The Valancourt Book of World Horror Stories

by James D. Jenkins

  The driver smiles with one side of his mouth and looks at him.

  ‘I’m not Sam, I’m his twin brother. My name is Tom.’

  ‘Did you have a fight?’

  Manel is driving, keeping his eyes on Òscar’s footprints, which are already disappearing, covered by snow. He notices Sam’s gaze.

  ‘No.’

  Sam looks out the window again.

  Manel glances at him out of the corner of his eye. The hotel manager has thin, white hair. His coat seems to be from some other time period and smells of wood, and ash. He chews on his lips.

  ‘And why did you fight with your brother?’

  Sam doesn’t look away from the window. He sees his Adam’s apple going up and down. He wipes his nose.

  ‘Over the bear.’

  Manel changes gears.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The bear doesn’t exist. I’ve been trying to convince him that this bear legend is absurd, ever since we were little. The adults in town would tell it to us. A mother bear that lived in the forests behind the town.’ He sighs loudly. ‘My brother has never been able to tell the difference between fantasy and reality. Never.’

  Manel notices that Sam’s voice has started to crack, and it’s getting worse and worse. He shifts gears again and looks at him. Sam has put a hand on his forehead and is making a sound with his nose.

  ‘My brother is a loner, he hallucinates. But for years now he’s been doing fine . . . as a shepherd.’

  ‘And why are you gathering signatures?’

  Sam shrugs.

  ‘I started the petition to show him that I believed him. When he suffered more intense paranoid episodes, that would calm him down.’ He takes in air in uneven gulps. ‘When the ski station and the hotel started to fail, he said it was the bear’s fault, that she was scaring off the skiers.’ He shakes his head and points to the black sky. ‘And it was the snow. It was the snow. It’s been snowing less and less. You know how many years it’s been since I’ve seen it snow here?’

  The snow.

  He wants to hug Òscar and tell him, you know what? The ski station closed because there wasn’t enough snow. That’s it, nothing more. Sometimes things are simple, Òscar. Try to capture that.

  ‘Yesterday he was hysterical over the disappearance of two of his sheep. Well they escaped and that’s all, Tom!’ Sam gives the car window a light punch. ‘That’s all!’

  Sometimes things are simple, Òscar. I want us to be parents. What are you afraid of?

  The engine coughs three times and the car stops.

  One of the dogs keeps scratching at the glass and the sound of its nails hitting the window is making Òscar nervous, and he keeps turning around. The animal’s mouth is full of saliva as it reveals its sharp, dirty fangs. Between the two dogs he glimpses the shotgun.

  ‘He’s nervous, wants to get out.’

  Tom’s voice is just as deep as Sam’s. Òscar nods and grips the door handle tightly.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So what are you doing here, at the ski station?’

  Òscar unzips his jacket and strokes the still damp camera case.

  ‘I have to take photos. I’m a photographer.’

  Tom scratches his nose compulsively. Òscar takes a long hard look at him. Maybe he doesn’t look that much like his brother. Tom’s eyes are more almond-­shaped and his jaw more square.

  ‘Of a ski station that’s been shut down for years?’

  Òscar looks straight ahead. He can already see the chairlift.

  ‘It’s for a photographic project on abandoned spaces.’

  One of the dogs starts barking. Tom looks into the rearview mirror.

  ‘It used to be full of skiers. Full. My brother made a ton of money, with the ski station and the hotel. Look at it now. Empty.’

  Caress the landscape. Merge with it. Understand its language.

  ‘What happened?’

  Tom shifts gears, looks at him, looks back at the road. He lowers his chin and furrows his brow.

  ‘He never believed there was a bear.’

  Òscar grabs his camera. Tom looks at him sidelong. His eyes are gleaming.

  ‘Skiers would disappear.’ He lifts his arm slowly and points to the road with his index finger. ‘They went up in the chairlift and never came back down. Sometimes, there was growling. He was totally money crazy and didn’t say a word. He kept quiet and didn’t do a thing.’ He falls silent. He swallows hard and drums his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Towards the end he was halfway round the bend, and he started a petition, but of course,’ he shrugs, ‘by then, nobody was coming anymore.’

  ‘And that’s why it closed?’

  Tom nods.

  ‘People were afraid.’

  Òscar strokes his camera and realizes his heart is beating fast. His right leg starts moving and he gnaws on the cuticle of his index finger. The chairlift is getting closer and closer.

  A bear.

  They shut it down because of a bear. Nature versus culture. The perfect photo to conclude his series. The fear of death.

  Recovering intensity.

  ‘I was never able to prove it to my brother. Never.’ He extends his right hand to Òscar and lifts two fingers. ‘But today two of my sheep disappeared. The bear took away my brother’s livelihood, and he didn’t know how to stop her.’ He bangs his fist against his chest. ‘I won’t let her do that to me!’

  Òscar turns on the camera and looks at the last photograph he took. He zooms in and studies the shadow. He glances into the mirror on the passenger side. Where’s Manel? Isn’t he going to come looking for him? Suddenly, he feels a stab in his left nipple.

  Manel and Sam are walking along the road. It’s been five minutes since they pushed the car to the shoulder. After studying the engine and trying to start it three times, they gave up and continued on foot. There aren’t many lights, but they have no problem following the road. Sam is not dressed very warmly, and keeps rubbing his arms. It’s not snowing anymore, but the temperature is dropping. Manel has the flashlight and keeps nervously pressing the on/off button, his eyes on Òscar’s footprints.

  ‘Why did your friend leave?’ Sam’s voice is getting hoarse.

  ‘He wanted to take photos. And he’s more than a friend.’

  Manel looks at the sky. Yes. He’s sure. He checked and double checked, and then checked again. The moon should be full, starting today. He spins around. There are some clouds, but he can see plenty of stars. Where is the moon?

  Sam approaches, hastening his step.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Manel lifts his chin skyward.

  ‘There should be a full moon. I checked before booking the trip. It’s . . . it’s as if it’s disappeared!’

  Barking is heard. Sam looks at the road.

  ‘We have to keep going!’

  Manel starts to walk, following Òscar’s enormous footprints. Size 12. A large foot. Size 12. Òscar’s big boots. The snow boots he bought two weeks ago downtown. Manel was antsy about how long they were in the store. Òscar couldn’t make up his mind. He didn’t like any of them.

  ‘These ones make me taller, right?’

  Manel looked at the boots through the mirror that leaned against a column and then looked at his face. Tense.

  ‘Yes, they make you even taller. In the end I’ll have a stiff neck from looking up at you. Those ones seem good.’

  ‘They’re expensive . . .’

  ‘But the ones you have are destroyed.’

  Did Òscar know Manel’s shoe size? And whether he needed new sneakers or not? Did he know? He pressed on Òscar’s toes to see if the boots fit.

  ‘Aren’t they a little small?’

  ‘Oh, man! Stop acting like my daddy!’

  Manel quickly withdrew his hand. />
  ‘Don’t call me daddy again, Òscar. This is important to me. Let’s not go there with this subject, OK? Please. You should get those ones, they’re nice. Let me get them for you.’

  Òscar shrugged and sat down to untie them.

  ‘Yeah, they are nice.’

  Manel stops. The footprints change direction, four more and the last few are in the middle of the road. As if he’d been abducted. As if he’d disappeared. Him and the moon.

  ‘We did fight, goddamnit! We did have a fight!’

  Tom pulls the hand brake and looks at Òscar.

  ‘See you later.’

  Òscar grips the door handle.

  ‘Where are you headed now?’

  ‘Up a path that leads to the woods above the station.’

  ‘You aren’t going to kill the bear, are you?’

  Tom tightens his lips.

  Òscar leaps from the car. He observes how the dogs are watching him through the glass. They steam it up. Tom starts the car and the dogs begin to bark. Òscar is left standing there, stock-­still, watching the off-­road vehicle head into the distance. He lifts his chin and looks out at the black night. There are no longer any clouds, and the stars shine much more intensely without the moon.

  He jumps over the fence, passes by the small lodge and heads decisively to the ski lift. The freezing wind moves the rusty chairs.

  They creak.

  A lament amid the white silence.

  He looks around him.

  A mother bear. This stillness is a mother bear’s fault.

  Fear’s fault. The fear of death. The same engine behind the building of a ski station is what causes it be abandoned. The fear of dying makes us build devices to distract ourselves, Manel, and then, abandon them. That’s the subject of Abysms. My new project. You like it?

  He looks to right and left and approaches one of the chairlift’s pylons, its paint peeling.

  When he finds the perfect spot, he pulls out his camera.

  The flash lights up one of the chairs. Its sound travels through the mountains and comes back to his eardrums, like a boomerang. He quickly puts the camera in his coat so it doesn’t get wet and then looks at the photograph.

  There’s too much snow. It doesn’t look like an abandoned ski station. It doesn’t have the effect he wants.

  What if it snows every day they’re here? What will they do? Stay warm in the room. Soak in the tub. Massages.

  He wants to try to take the photograph from another angle that shows the cable of the chairlift merging with the pine trees at the top of the mountain. He’ll try to not show the snow. He could focus just on the tree trunks. He pulls out his camera quickly and adjusts his hood so it covers it a little bit.

  He looks through the viewfinder. He tries to imagine the chairlift working. Families laughing. Colorful anoraks. What are you afraid of, Òscar?

  He shoots.

  From the distance comes the sound of high-­spirited barking.

  He lets go of the camera. He turns and looks at the completely snow-­covered road.

  And where is Manel anyway? It would have been so simple for him to have just come with him. Manel could have stood behind him, watching him take the photos, saying this one is good, that one’s not. Like when they selected the images for his exhibition on evictions, stretched out on the floor of the dining room. Manel wanted a few to trace for the comic book project he’d been envisioning. That was when he was still on unemployment and was taking that illustration course, before the idea of adopting a kid flooded his entire brain, swallowing up the comic, the photo selecting, the this one is good, that one’s not.

  Adopting.

  Òscar, I found out that in Ethiopia it would take us three years. In Vietnam it seems like it’d be faster. And Òscar, alone looking through the photos. Losing intensity. This one’s good, that one’s not. Look, Manel, maybe this one could work for the cover of your comic?

  My comic? Pfff . . . don’t know when I’ll get around to it, with all the work I have in the office right now! But you had the whole plot figured out! You had it all perfectly figured out before you found a job!

  Òscar contemplates the chairlift. Immobile. Are you soaking in the tub, Manel? Did you know there’s no full moon? But I guess it’s okay. In the distance, the dogs bark more furiously. A few seconds later, Òscar feels another, more intense stab in the nipple of his left breast.

  They can already see the chairlift’s enormous pylons. It seems it’s not snowing as hard. Manel walks behind Sam, who hasn’t said anything in a while. He feels his socks wet and a shiver climbing his legs, moving through his entire spine up to his neck. He looks at his old sneakers. Do you know my shoe size, Òscar? Do you know it? Do you know whether I need new sneakers because these ones are super old? They’re nice; let me get them for you. Oh, man! Stop acting like my daddy!

  Daddy.

  He should have stood up and thrown it all to the floor. Every boot on the shelf. Every single one of those boots for the photo expedition to the abandoned ski station. The hotel stay they would pay for with his salary, the salary he earns working at the architecture firm. The trip he would meticulously prepare: the rental car, the hotel, the flights. OK, he didn’t know there would be no full moon. That’s the only thing Òscar can reproach him for, but he could have taken care of all the arrangements himself. But, of course, he is the artist. All Òscar can think about are landscapes and positioning the lens. Oh, and on insisting about his comic. Manel, innocently, had defended himself: the comic’s just a hobby.

  A hobby? But you love it, you even had an editor interested.

  Òscar, please, it’s a tiny publishing house.

  So? That’s a start.

  Yeah, right, and how would we pay the bills then, with your exhibitions? Maybe you should start thinking of your photography as a hobby, too, and look for a real job!

  Sam stops, turns, looks at him and places his index finger on his ear.

  ‘Did you hear that?’

  The cold has made its way into Òscar’s coat and he’s been shivering, and he still hasn’t got a decent photo.

  The best.

  Abysms.

  Exhibition: Abysms, by Òscar Torres.

  You need a more powerful photo, Òscar, your work is losing its strength. What do you think about an abandoned ski station, Quique? I found one. Far away. I’d have to fly there but I think it’s a good idea. Sure, give it a try.

  Òscar exhales loudly. Manel, I’m going to go on a trip to an abandoned ski station. I think I’ve found the idea for the last photo of the abysm. Manel was annoyed that he’d planned the vacation. By yourself? I don’t know . . . You want to come with me? Yes, but it’s not that, Òscar, it’s not that. Two days later Manel showed him the page he’d printed. It’s the hotel reservation, we’ll spend our vacation there. We’ll take a plane and then we’ll rent a car. It’s all paid for. You’ll have five days to find the photo you’re searching for.

  Suddenly, another stab in his left nipple. It feels like it’s burning. He approaches the chairlift and sits in the seat closest to the ground. He props up his boots on the footrest. He rubs his nipple. He folds forward and that seems to lessen the pain. The dogs have stopped barking.

  He hears a shot in the distance. The sharp sound spreads along the ski slope. The chairs sway and it seems they’re howling. Òscar turns and his gaze runs up the cable that leads into the forest.

  Frightened, Manel looks at Sam, who turns and observes the mountain. His eyes are gleaming.

  ‘It’s Tom.’

  He starts to run and Manel follows him. They hop the fence. Sam pulls a set of keys from his coat pocket and opens the door to the ski station’s little hut. Manel contemplates the landscape. He doesn’t see Òscar anywhere. He’s having trouble breathing. He looks inside the hut. Sam turns on some lights.


  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I have to go up.’

  Sam lifts a wood panel and presses a button.

  Suddenly, the spotlights on the chairlift switch on. Òscar puts his right arm in front of his eyes. The stab in his nipple pierces his guts and reaches his back. He shakes his right leg compulsively. Who turned on the spotlights?

  He hears a deafening screech followed by a cadenced hum.

  The chairs swing and start to move.

  Òscar grips the frozen bar and rams his feet into the footrest.

  And he starts to ascend.

  He wants to scream, but his voice is trapped in his throat. The pain in his nipple is sharp and he doubles over again. He bites his lips. His eyes are beginning to get used to the light, he looks down and feels a dizziness that runs through his neck and sinks into his eardrums. It’s too late to jump, he’s too high up.

  Sam moves Manel away from the door and starts to run toward the chairlift. Manel takes two steps and observes the ascending seats. What is that? What is that shadow on the chairlift? He takes two more steps and notices Òscar’s yellow raincoat. Òscar? He opens his mouth slightly. Òscar? His mouth turns dry and he feels a scraping in his brain.

  ‘Òscar!’

  He takes a running start and is off.

  Running.

  Running.

  His old sneakers sink into the snow.

  Running.

  His socks wet.

  Òscar doesn’t move, he can’t even see his face. He’s doubled over.

  What is he doing? Is he looking at the photos in his camera?

  ‘Jump!’

  Another shot is heard. A few birds fly out of the fir trees and scatter into the black night. The sound of their wings blends into the sound of the chairlift.

  ‘Òscar!’

  He reaches the chairlift, his esophagus burned by the cold. He jumps into the damp seat. He looks forward, backward. Where is Sam?

  Òscar hugs his camera. He hears Manel’s voice. Is he calling him? He’s afraid to look down, but he tries to open his left eye and turn his head a little. The voice is coming from a chair. He’s here. He came looking for him. The two of them are heading up into the forest. Together.

  What did he make him do?