The Valancourt Book of World Horror Stories

by James D. Jenkins

  He nodded and could tell that now it was he who was on the verge of crying. Instead, he moved his chair so that he was sitting beside her. They grasped each other’s hands. He took a deep breath.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘We’re ready.’

  ‘Tell me how you met. Was it love at first sight?’

  They looked at each other.

  ‘Not exactly,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a little complicated,’ she said.

  ‘We were friends, before we were lovers,’ he said.

  ‘He was going out with one of my friends,’ she said.

  The boy tilted his head at an angle. ‘You don’t say.’

  She waved this off. ‘I didn’t know her that well. We were in the same study group, but I was closer to some of the others.’

  ‘I had broken up with her when we met,’ he added.

  The boy frowned. ‘Wait a minute, there’s something I don’t understand. You said you were friends before you were lovers, but how could you be friends if you didn’t know each other better?’

  ‘Okay, “friends” was maybe the wrong word to use. It would probably be more accurate to say we were close acquaintances,’ he said.

  ‘We would meet at the same parties, and we used to have nice conversations. We had good chemistry, but it wasn’t any more than that because we were going out with other people,’ she said.

  ‘So how did you get together, if I may ask?’ said the boy.

  He laughed, a little too loudly. ‘Ha! That’s actually a really funny story.’

  ‘It happened online,’ she said.

  ‘We hadn’t seen each other for a while but were still friends on Facebook, and then she commented on one of my posts and I replied and it just went on from there,’ he said.

  ‘How very modern,’ the boy said. ‘What did you post?’

  ‘Just some lame joke that only we understood. We still have the whole thread on our profiles,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, let’s print it out and have someone turn it into a wedding song,’ she said with a smile.

  They laughed quietly together. The boy watched them with an unfathomable look. ‘That actually wasn’t a particularly funny story.’

  He snorted. ‘Sorry, kid. But sometimes people just love each other, without having to go all Hollywood about it.’

  ‘Okay,’ the boy said. ‘But when did you realize you loved each other?’

  ‘That’s hard to say,’ he said. ‘In my case, it was something that happened gradually.’ He turned towards her. ‘I just know that suddenly I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and I was all happy inside every time I saw you.’

  She smiled. ‘That says it all, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Very touching,’ said the boy. ‘But what about you? When was the flash of lightning? Or did it just sneak up on you too?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I know precisely when it happened.’

  ‘Really?’ he said. ‘You’ve never said anything about that. When was it then?’

  She cleared her throat and looked over at the boy. ‘Isn’t there something else you’d rather ask us about? I have a hard time seeing what this will prove.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said the boy. ‘Your unwillingness to answer a simple question is just making this more interesting. I think your fiancé feels the same way?’

  ‘Honey?’ he said.

  She sighed. ‘It was that evening when we’d been to the movies to see Sex and the City 2, even though the World Cup was on, and I got sick after eating a shawarma and threw up on the train. You held my hair and on the way back you took my bag, which was full of vomit, and carried it the whole way home. It was then that I realized I loved you.’

  ‘But . . .’ he said. ‘That wasn’t even two years ago.’

  ‘And how long is it that you’ve been a couple?’ asked the boy.

  ‘F-­four years,’ he said.

  ‘So if I’ve calculated right, that means that . . .’

  ‘SHUT UP!!!’ He rose from his seat so the chair toppled over with a bang, and bent down over the boy. ‘One more word, you little shit, and I swear . . .’

  She reached out towards him. ‘Darling, please . . .’

  He pulled away from her touch. ‘And you,’ he said and pointed at her. ‘Don’t you get started either. What the hell was that shit just now? And to say it to him.’

  All the color had vanished from his face, and he took a deep breath and tried not to start crying.

  ‘Darling, let me explain,’ she said.

  ‘Fuck you,’ he said and left the room.

  She expected to hear the front door slam, but instead it was the door to the bathroom that was opened and closed. She sank back down in the chair and took her head in her hands.

  ‘Shit,’ she said.

  ‘You were just being honest,’ the boy said.

  She shot daggers at him. ‘I’m going to him now, no matter what you say, and I don’t give a shit if it goes against your rules.’

  The boy shrugged. ‘It’s a free country, and there are no rules. You can do what you want, as long as you manage to convince me that you two should be together. Right now I have my doubts.’

  She got up from the chair.

  ‘This isn’t over yet,’ she said.

  ‘Honey?’ she knocked carefully on the door.

  No answer. But she could hear him inside. It sounded as if he were hyperventilating, but she knew that it was his struggling to hold back tears. She tried the door handle. It was locked.

  ‘Honey, won’t you open up?’

  Still no answer.

  ‘Talk to me, baby,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry about what I said in there, but we have to talk about it if we’re going to have a chance.’

  She could hear him mumble something half-­stifled.

  ‘What did you say? I couldn’t hear you.’

  ‘Leave me alone,’ he said.

  ‘Honey,’ her voice cracked, and she could feel the tears welling up. She leaned against the door. ‘Forgive me. You know how much I love you. I have the whole time, but that evening was the first time I was 100% sure.’

  The door opened and she nearly fell in.

  He looked at her with an empty expression in his eyes, which scared her more than anything else. ‘Two years,’ he said tonelessly. ‘We were together for two years without your really knowing whether you loved me.’

  ‘Listen to me, baby,’ she said. ‘Of course I did, otherwise we wouldn’t have stayed together. But it wasn’t until that night when I realized how much you can love another person. Suddenly I could see the rest of my life crystal clear before me, and you were with me the whole way.’

  He frowned. ‘Fuck you,’ he whispered, but he smiled when he said it. ‘You know I can’t be angry with you when you cry.’

  She raised her hand up to her face and found that her cheeks were wet. She hadn’t even realized she had cried.

  He stroked her gently over her cheek. ‘I lied in there,’ he said.

  ‘When?’

  ‘When I said that I didn’t know when I fell in love with you.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘I already loved you the first time we saw each other. You had had a study group meeting and I was coming to pick up Julie, but instead we all decided to go to a café, and we wound up sitting beside each other. That’s where I fell for you. I tried not to, but it just got worse every time we met, and that was one of the reasons why it didn’t work out between me and Julie.’

  ‘Why have you never told me that?’

  ‘Because I felt so damn guilty about Julie, and that didn’t exactly make me stand out as the best boyfriend material.’

  She laughed. ‘You might be right about that, but right now you’re Mr. Perfect compared to me.’

  ‘Yes, who would have tho
ught it would come to this?’ he said and pulled her to him.

  They remained standing like that until she dried her eyes and pulled loose. ‘What do you say? Shall we go in and throw that little brat out on his ass? Right now I don’t give a damn if he reports us to the police or his parents, whoever they are.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, you had it right before. If we touch him, he’s won. We can only beat him by standing together. We’re behind on points, but I know we can do it.’

  She kissed him. ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘but afterwards we trash the little bastard.’

  The boy glowed like a sun when they sat down again.

  ‘Outstanding,’ he said. ‘That’s what I call fighting spirit. Shall we continue?’

  ‘Do your worst,’ she said.

  ‘Good. Tell me, what is your worst fear about each other?’

  They exchanged glances.

  ‘That he doesn’t want to have children,’ she said.

  ‘That I love her more than she loves me,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘Interesting,’ the boy replied.

  ‘Did you say that because I just . . .’

  ‘No,’ he interrupted her. ‘I’ve felt it the whole time. Since we started going out, I’ve feared that one day you’d realize you can do better, so when you said that other thing a little earlier, you confirmed my worst suspicions.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘You have to forgive me, baby. That wasn’t what I meant.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But what do you mean that I don’t want to have children? There’s nothing I want more than to have a family with you.’

  She threw up her hands. ‘It’s just that whenever we’re around children, I don’t get the impression that you’re wildly excited about them.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘You don’t really talk to them, and you’re not interested in what they do.’

  ‘They’re children. What should I talk to them about? Tax regulations? Teletubbies?’

  ‘That’s what I mean. You don’t even make the attempt. If you can’t do it with other people’s kids, what about our own?’

  ‘Whoa, whoa,’ he said. ‘Just because I don’t find our friends’ children intellectually stimulating, that doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t be there 100% for our kids. And your brother’s girls and my sister’s boys seem happy with me.’

  ‘Yes, but I’ve also seen how when we babysit you can’t wait for them to be picked up again so we can be by ourselves. I don’t doubt that you love them, but you’d rather be with them in small doses.’

  ‘You yourself have to admit that it can be a little exhausting to be with them for a long time, and you said yourself that you felt totally worn out after we’d watched the boys for a whole weekend last time. They’re great kids, but you’d think they had Duracell batteries in their bloodstream.’

  ‘Your nieces aren’t much better. When they run amok, it’s like watching a children’s edition of Bridezillas,’ she said.

  ‘Let me reiterate: they are not our children,’ he said. ‘There’s a bloody difference how one treats his own children and other people’s children. So you can’t just transfer my behavior and say that’s how I’d be as a father. If I did the same thing with you, I’d have good grounds for being seriously worried.’

  ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

  He took his head in his hands. ‘Forget it. I shouldn’t have said that.’

  ‘No, no,’ she said coolly. ‘Go on and say it. I’m really interested in hearing what opinions you have of my skills as a mother.’

  ‘Honey, nothing good is going to come of this.’ He looked over at the boy. ‘Can’t you see, we’re doing it again.’

  Her eyes shot icicles. ‘The damage is already done, so come out with it.’

  He rubbed his neck. ‘I think,’ he said slowly, ‘that you’re a little too indulgent when you’re with kids. It’s probably me there’s something wrong with, but you let them get away with too much, and you let them run circles around you.’

  ‘Like you yourself said: there’s a difference between if it’s one’s own kids or someone else’s that one’s dealing with. I can’t start teaching good manners to kids that aren’t mine.’

  ‘You’re right, dear,’ he said. ‘Forget what I said. That was stupid of me.’

  She snorted irritatedly. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. Why don’t you grow a pair of balls?’

  ‘What the hell?!’

  ‘Now it’s you who’s too indulgent.’

  ‘And is there something wrong with that?’

  ‘Yeah, who wants a pussy-­whipped man for a husband?’

  ‘There are apparently a lot of women who do. Just look at the sorry excuses for men some of your girlfriends have picked.’

  She laughed. ‘You’re one to talk. Your brother-­in-­law can hardly walk three steps in a straight line because your sister has him grabbed so hard by the balls.’

  ‘Your brother . . .’ he began.

  ‘What about my brother?’ she said.

  They stared at each other.

  ‘Fuck,’ he burst out and banged a clenched fist on the table­top so that it shook.

  She smiled sadly. ‘This isn’t going so well, is it?’ she said.

  ‘No,’ he admitted.

  The boy raised a finger.

  ‘Might I point out something?’ he said.

  It happened so fast that he didn’t have time to react.

  ‘You,’ she sneered at the boy, and suddenly she had the bread knife in her hand and was standing behind him, with a firm grip on his hair and the serrated blade against his bare throat.

  He gaped. ‘Dear, what the fuck are you doing?’

  ‘I swear,’ she said to the boy in a voice that no longer sounded like her own. ‘One more word from you, and I’ll cut your throat. Understood? Don’t say anything. Just nod.’

  The boy nodded. The self-­assured attitude was all gone, and now he just looked like a scared little boy.

  ‘Honey.’ He got up slowly from his chair and reached his hand out. ‘Honey, give me the knife.’

  She trembled. Not just her head, but her whole body, and he was afraid she’d wind up cutting the boy.

  ‘I . . . can’t . . . take . . . any . . . more,’ she said.

  ‘I understand that,’ he said. ‘But this isn’t the right way.’

  ‘Why not?’ she said. ‘One little slice, and the whole thing is over.’

  The boy whined.

  ‘Quiet!’ she hissed and pressed the blade tighter against his skin.

  ‘Believe me, I’ve considered the possibility myself,’ he said. ‘But it will only do more harm than good. What would we do with the body? How do we get rid of it without the neighbors seeing it? What about all the blood?’

  She broke into a loud laugh. ‘Just listen to yourself. Your fiancée, the woman you love, and whom you want to marry and have kids with, is threatening to slit a child’s throat and your first thought is how you can clean up after her.’

  He looked at her in disbelief. ‘Tell me, are you bluffing?’

  ‘Only partly,’ she said. ‘I still feel really tempted, but it was interesting to hear your reaction.’

  He blinked. ‘Sorry, but just who is it standing there with the knife? I mean, I’m the one with more reason to be concerned.’

  She looked at him with a pained expression on her face. ‘I just want all this to stop.’

  ‘So do I,’ he said.

  ‘So we agree? Can you forgive me?’

  ‘Always,’ he said.

  ‘Good,’ she said and laid the knife down.

  The boy turned around in the doorway. He hadn’t said anything since he got up from the table and went out into the entryway.

  ‘Thanks,’
he said.

  ‘For what?’ she said.

  ‘Your generous contribution.’

  Neither of them had any desire to know what he meant by that.

  ‘The pleasure was all yours,’ he said to the boy.

  That was meant as a sarcastic comment, an ‘I-­got-­the-­last-­word’ reply, but he could himself hear how lame it sounded.

  ‘Farewell,’ she said.

  The boy just smiled and went down the garden path. They remained standing in the doorway and watched him go, as if to assure themselves that he had entirely disappeared from their life. Only when they could no longer see him did they close the door and lock it.

  They looked at each other.

  ‘Did we win?’ she asked.

  ‘I hope so,’ he said.

  Translated from the Danish by James D. Jenkins

  Solange Rodríguez Pappe

  Tiny Women

  Born in Guayaquil, Ecuador in 1976, Solange Rodríguez Pappe is a professor and an award-­winning writer whose work often incorporates elements of the supernatural, strange, or macabre, usually mixed with a dose of quirky or offbeat humor. ‘Tiny Women’ originally appeared in her 2018 collection La primera vez que vi un fantasma (The First Time I Saw a Ghost) and was also selected for inclusion in the 2019 anthology Insólitas, which collected the best fantastic tales by contemporary women writers from Spain and Latin America. We fell in love with this odd little story the first time we read it, and though it’s perhaps not a ‘horror’ story in the traditional sense, we nonetheless thought it was a perfect fit for this volume, and we’re confident our readers will enjoy it as much as we did.

  As I filled box after box with rubbish taken out of my parents’ house, I saw the first tiny woman run to the sofa and scamper away under its legs with a shout of euphoric joy. Nor did it surprise me overly much to stumble upon her. Being the daughter of a couple of hoarders who had done nothing else their whole life except stockpile empty paper bags, plastic containers and porcelain bugs increases the possibility that, if you make a thorough exploration, you’ll run across very strange things hidden in your childhood home.

  One of my favorite activities during my boring childhood was rummaging through the contents of boxes, but challenging myself to leave things exactly as I had found them. Thus, I came across a collection of keychains from the Second World War, some pornographic coasters, and the silver dagger that my father guarded jealously under­neath the slats of the bed. ‘You’ve been messing with things!’ my mother would shout if she noticed some slight re­arrangement of one of the hundreds of collected objects. Then she would give me some good open-­handed slaps or a stroke of her belt across my palms. ‘Learn from your brother, who never gives us any trouble.’ Obviously, since for as long as I could remember Joaquín had spent all his time playing in the street, with his toy cars, his bicycle, his skates, his gang, his little girlfriends. He had always refused to be one of the many gadgets in my mother’s collection.