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

During the four months that they lived together Virginia never managed to figure out what Lacke actually did. He knew something about electrical wiring and put in a dimmer on the lamp in the living room. He knew something about cooking: surprised her several times with well-made fish-based creations. But what did he do?

He sat in the apartment, went for walks, talked to people, read a lot of books and newspapers. That was all. For Virginia, who had worked since she left school, it was an incomprehensible way to live. She had asked him:

"So Lacke, I don't mean this… but what is it you dol Where do you get your money?"

"I don't have any."

"But you do have a little money."

"This is Sweden. Carry out a chair and put it on the sidewalk. Sit there in that chair and wait. If you wait long enough someone will come out and give you money. Or take care of you somehow."

"Is that how you see me?"

"Virginia. When you say 'Lacke, please leave.' Then I'll leave."

It had taken a month before she said it. Then he had stuffed his clothes into a bag, his books into another. And left. She hadn't seen him for six months. During that time she had started to drink more, alone.

When she saw Lacke again he had changed. More sad. During those six months he had lived with his father, who was wasting away with cancer somewhere in a house in Smaland. When his father died Lacke and his sister had inherited the house, sold it, and split the money. Lacke's share had been enough to get him a small condo with a low monthly fee in Blackeberg and now he was back for good.

In the years that followed they met more and more frequently at the Chinese restaurant, where Virginia had started to go more often in the evenings. Sometimes they left together, made love in a subdued way and-by silent agreement-Lacke made sure he was gone by the time Virginia came home from work the following day. They were a couple in the loosest sense of the word-sometimes a few months went by without them sharing their bed and this arrangement suited them.

They walked past the ICA store with its advertisement about cheap ground beef and its exhortation to "Live, drink, and be happy." Lacke stopped, waited for her. When she reached him he held an arm out to her. Virginia put her arm through his. Lacke nodded at the store.

"Good old work, huh?"

"The usual," Virginia said. "I did that one."

It was a sign that said crushed tomatoes, three cans, 5 kronor.

"Nice job."

"Do you really think so?"

"Sure I do. Gives you a real craving for crushed tomatoes."

She jabbed him in the side, carefully. Felt her elbow make contact with a rib. "You don't even remember what real food tastes like."

"You certainly don't need to…"

"I know, but I'm going to anyway."

Eeeeli… Eeeeliii…"

The voice coming from the TV was familiar. Eli tried to back away from it, but her body wouldn't obey her. Only her hands moved around on the floor, in slow motion, searching for something to hold onto. Found a cord. Squeezed it hard with one hand as if it were a lifeline out of the tunnel that ended in the TV that was talking to Eli.

"Eli… where are you?"

Her head felt too heavy to lift from the floor; the only action Eli managed was to raise her eyes to the screen and of course it was… Him.

The blond tendrils from his wig made of human hair fanned out over the silk robe and made the effeminate face look even smaller than it was. The thin lips were pressed together, drawn into a lipsticked smile that looked like a knife gash in the pale powdered face.

Eli managed to raise her head slightly and saw His whole face. Blue, childishly large eyes, and above his eyes… the air came out of Eli's lungs in ragged spurts, and her head fell heavily to the ground, causing a crunching noise in her nose. Funny. He was wearing a cowboy hat on His head.

"Eeeliii…"

Other voices. Children's voices. Eli raised her head again, trembling like a baby. Drops of the sick blood ran from Eli's nose down to her mouth. The man had opened his arms in a gesture of welcome, revealing the red lining of his robe. The lining billowed out; it was swarming, made up of lips. Hundreds of children's lips that writhed painfully, whispering their story, Eli's story.

"Eli… come home…"

Eli sobbed, shut her eyes. Waited for the cold grip around the neck. Nothing happened. Opened her eyes again. The picture had changed. Now you could see a long line of children in poor clothes wandering over a snowy landscape, waddling in the direction of a castle of ice on the horizon.

This isn't happening.

Eli spit blood out of her mouth, toward the TV. Red dots punctured the white snow, ran down over the ice castle.

It isn't real.

Eli pulled on the lifeline, tried to pull herself out of the tunnel. A clicking was heard as the plug was pulled from the socket, and the TV turned off. Viscous strands of blood-tinged saliva ran down the darkened screen, dropping down onto the floor. Eli rested her head against her hands, disappearing into a dark red whirlpool.

Virginia put on a quick pot of stew beef, onions, and crushed tomatoes while Lacke was showering. He was taking a long time. When the food was ready she went into the bathroom. He was sitting in the tub, his head between his knees, the detachable shower head resting against one shoulder, his vertebrae a string of Ping-Pong balls under the skin.

"Lacke? The food is ready."

"Great, that's great. Have I been in here long?"

"Not really. But the water company just called and said their wells are going dry."

"What?"

"Come on, up you go." She lifted her bathrobe up off its hook and held it out to him. He stood up by steadying himself with one hand on each side of the tub. Virginia winced as she noticed his emaciated body. Lacke saw her reaction and said: "Thus he rose from his bath, like a god, beautiful to behold."

Then they had dinner, splitting a bottle of wine. Lacke did not manage to get much down, but at least he was eating. They split another bottle of wine in the living room, then went to bed. Lay for a while next to each other, looking into each other's eyes.

"I've stopped taking the Pill."

"I see. We don't have to…"

"I didn't mean it like that. It's just I don't need them anymore. Menopause."

Lacke nodded. Thought about it. Stroked her cheek.

"Does that make you sad?"

Virginia smiled.

"You must be the only man I know who would think of asking me that. Yes, a little bit actually. It's as if… the part that makes me a woman. It doesn't apply to me anymore."

"Mmmm. Good enough for me, though."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Come here."

He did as he was told.

Gunnar Holmberg was dragging his feet in the snow in order not to leave any footprints behind that would make things harder for the forensic technicians. He stopped and looked back at the traces that led away from the house. Light from the fire made the snow glow orange and the heat was intense enough that beads of sweat had formed along his hairline.

Holmberg had been teased many times for his naive belief in the basic goodness of young people. That was what he tried to support through his frequent school visits, through his many and long conversations with youngsters who had made bad choices, and that was one reason why he was so affected by what he now saw in front of him.

The footprints in the snow had been made by small shoes. Not even what you would call a "young person," no, these tracks had been made by a child. Small, neat imprints spaced at a remarkable distance from each other. Someone had run here. Fast.

In the corner of his eye he saw Larsson, an officer-in-training, approaching.