John Lindqvist - Let The Right One In aka Let Me In

"Ona kamisa y pantalanes."

Larry chuckled to himself.

"… pantalanes."

They had not believed him. Or rather, yes, they had believed him but refused to interpret the events in the way that he did. "Spontaneous combustion," Larry had said, and Morgan had asked him to spell it.

Except for the fact that the case for spontaneous combustion is just about as well-documented and scientifically proven as vampires. That is to say, not at all.

But of two equally implausible scenarios you probably choose to believe the one that demands the least amount of action on your part. They were not going to help him. Morgan had listened seriously to Lacke's account of what happened at the hospital, but when he got to the part about destroying the cause of all this, he had said:

"So, like, you mean we should become… vampire killers. You and me and Larry. With stakes and crosses and… No, sorry, Lacke, but I'm having a little trouble seeing it, is all."

Lacke's immediate thought when he saw their disbelieving, dismissive faces had been:

Virginia would have believed me.

And the pain had sunk its claws into him again. He was the one who had not believed in Virginia and that was why… he would rather have spent a couple of years in jail for mercy killing than have to live with the image he had seared on his retina.

Her body writhing in the bed as her skin blackens, starts to smoke. The hospital gown that rides up over her stomach, revealing her genitals. The rattle of the metal bed frame as her hips move, heaving up and down in infernal copulation with an invisible being as flames appear on her thighs, she screams, she screams and the stench of singed hair fills the room, her terrified eyes on mine and one second later they whiten, start to boil… burst…

Lacke had drunk more than half the contents of the bottle. Morgan and Larry had let him.

"… pantalanes."

Lacke tried to get up out of the couch. The back of his head weighed as much as the rest of his body. He steadied himself against the table, heaved himself up. Larry stood up in order to give him a hand.

"Lacke, damn it… sleep a while."

"No, I have to get home."

"What do you have to do there?"

"I just have to… do something."

"But it's nothing to do with… the stuff we were talking about, is it?"

"No, no."

Morgan came in from the balcony while Lacke was teetering out toward the hall.

"Hey you! Where do you think you're going?"

"Home."

"Then I'll walk you there."

Lacke turned around, making an effort to shore himself up, appear as sober as possible. Morgan walked over to him, his hands out in case Lacke fell. Lacke shook his head, patted Morgan on the shoulder.

"I want to be alone, OK. I want to be alone. That's all."

"Are you sure you can make it?"

"I'll manage."

Lacke nodded a few more times, got hung up on this movement, and had to consciously put an end to it so he wouldn't be stuck standing there, then turned and walked out into the hall, pulling on his coat and shoes.

He knew he was very drunk, but he had experienced this state so many times that he knew how to unhook his movements from his brain, perform them mechanically. He would have been able to play pick-up-sticks without his hands trembling, at least for a short while.

He heard the others' voices from inside the apartment.

"Shouldn't we?…"

"No. If that's what he wants we should respect it."

But they came out into the hall to see him off. Hugged him clumsily. Morgan took him by the arms and bent down to look him in the eyes, said: "You're not going to do anything stupid now are you? You have us, you know that."

"Yes, I know. Of course I won't."

Once he was outside the high-rise apartment building he came to a standstill, looked up at the sun resting in the top of a pine tree.

Will never again be able to… the sun…

Virginia's death, the way she had died, hung like a lead weight in his heart, in the place his heart had been, made him walk doubled over, compressed. The afternoon light in the streets was a mockery. The few people moving around in it… a mockery. Voices. Speaking about everyday things as if… all over, at any moment…

It can happen to you, too.

Outside the kiosk a person had leaned up against the window, was

talking to the kiosk owner. Lacke saw a black lump fall from the sky, attach itself to the person's back and…

What the hell…

He stopped in front of the rows of headlines, blinked, tried to focus properly on the photo that nearly filled the available space. The Ritual Killer. Lacke snorted. He knew better. What this was actually about. But…

He recognized that face. It was…

At the Chinese restaurant. The man who… . bought him the whisky. Could it…

He took a step forward, looked more closely at the picture. Yes. It was. The same closely-set eyes, the same… Lacke put his hand to his mouth, pressed his fingers to his lips. The images whirled around, attempted connections.

He had let him buy him drinks, the one who killed Jocke. Jocke's killer had lived in the same building complex as him, only a few doors down. He had greeted him a couple of times, he had…

But he wasn't the one who did it. That must have been…

A voice. Said something.

"Hi Lacke. Someone you know, or what?"

The owner of the kiosk and the man outside were both looking at him. He said:

"… Yes…" and started to walk again, toward his apartment. The world disappeared. In his mind's eye he saw the doorway the man came out of. The covered windows of the apartment. He was going to get to the bottom of this. He was.

His pace quickened and his spine straightened out; the lead weight was a pendulum now that beat against his chest, making him tremble, his resolve thundering through his body.

Here I come. By Jove… here I come.

The subway train stopped at Racksta and Oskar chewed his lips, impatiently, with a touch of panic, thought the doors stayed open too long. When there was a click on the speaker system he thought the driver was about to announce a delay but-

"Step away from the doors. The doors are closing."

– and the train pulled away from the station.

He had no plan beyond warning Eli; that anyone, at any time could call the police and say they had seen the old guy. In Blackeberg. In that building. In that stairwell. In that apartment.

What happens if the police… if they break down the door… the bathroom.

The train rattled across the bridge and Oskar looked out the window. Two men were standing down at the Lover's newsstand and, half-covered by one of the men, Oskar could still discern the row of hateful front-page headlines blown up and printed on yellow fliers. The other man walked quickly away from the kiosk.

Anyone. Anyone can recognize him. He could know.

Oskar was already up and standing by the doors when the train started to slow down. He pushed his fingers through the rubber lips between the doors as if that would make them open faster, and leaned his forehead against the glass, cool against his hot skin. The brakes started to squeal and the driver must have been distracted because only now did he announce:

"Next stop. Blackeberg."

Jonny was standing on the platform. And Tomas.

No. Nonono. Not them.

When the train, rocking, pulled to a halt, Oskar's eyes met Jonny's. They widened, and at the same time as the doors slid open with a hiss, Oskar saw Jonny say something to Tomas.

Oskar tensed, threw himself out through the doors, and started to run.

Tomas' long leg flicked out, hooked his, and he fell headlong onto the platform, scraping the palms of his hands when he tried to break his fall. Jonny sat on his back. "In a hurry to get somewhere?"