Lars Kepler - The Hypnotist

“Pierre, would you continue, please,” I said calmly.

He shook his head, forming a cross with his index fingers and pointing them at Eva, pretending to protect himself against her.

“They shot Dennis Hopper because he was a hippie,” he whispered conspiratorially.

Sibel giggled even more loudly and glanced expectantly at me. Jussi raised his hand and turned to Eva.

“In the haunted house you won’t have to listen to our childish nonsense,” he said, in his strong accent.

The room fell completely silent. It occurred to me that Eva had no way of knowing what the haunted house meant to our group, but I left it.

Eva Blau turned to Jussi. It looked as if she were going to yell something at him, but he simply gazed back at her with such a calm, serious expression that she appeared to change her mind and settled back down.

“Eva, we begin with relaxation exercises and breathing and then I hypnotize you, one by one or in pairs,” I explained. “Of course, everyone participates all the time, regardless of the level of consciousness on which you find yourself.”

An ironic smile passed over Eva’s face.

“And sometimes,” I went on, “if I feel it will work, I try to put the whole group into a deep hypnosis.”

I pulled up my chair and asked them to close their eyes and lean back. “Your feet should be on the floor, your hands should be resting on your lap,” I repeated.

As I gently led them deeper into a state of relaxation, I decided to begin by investigating Eva Blau’s secret rooms. It was important for her to make some contribution soon, in order to be accepted by the group. I counted backwards and listened to their breathing, immersing them in a light hypnotic state and leaving them just beneath the silvery surface of the water.

“Eva, I am speaking only to you,” I said. “You should feel safe and relaxed. Just listen to my voice and follow my words. Follow my words spontaneously all the time. Do not question them. You are amid their flow, not anticipating, not analyzing, but right here in the moment the whole time.”

We were sinking through grey water, falling down into the dark depths past a thick rope, a hawser festooned with swaying ribbons of seaweed. I looked up and glimpsed the rest of the group dangling there with the tops of their heads brushing the rippling mirror.

At the same time, I was actually standing behind Eva Blau’s chair with one hand on her shoulder, speaking calmly, my voice growing softer. She was leaning back, her face relaxed.

In my own trance, the water around her was sometimes brown, sometimes grey. Her face lay in shadow, her mouth tightly closed. Her brow was furrowed, but her gaze was completely blank. Lars Ohlson’s notes contained almost nothing about her background, so I decided to try a cautious entry strategy. Evoking a calm and happy time ironically often proves to be the quickest way into the most difficult areas.

“You are ten years old, Eva,” I said, coming around so that I could observe her from the front.

Her chest was barely moving; she was breathing calmly, gently, from down in her diaphragm.

“You are ten years old, Eva. This is a good day. You are happy. Why are you happy?”

Eva pouted sweetly, smiled to herself, and said, “Because the man is dancing and splashing in the puddles.”

“Who’s dancing?” I asked. “Who?” She didn’t speak for a moment. “Gene Kelly, Mummy says.”

“Oh, so you’re watching Singin’ in the Rain ?”

A slow nod.

“What happens?”

I saw her face slowly sink toward s her chest. Suddenly a strange expression flitted across her lips.

“My tummy is big,” she said, almost inaudibly. “Your tummy?”

“It’s huge,” she said, with tears in her voice.

Jussi was breathing heavily beside her. From the corner of my eye I could see that he was moving his lips.

“The haunted house,” he whispered, in his state of light hypnosis. “The haunted house.”

“Eva, listen to me,” I said. “You can hear everyone else in this room, but you must listen only to my voice. Pay no attention to what the others say, pay attention only to my voice.”

“OK,” she said, her expression contented.

“Do you know why your tummy is big?” I asked. “I want to go into the haunted house,” she whispered.

I counted backwards, suggesting the staircase that led ever down. As I counted, I was thinking that something wasn’t right. I myself was immersed in pleasantly warm water, as I slowly drifted down past the rock face, deeper and deeper.

Eva Blau lifted her chin, moistened her lips, sucked in her cheeks, and whispered, “I can see them taking someone. They just come up and take someone.”

“Who’s taking someone?” I asked.

Her breathing became irregular. Her face grew darker. Brown, cloudy water drifted in front of her.

“A man with a ponytail. He’s hanging the little person up on the ceiling,” she whimpered.

She was clutching the hawser with the billowing seaweed tightly with one hand; her legs were paddling slowly.

Something wasn’t right. With an effortful thrust I pushed myself outside the hypnosis. Eva Blau was faking. I was absolutely certain that she wasn’t under hypnosis. She had resisted, blocked my suggestion. She’s lying, she isn’t under hypnosis at all, my brain whispered coldly.

She was throwing herself back and forth on her chair. “The man is pulling and pulling at the little person, he’s pulling too hard.” Suddenly she met my gaze and stopped moving. Her lips distended in a wide, ugly grin. “Was I good?” she asked me.

I didn’t reply. I just watched as she stood up, took her coat from the hook, and calmly walked out of the room.

I wrote THE HAUNTED HOUSEon a piece of paper, wrapped it around tape number 14, and secured it with a rubber band. But instead of archiving the tape as usual, I took it to my office. I wanted to analyze Eva Blau’s lie and my own reaction, but I was still in the hall when I realized what had been wrong all along: Eva had been aware of her face and had tried to look sweet; she had not had the listless, open face that those under hypnosis always have. A person under hypnosis can smile, but it isn’t their usual smile, it’s a somnolent, slack smile.

As I turned the corner leading to my office, I saw Maja Swartling waiting outside my door. I surprised myself by remembering her name. When she caught sight of me, her face lit up and she waved.

“Sorry to keep bothering you like this,” she said quickly, “but since I’m basing part of my dissertation on your research, my advisor suggested that I interview you.” She looked at me intently.

“I understand,” I said.

“Is it all right if I ask you a few questions?” she asked.

Suddenly she looked like a little girl: wide awake but unsure of herself. Her eyes were very dark, set off against the milky glow of her fair skin. She wore her shiny hair in looped braids: an old-fashioned hair-style, but it suited her.

“Is it all right?” she repeated softly. “You have no idea how persistent I can be.”

I realized I was standing there smiling. There was something so bright and healthy about her. She laughed and gave me a lingering, satisfied look. I unlocked the door and she followed me into the office, settled down in the visitor’s chair, and took out a notepad and pen.

“What would you like to ask me?”

Maja blushed deeply and sat, then began to talk.

“I’ve read your reports,” she said, “and your hypnosis group is made up not only of victims, people who have been subjected to some kind of abuse, but also perpetrators, those who have done terrible things to others.”

“You have to understand that sometimes the level of coercion is so great that a person is forced to commit terrible acts. The victim becomes the perpetrator through the very process of victimization. In any event, for patients like this, it works the same way in the subconscious, and in the context of group therapy this is in fact a resource.”