The Valancourt Book of World Horror Stories

by James D. Jenkins

  The room smells musty and stale, like thick fusty blankets covered in dust. The walls are covered in peeling wallpaper patterned with brown- and ochre-colored round shapes. The floor has red carpeting and a grayish cloud lifts at each step.

  Òscar, stretched out on the bed, connects his camera to the computer and transfers the photos as he chews off a piece of skin on his lip.

  The bathroom is small, but the tub is big and round. Manel takes off his clothes, folds them carefully and places them on the stool. He lays out two towels that smell like an old closet. He turns on the hot water faucet and grabs the bottle of soap. He pours it into the water and stirs. A nice, relaxing atmosphere to bring up the subject again, to very tactfully say, Òscar, next Wednesday there’s an initial information session at the adoption center. He runs through the list of papers in his head:

  His pay stub.

  The lease.

  Medical records.

  Marriage certificate.

  It’s just an initial meeting, but he wants to make a good impression and show the documents that he knows they’ll ask for at some point in the future, to prove they meet all the requirements.

  They’ll be good parents.

  And Òscar will take beautiful black-­and-­white photos of the three of them, and they’ll hang them in the dining room in golden frames.

  Suddenly an engine is heard. He looks out the bathroom window. A brown off-­road vehicle parks beside his rental car, brakes hard and raises a cloud of dust. He brings his head closer to the pane. He steams it up.

  The driver gets out of the car, violently slams the door, and then opens the trunk.

  ‘I want to go back.’

  Manel turns suddenly with a start.

  Òscar is drumming his fingers on the bathroom’s doorframe. He’s wearing a yellow raincoat and his red wool cap.

  ‘I want to go back, Manel. Take the photos again. The ones I took before are too dark. I could try it with the flash I bought. I don’t think it’ll look good, but it’s worth a try . . .’

  Manel shakes his head, lifts his eyebrows, takes a deep breath, and sits on the edge of the tub. The marble is cold and he feels strangely ridiculous, so naked, with so much skin, so fat. He crosses his legs to try to impose a little seriousness and blows on his bangs. He lets one arm drop.

  ‘It’s midnight, Òscar . . . I wanted us to have a soak after dinner. We still have five days. All for you.’ He rubs his bangs. ‘All for you.’

  Òscar can feel the tension between his eyebrows, and his stomach hard.

  He needs the last photo for his series.

  The photo.

  It won’t be easy to get one that concludes the entire project.

  The abysm.

  Manel straightens up his back and crosses his legs with some difficulty. He has to convince him. No more working tonight. This is their vacation.

  Òscar takes in a breath, looks at the small window in the bathroom, then looks at him.

  ‘Manel, the sooner I send a good photo to Quique, the better. We’ll all be more relaxed.’

  ‘All of us?’

  ‘Oh, so you could care less? Sure, you’re already relaxed, you’re on vacation! I knew I should’ve come here alone. I knew it.’

  Manel’s neck muscles get so tight he has to put his head back and lift his shoulders.

  ‘Come on, Òscar, it’s time to get some rest, tomorrow is . . .’

  Always redirecting the situation.

  Always that role.

  His stomach digesting gulps of tension.

  Manel stands up and walks over to him, rubs his sleeve and then caresses his cheek. Òscar looks at the floor.

  ‘It’s true, Manel. You’re the one who wanted to come with me, OK? I’m working, this is my job.’

  Manel realizes that the hat he gave Òscar for his birthday is too small. His forehead still has a mark from when he wore it earlier. Rows of small triangles from ear to ear. Maybe he should buy him a new one.

  ‘Come on . . . You need to relax, Òscar. All this pressure won’t make for good photos.’ He gently squeezes his shoulder and strokes his ear. ‘And I think I’ll buy you a new hat.’

  Òscar looks at him with his brow furrowed, and scratches his neck.

  ‘Come on, don’t act like my daddy.’

  Daddy.

  Daddy. Òscar goes through phases. When they fight he uses the same defense for months. Lately it’s this daddy thing. Coincidentally, ever since Manel started to say he wanted to have a child.

  Daddy.

  Daddy.

  Every daddy is a dart between the ribs, or into his navel.

  But it doesn’t matter. Redirect the situation.

  His stomach filled to bursting, swollen.

  Manel takes him by the hand and, with some effort, leads him toward the tub.

  ‘Come on, I’ll give you a massage. It’ll do you good.’

  Òscar resists, but nods in agreement. He takes off his hat. He purses his lips, turns and disappears into the room as he takes off his raincoat. The sound of the zipper relaxes Manel’s neck muscles, and he lifts his arms to fully shake off the tension. He smiles and gets into the tub. That’s it. Situation redirected.

  ‘I’m in, just waiting for you!’ He sits down. It’s very nice. They’ll fit perfectly. ‘The water’s just right. Bring the cava!’

  But just as the last ‘a’ comes out of his mouth, an abrupt door slam makes him close his eyes.

  Silence.

  Only the sound of the water when he moves his legs.

  ‘Òscar?’

  He extends his neck to peer through the slit between the bathroom door and the frame. Nothing.

  ‘Òscar?’

  He gets up and grabs one of the enormous towels he’d left on the sink and wraps himself in it. It isn’t soft at all. He presses his arms against his ribs.

  He leaves the bathroom. The red carpeting brushes the bottom of his feet. Òscar’s cell phone rests on the bed.

  An intermittent sound makes him turn.

  Click, click, click, click. The beat slows.

  It’s the little sign they’d found on the bed that evening when they entered the room. It’s long and has a hole that fits over the doorknob. DO NOT DISTURB. Manel had hung it on the knob, but facing into the room.

  So they would see it themselves.

  Do not disturb.

  Safewords, like the couples therapist suggested they use to break the spell of arguments.

  Do not disturb.

  It is still gently swaying.

  Right and left. Left and right.

  Increasingly slower.

  He approaches the door and opens it. At the end of the hallway, he can hear the sound of footsteps heading off.

  He closes the door again, hard. The sign shakes violently.

  Do not disturb, do not disturb, do not disturb, do not disturb.

  His hand slides down the railing, his palm hot from the friction. His palm and his brain getting hotter with each passing floor. Òscar takes the stairs two by two. He needs to go back. Shoot a good photograph. Capture the murmur of the leaves, the creak of the chairlift. The darkness. Nature climbing the lift’s pylon.

  And perhaps, the shadow.

  Who is hiding behind the trees?

  He passes the empty reception area. The sound of two deep voices blended in an argument makes him stop. He turns to the left, toward the manager’s room. He can hear the conversation clearly:

  ‘Don’t be rash, Tom, please, calm down.’

  ‘It’s back, Sam. It’s back!’

  Òscar grips his camera tightly and looks at the stairs, then at the elevator.

  He looks back at the door to the manager’s room.

  ‘Please, wait. Let’s see, there has to be some solutio
n, Tom.’

  ‘I’m this close to losing it, Sam.’

  Now the voice is calmer. He hears footsteps. His back rigid. What is he doing? He has to go back to the ski resort.

  Completely naked, stepping over the towel with long strides, Manel approaches the rectangular window that goes from one side of the room to the other. He rests his forehead on the glass and a second later it’s steamed up. Seven floors down, in the hotel parking lot, beside the brown off-­road vehicle, he sees Òscar lighting a cigarette and looking up. He has his camera equipment hanging around his neck.

  Òscar. What are you doing?

  Their gazes intersect at some point between them.

  Manel looks down hastily, supplicant; Òscar looks up defiant, harsh.

  Their gazes meet at the second floor. Manel sticks a palm to the glass and tries to transmit to Òscar that he shouldn’t take another step, that he’s coming down now and they’ll take all the photos he wants to. Òscar takes another drag. He looks at the car. He can’t wait to get his driver’s license.

  Manel watches Òscar’s silhouette disappear around the bend, swallowed up by the night. He grabs the window handle and pulls it to the right. The glass moves, with a piercing shriek. Bitter cold air comes in, freezing his uvula.

  ‘Òscar! Òscar! Don’t walk there! Come back!’

  His shouts dissipate. Some snowflakes dance hesitantly and slip in through the window. He follows them with his gaze. They move slowly. The white snow melts amid the hairs of the red carpet, turning into a slight cloud of smoke. Is it snowing?

  Òscar hears his name in the distance. He tosses the cigarette. He needs the photo. Quique, the curator of the exhibition, warned him: the last image has to be powerful. They had to impress the museum director. What’s more, Òscar, I’ve noticed that your work is losing intensity. You have to recover your energy.

  You are losing intensity.

  Intensity.

  The intensity you used to have.

  What was that shadow?

  Òscar adjusts the camera strap. Manel doesn’t understand anything, he doesn’t understand my rhythm. His pace is set by working in an office. If he hadn’t desperately sought out work as an architect and focused on the comic he had finally started, maybe he’d understand me better. And now, he still wants a kid. Isn’t it enough that they’re married?

  He turns. He looks at the hotel. Claustrophobia. He turns back and advances more quickly. You won’t keep me locked up here, I need the photo.

  To recover my intensity.

  His pants are getting damp because he didn’t dry himself off well. Manel throws the towel on the carpet. He’ll get the car, catch up with him halfway there, open up the door and say, come on, let’s go take all the photos you want.

  Redirect the situation again.

  They can’t discuss the subject tonight, but if he can manage to reduce the tension, maybe they can talk about it tomorrow. He sits down on the bed and ties his sneakers.

  A child, for both of them.

  The scent of Òscar.

  There’s a gentle knock on the door. Three times. Manel stands up and feels his muscles relaxing again. He came back. Sometimes he does that. Not often, but sometimes. He leaves and comes back. In a bad mood. But he comes back.

  Relaxed muscles, tension, relaxed muscles, tension.

  Now he’ll hug him very, very tight. He’s anxious to smell his scent.

  He opens the door.

  Sam, hunched over, observes him, with a bunch of papers in his hand. Manel feels his stomach getting hard and small.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. I’m gathering signatures.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m in a rush.’

  Manel closes the door. He takes in a breath. He tightens his lips. He takes a step back, grabs the other sneaker and balances as he puts it on. Who cares if he was rude.

  Tense muscles. He needs the smell of Òscar.

  There’s a knock at the door again. Harder this time. What the . . . ? He finishes tying his shoelace and opens it.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. But I need the signatures.’ Sam rubs his forehead, his right hand trembles. ‘I’ve been collecting signatures for years. It’s so they’ll take the bear to a shelter.’

  Sam holds out the papers to him.

  Manel looks at the yellowed, slightly wrinkled pages divided into rectangles, each containing a signature. He wants to hug Òscar very, very tight. He’s starting to get jittery.

  ‘What bear?’

  ‘The bear that lives in the forests above the ski station. My brother is very nervous. He’s here, downstairs, in my room, and he is very nervous today. The signatures are to have the bear taken to a shelter. I need the signatures. Tom says that two sheep have disappeared from his flock and he found blood on the grass above where they graze. I already told him not to worry, that we’ll gather more signatures, that they’ll finally pay attention to us. That for once and for all . . . they’ll pay attention to us.’

  Sam hands the fountain pen to Manel.

  Manel opens his eyes wide. His nostrils have become thin, fine ducts.

  ‘But is this bear dangerous? You didn’t mention it when I made the reservation.’

  Sam shakes his head, with a sad expression.

  ‘Not at all. Don’t worry. I swear.’

  Manel takes Sam’s fountain pen. He lifts his leg and places the pages on his left thigh. He signs quickly and hands them back. Sam stands there, staring at him.

  ‘It’s snowing a lot. Hard to believe. I haven’t seen it snow like this in many years. And with this heat . . .’

  Manel turns and looks through the window of his hotel room. The snowflakes plummet into the night.

  White on black.

  Suddenly, a car engine is heard. Sam turns, looks at the hallway and shouts, ‘No! Tom!’

  He runs off, Manel glances around the hotel room, grabs his car keys from the bedside table, closes the door and follows him. They rush down the stairs and when they reach the lobby Sam lets out a sigh, places his hands on his nape.

  ‘No! No! No! No!’

  Manel sees where Sam is looking. On the lobby’s wall, beneath the paintings, there is only the dusty outline of the shotgun.

  The windshield wipers move at the rhythm of his heartbeats. Manel drives at twenty kilometers per hour with his chin pressed tight to the steering wheel, following the footprints Òscar left in the snow. Beside him, Sam looks nervously out the window and just keeps repeating in a whisper: he’s crazy, he’s crazy . . .

  The temperature is plummeting. He turns on the brights. The darkness is absolute. Outside, everything is blackness. Sam asked Manel to drive him to the ski station, he’s sure that’s where his brother is headed. To the upper part. To the forests. Manel finds it all crazy, but he has no time to argue. He needs to find and hug Òscar.

  Relax his muscles.

  He should have gone with him. He had five long, beautiful days to calmly tell him about the meeting.

  Five days.

  Manel should have waited until Òscar had at least one good photo. The coordinator at the center, months ago, gave him just one piece of advice over the phone: you have to cultivate patience, adoption is a long process.

  Patience.

  Manel chews his lip. He forgot to breathe and inhales suddenly through his nose and is overcome with an immense desire to cry. Òscar had been saving up months for that flash.

  Almost there, almost there. A long, tight curve. A straight stretch and I’ll be there. And I’ll hug you, Òscar.

  Redirecting the situation, as always. Swallowing the tension.

  Daddy.

  Sam keeps repeating: he’s crazy, he’s crazy.

  The snow piles up on Òscar’s shoulders as he walks along the side of the road, slightly hunched over because it’s getting colder
and colder. And he looks at the ground, at the snow, at his new boots. Manel, as they sat on benches in the airport, had assured him the weather would be good, that there would be no clouds and that the full moon would give off plenty of light. Didn’t he check carefully? Did he not know how to read the lunar calendar? Or maybe he just didn’t say anything, because that way they would stay in the hotel room, no excuses, holed up.

  While it snowed.

  It’s pretty obvious he lied to him on purpose.

  He pats the camera case. It’s soaked. He opens up his coat and hides it inside. It must be fifteen more minutes of walking before he gets to the ski station. He’s not sure if the case will keep the camera dry.

  Suddenly he hears the sound of skidding wheels on the road. That’s it. He always ends up coming looking for him. Can’t he just leave him be? He turns and is dazzled by the car’s headlights. He places a hand on his forehead as a visor. He feels the camera lens sticking in his chest. Now he’ll say, come on, Òscar, let’s go, let’s go take the photos. Of course. It’s his work, he isn’t here on vacation. He stands in the middle of the road so he’ll see him and he lifts his arms, lowering his chin slightly so the car’s lights don’t pierce his retinas. The car brakes, the wheels skate on the virgin snow. Òscar looks up and feels a shiver at the back of his neck.

  The car in front of him is not the one they rented earlier that day.

  It must not smell of lemon or new car and it must not be Manel’s hand resting on the gear shift, about to stroke his thigh.

  Òscar squints his eyes, the headlights reduce to two yellow spots, but he still can’t identify the driver. He hears barking. The car is not moving. Snow is dropping onto the hood. Òscar approaches without taking his eyes off the windshield. The driver lowers his window. Is that Sam?

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To the ski station.’

  The driver nods to his right. Is he telling him to get in? He makes the same gesture, this time with his forehead furrowed. Òscar nods and walks around the car and opens the passenger side door. In the back seat there are two dogs, their eyes filled with rage.

  ‘Don’t mind them. They’re not dangerous. Not to you.’

  ‘Did you leave the hotel unattended?’