchen. Señor Ligotti gave a cackling laugh.

  ‘Home invasion? Seriously? That’s the problem with not writing. Writing is like a muscle, and if it’s not used, the language atrophies. I urge you to get back to your keyboard. What’s more, it would do you good to write longhand: the sentences flow better that way.’

  The doorbell interrupted his discourse. The police had arrived quickly.

  Esteban looked at the old man cruelly.

  ‘You won’t be laughing about this.’

  He went to open the door. He led the officers to the kitchen. There was nobody inside, only the steaming cup. They searched the rest of the house: nothing.

  Señor Ligotti had vanished. Just like a ghost.

  The next person to ring was the locksmith. Esteban asked him for a new, high-­security lock. He also thought about changing the one on the building’s front door, but first he had to consult the neighbors. Where the hell were they hiding? He was overrun with a mixture of feelings. On the one hand, rage; on the other, embarrassment. He had made a fool of himself with the police. The officers looked at him with suspicion, no doubt they considered him paranoid, even a prankster. Adela was no help. Instead of serving as a witness, she turned against him: it hadn’t been a good idea to buy that apartment. I TOLD YOU SO. The police finally left without taking their statements.

  The following days were even stranger. Esteban slept fitfully, awakened by nightmares in the early morning hours. On one occasion he opened his eyes in the midst of the darkness, overcome by a feeling of anxiety. It was raining. He lay there listening to the sound the drops made striking the window glass. Suddenly he made out a silhouette sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed. A flash of lightning lit up the room, allowing him to recognize Señor Ligotti. He realized that the sound he heard was produced by the old man’s rings tapping the cup he held between his hands.
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br />   Si non oscillas, noli tintinnare.

  He awoke with a stifled scream. It was morning. Adela was in the bathroom. The sound of the shower could be heard through the door.

  The certainty grew that he was losing his mind. That dream had been too real; he was starting to have problems telling whether he was awake. Things got worse days later, when he found Señor Ligotti’s ring on the desk. The birds on the National University logo spreading their wings like a menace. Adela tried to calm him down: surely he left it the day he let himself in with his keys and you hadn’t realized it. Despite his confusion, Esteban had one certainty: he couldn’t count on his wife. She was only thinking about the baby, she refused any additional worries. He opted not to tell her anything for now. He kept silent about each new discovery, each message – he was sure that’s what they were – that the old man was leaving him: a visiting card (he gave it to you when you met him, don’t be paranoid, Adela would have said), a little glass bell that he had never seen in the house, more rings . . .

  Señor Ligotti was a demiurge, there was no other explanation. A demiurge or a demon, and the solution was to call a priest to exorcize the house. His mind was made up to go to the neighborhood church to explore the possibility when he made another disturbing find.

  He was trying to read in the living room without being able to concentrate. He felt a cold draft coming from the floor. Esteban crouched down and approached the fireplace on all fours. The frozen air hit him in the face. He stretched out his hand to touch the back and it gave way, revealing an opening behind it. The fireplace had a metal plate the same color as the wall, an effective camouflage. Esteban went through the hole. It turned out to be a passage, full of leaves and branches, which led to the building’s side courtyard. There was another removable plate there through which it was possible to exit to the exterior.

  Señor Ligotti was not a specter. He was something worse: a dangerous madman.