Ларс Кеплер - Stalker

Holding her pink kimono in front of her, she walks back to the living room and closes the heavy curtains.

The room feels suddenly blind, as if a silence had settled on it.

The curtains sway in front of the windows, and she shudders as she turns away from them.

She tries the ice cream. It’s much softer now, just right. A dense taste of chocolate fills her mouth.

Susanna puts the tub down and walks to the bathroom, locks the door, turns the shower on, loosens her ponytail and puts the scrunchie on the edge of the basin.

She lets out a sigh as the hot water washes over her head and neck and envelops her whole body. Her ears are roaring as her shoulders relax and her muscles soften. She soaps herself and runs her hand between her legs, noticing that the hair has already started to grow again since the last time she waxed.

Susanna wipes the steam from the glass door with her hand so she can see the handle and lock of the bathroom door.

She suddenly remembers what she thought she had seen in the bedroom window just as she was pulling the bedspread towards her to cover herself.

She dismissed it as a trick of her imagination. It’s silly to let yourself get scared like that. She had thrust her anxieties aside, and told herself that she couldn’t even see through the glass.

The room was too bright and the garden too dark.

But in the reflection of the dark bedspread she had thought she could see a face staring back at her.

The next moment it was gone, and she realised she must have been mistaken, but now she can’t help thinking it might have been real.

It wasn’t a child, but possibly a neighbour out looking for their cat, who then stopped to look at her.

Susanna turns the water off and her heart is beating so hard that it’s pounding at the top of her chest as she realises that the kitchen door leading out to the garden is open. How could she have forgotten that? She’s had it open all summer to let in the cool evening air, but usually shuts and locks it before taking a shower.

She wipes the steam from the glass door and looks at the lock on the bathroom door again. Nothing has changed. She reaches for the towel and thinks to herself that she’ll phone Björn and ask him to stay on the line as she looks through the house.

Susanna can hear applause on the television as she leaves the bathroom. The thin silk of the kimono sticks to her damp skin.

There’s a cold draught along the floor.

Her feet leave wet footprints on the worn parquet tiles.

There’s a dark shimmer from the windows at the far side of the dining room. Black glass sparkling behind the ferns in their hanging pots. Susanna feels like she’s being watched, but forces herself not to look out, scared of frightening herself even more.

Nonetheless, she keeps her distance from the closed door to the basement as she approaches the kitchen.

Her wet hair is soaking through the back of the kimono. It’s so wet that it’s dripping inside the fabric, trickling between her buttocks.

The floor gets colder the closer she gets to the kitchen.

Her heart is pounding hard in her chest.

She suddenly finds herself thinking of the young man with serious head injuries again. He was sedated with Ketalar. His whole face was crushed, squashed up towards his temples. His father kept repeating quietly that there was nothing wrong with his son. He could have done with someone to talk to, but Susanna hadn’t had time.

Now she is imagining that the heavily built father has found her, that he holds her to blame, and is standing outside the kitchen door in his dirty overalls.

A different song on the television now.

There’s a breeze blowing straight through the kitchen. The door to the garden is wide open. The thin curtain of plastic strips is fluttering into the room. She walks slowly forward. It’s hard to see anything behind the dancing curtain. There could be someone standing just outside.

She holds her hand out, pushes the swirling plastic strips aside, slips past them and reaches for the door handle.

The floor is chill from the night air flowing into the kitchen.

Her kimono slips open.

She has time to notice that the gloomy garden is deserted. The bushes are moving in the wind, the swing swaying rhythmically.

She quickly closes the door, not bothered about catching part of the curtain in it, and hurriedly locks it, then pulls the key out and backs away.

She puts the key in the bowl of loose change and adjusts the kimono.

At least it’s locked now, she thinks, as she hears a creak behind her back.

She spins round and then smiles at her own reaction. It was just the window in the living room shifting on its hinges when the flow of air stopped.

The audience is booing and whistling at the judges’ decision.

Susanna thinks about getting her phone from the bedroom and calling Björn. He ought to be waiting at the gate by now. She wants to hear his voice as she searches the house before settling down in front of the television. She’s wound herself up too much to relax otherwise. The only problem is that there’s no reception at all in the basement. Maybe she could put it on speaker and leave it halfway down the stairs.

She tells herself that she doesn’t have to creep about in her own home, but can’t help moving quietly.

She passes the closed door to the basement, sees the dark windows in the dining room from the corner of her eye, and carries on towards the living room.

She knows she locked the front door after her run, but still wants to go and check. It would be just as well — then she won’t have to think about it again.

There’s a whistling sound from the open window in the living room and the curtain is being sucked back towards the narrow opening.

She starts to walk towards the dining room and notices that the wild flowers in the vase on the heavy oak table have run out of water, before coming to an abrupt halt.

It feels as though her whole body is covered by a thin layer of ice. In an instant adrenalin is coursing through her blood.

The three windows of the dining room act as large mirrors. The table and eight chairs are lit up by the light from the ceiling lamp, and behind them stands a figure.

Susanna stares at the reflection of the room, her heart pounding so hard it almost deafens her.

In the doorway to the hall someone is standing with a kitchen knife in their hand.

He’s inside, he’s inside the house, Susanna thinks.

She’s shut and locked the kitchen door when she should have escaped into the garden.

She moves slowly backwards.

The intruder is standing completely still with his back to the dining room, staring at the corridor to the kitchen.

The large knife is hanging from his right hand, twitching impatiently.

Susanna backs away, her eyes fixed on the figure in the hall. Her right foot slides across the floor and the parquet creaks slightly as she shifts her weight.

She has to get out, but if she tries to get to the kitchen she’ll be visible along the passageway. Maybe she’d have time to get the key from the bowl, but it’s by no means certain.

She continues backing away cautiously, now seeing the intruder in the last window.

The floor creaks beneath her left foot and she stops and watches as the figure turns round to face the dining room, then looks up and catches sight of her in the dark windows.

Susanna takes another slow step back. The intruder starts to walk towards her. Whimpering with fear, she turns and runs into the living room.

She slips on the carpet, loses her balance and hits her knee on the floor, putting her hand out to break her fall and gasping with pain.

The sound of a chair hitting the dining table.