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

He had curled up on the path with his hands over his head, waiting for the attack. When he finally put his arms back down the chimney stood where it always was, magnificent and unmoving.

The streetlight nearest the Bjornsongatan underpass was broken and the path under the street a dark hole. If he had been drunk right now he would probably have walked up the stairs next to the underpass and gone up to Bjornsongatan, even though that was slightly longer. He could get such strange visions in the dark when he had had something to drink. Always slept with the light on for that reason. But right now he was stone sober.

He had a hankering to take the stairs anyway. The drunken visions had started to seep into his perception of the world even when he was sober. He stood still on the path and summed up the situation for himself:

"I'm starting to get soft in the head."

Let me make this clear to you, Jocke. If you don't get ahold of yourself and make it just that little bit further through the underpass, you won't make it to the Canary Islands either.

Why not?

Because you always jump ship at the first sign of a hurdle. The law of least resistance, in every situation. What makes you think you could manage to call a travel agent, get a new passport, buy things for your trip, and above all, take that step out into the unknown if you don't even have the guts to walk this short stretch?

You have a point. But so what? If I walk through the underpass, that means I'll make it to the Canary Islands, that it'll happen?

It makes me think you'll call and book the ticket tomorrow. Tenerife, Jocke, Tenerife.

He started to walk again, summoning images of sunny beaches and drinks with little umbrellas. Damn it, he was going. Wouldn't go down to the restaurant tonight, no. He would stay home and check the ads in the paper. Eight years. Fucking time to pull himself together.

He had just started to think about palm trees, whether or not there were palm trees in the Canary Islands, if he had seen any in the movie, when he heard the sound. A voice. He stopped in the middle of the underpass, listening. A moaning voice was coming from the side.

"Help me…"

His eyes were starting to get used to the dim light, but he could still only discern the contours of the leaves that had blown in and collected in heaps. It sounded like a child.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

"Help me…"

He looked around. No one in sight. He heard a rustling in the dark, could see movement in the leaves.

"Please, help me."

He felt a strong desire to walk away. But that was impossible. A child had been hurt, had maybe been attacked by someone…

The murderer!

The Vallingby murderer had come to Blackeberg, but this time the victim had survived…

Oh, for heaven's sake.

He didn't want any part of this. He who was on his way to Tenerife and all. But what could he do? He took a few steps in the direction of the voice. The leaves crunched under his feet and now he could see the body. It was curled into a fetal position in the leaves.

Damn, damn.

"What happened?"

"Help me…"

Jocke's eyes were now fully accustomed to the dark and he could see the child stretch out a pale arm. The body was naked, probably raped. No. When he got close he saw that the child was not naked, was simply wearing a pink top. How old? Ten or twelve. Maybe he had been knocked down by his "friends." Or her. If it was a girl that was less likely.

He crouched down next to the girl and took her hand.

"What happened to you?"

"Help me. Lift me up."

"Are you hurt?"

"Yes."

"What happened?"

"Lift me up…"

"Is it your back?"

He had been drafted into the medical corps during his compulsory military training and knew you shouldn't lift people with neck or back injuries unless you secured their heads first.

"It's not your back, is it?"

"No. Lift me."

What the fuck was he supposed to do? If he took the child home to his apartment the police would think…

He would have to take him or her to the restaurant and call an ambulance from there. Yes. That was a plan. The child had a small, thin body- must be a girl-and even though he wasn't in the greatest shape he thought he could manage to carry her there.

"OK. I'll carry you to a place where we can call, alright?"

"Yes… thank you."

That "thank you" stung his heart. How could he have hesitated? What kind of bastard was he? Well, he had managed to keep his head and now

he was going to help the girl. He coaxed his left arm under her knees and put the other arm under her neck. "OK. Up we go." "Mmm."

She weighed almost nothing. It was incredibly easy to lift her up. Twenty-five kilos, at most. Maybe she was malnourished. Problems at home, or anorexia. Maybe a stepfather or something who abused her. Fucking pathetic.

The girl put her arms around his neck and leaned her cheek against his shoulder. He was going to manage this. "How does that feel?"

"Good."

He smiled. A feeling of warmth rushed through him. He was a good person, in spite of everything. He could imagine the others' faces when he came in, the girl in his arms. At first they would wonder what the fuck he was up to and then they would be more and more impressed. "Well done, Jocke," etc.

He turned to start walking up to the restaurant, consumed by his fantasies of a new life, the new start he was in the process of making, when he felt the pain in his throat. What the fuck? It felt like a bee-sting and his left hand wanted to go up and wave it away, examine it. But he couldn't drop the child.

Stupidly he tried to bend his head to see what it was, even though he naturally couldn't see his own throat from that angle. He couldn't bend his head anyway because the girl's jaw lay pressed against his chin. Her grip around his neck grew tighter and the pain stronger. Now he understood. "What the hell are you doing?"

He felt the girl's jaws working up and down against his chin as the pain at his throat grew more intense. A warm trickle of fluid ran down his chest. "Stop it!"

He let go of the girl. It wasn't a conscious thought, simply a reflex: must get this off my throat.

But the girl didn't fall. Instead she established an iron grip around his neck-good god how strong her little body was-and wrapped her legs around his hips.

She clung to him like four hands wrapped tightly around a doll, while her jaws continued to work.

Jocke grabbed her head and tried to pull it away from him but it was like trying to tear a fresh branch from a birch tree with your bare hands. Her head was, like, glued to him. Her grip on him was so strong that it pressed the breath from his lungs and didn't allow him to draw in fresh air.

He staggered backward, desperate for air.

The girl's jaws had stopped working on him; now he only heard a quiet lapping. She had not loosened her grip for a moment, quite the opposite. Her grip on him was even tighter now that she was sucking. A muted crunch and his chest radiated with pain. Several ribs had been broken.

He had no more air for screaming. He pummeled the girl's head with a few feeble blows as he staggered around in the dry leaves. The world was spinning. The distant street lamps danced like fireflies in front of his eyes.

He lost his balance and fell backward. The last sound he heard was the leaves crunching as they were crushed by his head. A microsecond later he hit the stone pavement and the world disappeared.

Oskar lay wide awake in his bed, staring at the wallpaper.

He and his mom had watched The Muppets but he had not followed the story at all. Miss Piggy had been angry about something and Kermit had been looking for Gonzo. One of the sour old men had fallen from the theater balcony-but the reason why he had done so had escaped Oskar. His thoughts had been elsewhere.