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

He glanced down at the notes on his paper. He had written: Barefoot.

Barefoot? What did I mean by that? That the people of Israel walked barefoot or that Jesus… wandered for a long time…

He looked up and saw that the smoke had thickened, formed a pillar that rose up from the font to the ceiling. What was the last thing he had said? Yes, now he remembered. The words were still hanging in the air.

"And the strength for this we can take from the works of the Lord."

That was an acceptable conclusion. Not great, not what he had been planning, but acceptable. He gave the congregation a somewhat bewildered smile and nodded to Birgit, who led the choir.

The choir, eight people, stood up as one and walked up to the podium. When they turned to the congregation he could tell by their expressions that they also saw the smoke. Blessed be the Lord; it had occurred to him that perhaps it was only he who could see it.

Birgit looked at him for guidance and he made a gesture with his hand: go on, get started.

The choir started to sing.

Lead me, God, lead me into righteousness. Let mine eyes behold Thy path…

One of old Wesley's beautiful compositions. Bror Ardelius wished he had been able to enjoy the beauty of the song, but the pillar of cloud was starting to worry him. Thick white smoke was billowing up out of the christening font and something inside the basin itself was burning with a blue-white flame, smoking and sputtering. A sweetish smell reached his nostrils and the members of the congregation started to turn around in order to figure out where the crackling sound was coming from.

For only you, my Lord,

offer my soul

peace and security…

One of the women in the choir started to cough. The members of the congregation turned their heads from the smoking font to Bror Ardelius in order to receive instruction from him as to how they should behave, if this was a part of the service.

More people started to cough, holding handkerchiefs or sleeves in front of their mouths, noses. A thin haze had started to form inside the

church, and through this haze Bror Ardelius saw someone get up from the very last row and run out the door.

Yes, that is the only reasonable thing to do.

He leaned toward the microphone.

"Yes, well, there has been a small… mishap and I think it is best if we… clear the building."

Already at the word "mishap" Staffan left the podium and started walking toward the exit with quick, controlled steps. He got it. It was Yvonne's hopeless delinquent of a kid who had done this. Even now, as he was walking down from the podium he was trying to control himself, because he sensed that if he got hold of Tommy right now he would give him a good hiding.

Of course this was exactly what the young hooligan needed; it was exactly the kind of guidance he was lacking.

Pillar of cloud come help me. A good spanking is what this kid sorely needs.

But Yvonne wouldn't accept it, as things stood right now. Once they were married things would be different. Then he would, God so help him, take on the task of disciplining Tommy. But first and foremost he would get ahold of him right now. Shake him up a little bit, at the very least.

Staffan didn't get very far. Bror Ardelius' words from the podium had worked like a starting gun on the members of the congregation, who had only been waiting for his go-ahead in order to stampede out of the church. Halfway down the aisle Staffan found himself blocked by little old ladies who were hurrying toward the exit with grim determination.

His right hand flew to his hip but he stopped it halfway, clenched it into a fist. Even if he had had his baton this would hardly have been a good time to use it.

The smoke production in the font was starting to die down but the church was now full of a thick haze that smelled of candy and chemicals. The exit doors were wide open and through the haze you could see a strong rectangle of morning light.

The congregation moved toward the light, coughing.

There was a single wooden chair in the kitchen, nothing more. Oskar pulled it up to the sink, stood on it, and peed into the drain while he had water running out of the tap. When he was done he put the chair back. It looked strange in the otherwise empty kitchen. Like something in a museum.

What does she keep it for?

He looked around. Above the fridge there was a row of cabinets you could only reach by standing on the chair. He pulled it over and steadied himself by putting a hand on the refrigerator door handle. His stomach rumbled. He was hungry.

Without thinking more about it, he opened the fridge in order to see what there was. Not much. An open carton of milk, half a packet of bread. Butter and cheese. Oskar put his hand out for the milk.

But… Eli…

He stood there with the carton of milk in his hand, blinked. This didn't add up. Did she eat real food as well? Yes. She must. He took the milk carton out of the fridge and put it on the counter. In the kitchen cabinet above the counter there was almost nothing. Two plates, two glasses. He took a glass and poured milk into it.

And then it hit him. With the cold milk glass in his hand it finally hit him, with full force.

She drinks blood.

Yesterday evening, in his tangle of sleepiness and sense of detachment from the world, in the dark, everything had somehow felt possible. But now in the kitchen, where no blankets hung in the window and the blinds let in a weak morning light, with a glass of milk in his hand it seemed so… beyond anything he could comprehend.

Like: If you have milk and bread in your fridge you must be a human being.

He took a mouthful of milk and immediately spit it out. It was sour. He smelled the rest that was in the glass. Yes, definitely bad. He poured it out into the sink, rinsed the glass out, and then drank some water in order to get the taste out of his mouth. Looked at the date on the carton.

USE BY 28 OCTOBER.

The milk was ten days too old. Oskar had a realization.

The old guy's milk.

The refrigerator door was still open. The old guy's food.

Revolting. Totally revolting.

Oskar slammed the door shut. What had that old guy been here for anyway? What had he and Eli… Oskar shivered.

She has killed him.

Yes. Eli must have kept the old guy around in order to be able to… drink from him. To use him like a living blood bank. That's what she did. But why had the old guy agreed to it? And //she had killed him, where was the body? Oskar glanced up at the high kitchen cabinets. And suddenly he didn't want to be in the kitchen anymore. Didn't want to stay in the apartment at all. He walked out of the kitchen, through the hall. The closed bathroom door.

She's in there.

He hurried into the living room, collected his bag. The Walkman was on the table. He would have to buy new headphones, that was all. When he picked up the Walkman in order to put it into his bag he saw the note. It was lying on the coffee table, at the same height as his head had been resting.

Hi. Hope you've slept well. I'm also going to sleep now. I'm in the bathroom. Don't try to go in there, please. I'm trusting you. I don't know what to write. I hope you can like me even though you know what I am. I like you. A lot. You're lying here on the couch right now, snoring. Please. Don't be afraid of me.

Please please please don't be afraid of me.

Do you want to meet me tonight? Write so on this note if you do.

If you write No I'll move tonight. Probably have to do that soon anyway. But if you write Yes I'll hang around for a while longer. I don't know what I should write. I'm alone. Probably more alone than you can imagine, I think. Or perhaps you can.