The Valancourt Book of World Horror Stories

by James D. Jenkins

  It was spring, the sun shone, birds sang – they didn’t chirp, they sang – and green leaves had begun to appear on the trees. It was truly a lovely morning.

  Then the doorbell rang.

  Outside stood a little boy, who didn’t appear to be more than nine or ten years old, though he had never been good at guessing people’s ages. The first time he met her, he had thought she was three or four years younger than she turned out to be.

  ‘Yes?’ he said and wondered if he should recognize the boy. Several children lived on the street, but honestly he had a hard time telling them apart. She on the other hand had no problem with it and even knew the names of most of them.

  ‘Hi, I’m here for the collection,’ the boy said.

  What collection? he almost asked, but he caught himself. He seemed to vaguely remember that there was going to be some national collection drive or other today, or perhaps next Sunday? There were so many of them these days that it was hard to keep track, sort of like with the children on the street. He felt embarrassed at not being able to recall, since he always made a point to donate to such things if he was home.

  So instead he said: ‘Oh, yeah. One moment.’

  It struck him as a bit odd that the boy wasn’t accompanied by an adult. He thought children weren’t allowed to walk around alone collecting money. He found his wallet in his jacket. There were only a few coins in it. Once again he had forgotten to withdraw cash.

  ‘Honey, do we have any cash?’ he said loudly.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘The collection.’

  ‘What collection?’

  ‘The . . . you know . . . the one from TV,’ he said and grew a little irritated at having to waste time explaining while the boy was waiting. ‘Do we have cash or not?’

  ‘I think so,’ she said and came out into the hall.

  She caught sight of the boy.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Who are you?’

  Ok, so it’s not one of the kids from the street.

  ‘I’m here because of the collection,’ said the boy.

  ‘Who’s it going to now?’ she asked, as she looked for her wallet in her own jacket. ‘It’s a little embarrassing, but I simply can’t remember.’

  ‘The money goes to Neglected Victims,’ the boy said.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve heard of them before. Is this their first collection?’ he asked. He took a closer look at the logo on the boy’s collection box. It was reminiscent of the logo of the Danish Cancer Society. A litigious attorney could definitely make a case out of it.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said the boy. ‘But I have a number here you can call, if . . .’

  ‘Here it is,’ she said and took out her wallet. She opened it. ‘Yes, I have some cash.’ She put the notes in the box.

  The boy stared. ‘Wow!’ he burst out. ‘That was really a lot. Have a good rest of your day.’

  The boy made a move to go, but then stopped.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘but could I please use your bathroom? I really need to . . .’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said, standing aside so the boy could come in.

  He stepped over the threshold.

  ‘It’s just over here,’ she said and showed him the bathroom.

  ‘Thanks,’ the boy said. ‘I’ll hurry.’

  ‘Take all the time you need,’ she said, and closed the front door behind him.

  The boy walked to the bathroom door and slipped inside.

  They looked at each other. He shook his head with a smile.

  ‘What a polite young man,’ he said.

  ‘He must be doing more than just pee,’ he said in the kitchen. ‘He’s been in there for almost ten minutes.’

  ‘Really?’ she said with her head halfway in the refri­ger­ator.

  ‘Something wrong?’ He was surprised at her somewhat absent answer. Normally she would have said something sarcastic like, ‘What, are you timing him?’

  She sighed. ‘I forgot the eggs while we were standing out there. Now they’re hard-­boiled.’ They both preferred their eggs soft and runny.

  ‘So cook some more.’

  ‘Those were the last, so unless you feel like going out and buying . . .’

  ‘We’ll do without,’ he said and kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Just go sit. I’ll be right in.’

  He found the boy sitting at the table in the living room.

  ‘Are you finished?’ he asked. He was so dumbfounded he didn’t know what else to say.

  ‘Yes, thanks, that was a relief,’ said the boy.

  ‘That’s good,’ he said and winced internally, because he knew very well how stupid it sounded.

  The boy just smiled, but made no move to get up from the table.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Well, you’ll need to be getting on with your route,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ said the boy.

  He thought at first he had heard wrong. ‘What?’

  The boy sniffed. ‘Do I smell bacon?’

  ‘Listen, you . . .’

  ‘I did have breakfast, but I’m actually hungry again. You don’t mind if I eat with you?’

  He could feel his jaw physically drop. He blinked in a desperate hope that it would make the boy disappear, but the kid was still sitting there.

  ‘All right, let’s e—’

  He turned around and saw her frozen in the doorway with a pitcher of fresh-­squeezed orange juice in one hand and a plate of dry-­cured ham in the other, while she tried to decipher the situation. Under other circumstances, he would have seen the comical side to it, but just now he only felt anger slowly rising within him.

  ‘Oh . . . hi,’ she said to the boy.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Are you finished?’ she asked, and he could feel how his toes were about to curl.

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘Aha . . .’ she said and seemed as if she were at a loss for words.

  He tried to come to her rescue. ‘He’d like to eat with us.’

  She stared in disbelief, first at him, then at the boy, and then at him again.

  ‘Would you just come in the kitchen with me, dear? We’re missing something,’ she said sweetly.

  ‘Did you invite him?’ she asked.

  He tried to gauge her tone of voice. She didn’t sound angry so much as astonished.

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what’s going on. All of a sudden he was just sitting there. So it’s more like he’s invited himself.’

  She leaned into the living room, still holding the ham and the pitcher of orange juice. ‘What are we going to say to him?’

  ‘That he has to go? He does have a route he’s supposed to take care of.’

  ‘Isn’t that too rude? He does look a bit undernourished.’

  Now it was his turn to look in. The boy still sat at the table, staring out into the air like a restaurant guest waiting on the server. He had to admit that the boy wasn’t among the best fed, but on the other hand he didn’t look like he was about to faint from hunger either.

  ‘He looks healthy enough to me,’ he said. ‘Anyway, we only gave him permission to use the bathroom. We didn’t say anything about him eating with us.’

  ‘Yes, but all the same . . .’ she said.

  He groaned. ‘Why are we even having this discussion? Neither of us asked him to be here, so I don’t see any problem with asking him nicely to go on his way again. He has to be able to understand that. Otherwise there’s something lacking in his upbringing.’

  He could see that she was still hesitant.

  ‘Let us flip the situation around,’ he said. ‘Neither of us would ever go into a complete stranger’s house and expect to get something to eat. ’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘You’re right. I just fe
el sorry for him.’

  ‘That’s okay, baby. You let your big heart get carried away.’ That was one of the things about her he had originally fallen for. ‘I’ll just tell him,’ he said and went into the living room, as she followed a little way behind.

  He waited for her to set the juice and ham down before clearing his throat. ‘Listen, we’re going to have to ask you to go.’

  The boy looked up at him. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? Because you can’t just go into the homes of people you don’t know and expect to be waited on. We gave you permission to use our bathroom, but that was it. You must be able to understand that?’

  ‘Not really,’ said the boy. ‘You seem to have tons of food.’

  ‘Okay, party’s over.’ He leaned over the boy and sensed how she was holding her breath in the background. ‘If you don’t understand it in the normal way, then let’s try this: What’s your name, and where do you live? I’ll call your parents and have them come get you.’

  The boy shrugged his shoulders. ‘If that’s your plan, then why should I tell you?’

  ‘Fine, then I’ll call the police instead. No doubt they can convince you better than I can.’

  ‘And what do you plan to tell them?’

  ‘That a boy has forced his way into our home and won’t leave.’

  ‘You invited me in yourselves,’ the boy pointed out.

  ‘Yes, but under false pretenses. Is there even a national collection drive today, and does Neglected Victims even exist? It’s illegal to make fake collections.’

  ‘I don’t know what collection you’re talking about.’

  ‘But – ’ He looked around for the boy’s collection box, but he couldn’t catch sight of it. ‘We gave you money,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know anything about that.’

  ‘You’ve stolen from us!’

  The boy frowned. ‘I still don’t know what you’re talking about. But it can’t possibly be theft, if you yourself gave the money away.’

  He had never been closer to hitting a child before and had to find hitherto unknown strength to restrain himself. He took a deep breath and counted slowly to twenty. Backwards.

  ‘For the last time,’ he said. ‘Give us our money back and leave our home. Then we’ll forget the rest.’

  The boy shook his head. ‘I haven’t taken your money. Check for yourself.’

  He looked at her.

  ‘Just a second,’ she said and went out to the hall. He heard her rummage around out there and open first one door and then another and finally the front door. Then she came back. From her astonished facial expression he already knew what she was going to say before she opened her mouth.

  ‘All the bills were there?’ he said.

  She nodded.

  ‘What about the box?’

  ‘I didn’t see it anywhere.’

  He gaped and stared at the boy, who looked back at him with an innocent expression.

  ‘How?’

  ‘You know, the food’s getting cold,’ said the boy.

  The boy wiped his mouth with the back side of his hand.

  ‘Thanks for the food,’ he said. ‘It tasted delicious.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she said automatically.

  They all three sat at the table, but only the boy had eaten. He had launched himself at the food with an appetite that had almost frightened them and for a moment made them consider whether he really had been starving. Their compassion evaporated, though, just as quickly as it had come, when he began to smack loudly and dip his fingers in the strawberry jam. Not once had he used the cutlery, with the result that he had bits of food around his mouth and there was a flood of crumbs, blobs, crusts, and peels on the table and the floor. That was enough to make them lose their own appetites.

  The whole time he had sat and stared the boy down, but apparently without effect.

  ‘Now you’ve got what you came for. Will you be so good as to go home to your parents?’

  The boy belched. ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t have parents or a home.’

  ‘You must live somewhere.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not home to me.’

  ‘All right, then bugger off back to the institution you escaped from, and don’t bother us anymore.’

  ‘Honey,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You can’t talk like that. He’s only a child.’

  He blinked. ‘What do you mean?’ Then it dawned on him. ‘Oh no, say it’s not true . . . you couldn’t possibly.’

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘You’re starting to feel sorry for him again, aren’t you? Even after all this bullshit . . . it’s so typically you.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Dear, I love you, but you’ve got this thing about letting other people take advantage of you.’

  ‘What nonsense. I do not.’

  ‘No? Just look over there.’ He pointed over to the sofa table. ‘Why do we have three copies of the new issue of Street News lying there? Who the hell buys the same issue three times, and what’s more, twice from the same homeless guy?’

  ‘It’s not like it cost very much.’

  ‘No, but it’s the principle of the thing. Like how you always choose to donate the refund on the bottle deposits.’

  ‘And what’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Nothing, but you just do it without us ever talking about it.’

  ‘You’ve never complained about it.’

  ‘No, but you’ve never asked either.’

  ‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘There’s a word for this kind of thing: empathy. Ever heard of it, dear?’

  He shook his head. ‘Drop it. You know better than anyone that I always give to a good cause when someone asks.’

  ‘And this coming from someone who only signed up for Unicef to get out of talking to their street fundraisers. Super, dear.’

  ‘So you’re calling me a hypocrite?’

  ‘Come on, we all are. We pay so that we can feel saintly and not have to think too much about the unpleasant reality. I’m just honest about it, unlike you. And didn’t you say that you loved me because of my, quote, “big heart”? Or was that just a pick-­up line?’

  ‘Of course it wasn’t. I meant it, and I mean it still. That is one of the things I love about you, but frankly, your IQ drops several points when you have somebody disadvantaged standing in front of you.’

  ‘You should know all about that, since I said yes to you yesterday.’

  ‘Are you saying you’ve changed your mind?’

  ‘No, but sometimes you are just so . . .’

  ‘Yeah? I’m waiting anxiously to hear the end of that sentence.’

  She made a dismissive gesture. ‘Forget it. I won’t bother.’

  ‘No? You were just about to tell me some vital new information about myself.’

  ‘Honey, stop it now.’

  He could see she was on the verge of crying, and all at once it was like all the anger seeped out of him. That was the effect her tears usually had. They might have their arguments, but they were seldom mad at each other for long. He stood up and walked over to her. He pulled her to him as he kissed her on the back of her head.

  ‘Sorry, baby,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I’m a big idiot.’

  She laughed and kissed him in return. ‘And I’m looking forward to being Mrs. Big Idiot.’

  The boy cleared his throat. Until that moment he had kept silent during their whole discussion. They both turned towards him.

  ‘Might I make a suggestion?’ he said.

  ‘I understand that you’re getting married?’ the boy said, sounding as though he’d just laid his eyes on all the presents under the Christmas tree.

  ‘
Yes, and . . . ?’ he said.

  ‘Convince me.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Convince me that it really should be the two of you till death do you part. That you’re made for each other. The perfect couple. Soulmates. Each other’s best friends. If you can do that, then I’ll leave.’

  ‘But what for?’ she said.

  ‘Just because,’ said the boy.

  He had had just about enough. He stood beside the boy and looked down at him. ‘Listen here, my little friend. I can’t really see what our relationship has to do with you. So my suggestion is that you get up quickly from that seat and find your way out of here. Otherwise I’ll help you out the door.’

  The boy smiled. ‘So you’d lay a hand on me? That will be tough to explain to the police. They’d love another child abuse case.’

  ‘Honey,’ she said in her irritatingly effective ‘let’s-­be-­sensible-­now-­voice’. ‘Don’t do that. If you hit him, he’s won.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can’t you see what he’s up to?’ she said. ‘He’s trying to play us against each other, and he was about to succeed just now.’

  He stared back at the boy in disbelief. ‘Is that true? Is that really what you’re after?’

  The boy scratched at his nose. ‘She said it, I didn’t. I just want to be sure that you’re making the right decision.’

  ‘But why us? And why today?’

  ‘Why not?’ said the boy.

  It was the almost indifferent way the boy said it that caused the reaction. He could feel his legs quivering, and it was only force of will that prevented him from collapsing. Instead he clung to the tabletop. He was at his wits’ end and looked confusedly at her for help.

  She sat with her arms crossed and looked at the boy. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘We’ll do it.’

  We will? He didn’t trust his own voice just then and kept quiet.

  The boy clapped his hands excitedly. ‘Fantastic! This will be fun.’

  ‘Darling?’ he tried.

  She looked at him with a determined glance. There was still a tinge of red in her eyes.

  ‘We can do this,’ she said decidedly.