James Jenkins - The Valancourt Book of World Horror Stories. Volume 1

Another thing Esteban made it a point to show his friends was the answering machine. A relic that he found amusing. He enjoyed showing people something that had gone obsolete. He found it appealing to think of the time when answering machines were in vogue, all those voices being recorded, being listened to within lonely houses. Ghosts talking to ghosts.

The last guest left at six in the morning. Esteban managed to get his shoes off and collapsed beside Adela, who was in a deep sleep. He embraced her and gave in to the warmth emanating from her body, to the fog of alcohol, to sleep.

The buzzer rang at seven in the morning. Esteban heard it between dreams, incapable of getting up. Adela woke him, shaking him.

‘He’s asking for you.’

With his eyelids still shut, Esteban asked, ‘Who?’

‘Señor Ligotti.’

His eyes opened in surprise.

‘What does he want? Tell him I’m sleeping.’

Adela sat down on the bed.

‘I already told him. But he insists on seeing you. He says the two of you agreed on it.’

‘We agreed?’

‘That you would see each other. Go talk to him. It gives me the creeps thinking of him out there waiting.’

Esteban got up reluctantly and put on his shoes. He didn’t splash water on his face nor comb his hair, hoping that his appearance would dissuade the inopportune visitor.

He opened the apartment door. Señor Ligotti was waiting in the hallway, resting on his walking stick.

‘It’s about time.’

Although he was half asleep, Esteban recognized the anomaly.

‘How did you get in the building?’

‘A neighbor was going out. Everyone here knows me.’

‘I haven’t seen anyone in days . . .’

Señor Ligotti came closer.

‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’

Esteban hesitated. The old man’s visit was ill-­timed, but he couldn’t be rude to him. After all, he had helped him to buy the place. He stepped to one side and with a wave of his hand invited him to enter.

‘Of course, come in.’

He added in an ironic tone:

‘Make yourself at home.’

The visit was hell. Señor Ligotti chattered indefatigably and seemed to have no intention of leaving quickly. Esteban’s head ached from the hammering of his hangover. He could hardly follow the old man’s chit-­chat, which passed from one theme to another that was no less meaningless. Despite his discomfort, he realized something: he had idealized him. When he met him, he seemed to him a humanist, a philanthropist, an extinct species that he had had the luck to run across. Now he saw him clearly: he was a guy who was arrogant, maniacal, presumptuous. Why the hell had he come? And so early. That’s how loners were: they weren’t conscious of other people’s time. They required as much attention as an only child. On top of everything, Adela had fled, on the pretext that she had to visit her mother, leaving him at the mercy of his ‘guest’.

Esteban dozed off at times. Every time he opened his eyes, he saw that Señor Ligotti was continuing his infinite monologue. He caught some phrases that troubled him, questions that the old man made without waiting for a response: ‘ How’s the new book going? What’s it about? I suppose you haven’t got very far. Something will have to be done so that you make progress, so that you swing, so that you ring . . . ’

In the end he fell asleep. When he awoke, shaken again by Adela, it was already night. When had Ligotti left? He thought the visit had been a bad dream, a nightmare brought about by his hangover. But on the living room table he saw the ring with the National University logo.

Adela picked it up and said sarcastically:

‘Now your friend has an excuse to come back.’

Señor Ligotti turned into a problem. He would appear at any day and time, with an attitude that bordered on demanding. Besides being annoyed, Esteban was worried: this wasn’t a question of indiscretion but of obsession. The old man returned on the day following his first visit. Esteban gave him back the ring, thinking that would keep him away for a while, but he kept coming back. Sometimes he rang the buzzer outside the building, other times he rang directly at the apartment door. What was most disturbing was his way of ringing, insistently, as if he were there to deliver an urgent package.

Esteban began to avoid him. If Señor Ligotti came to the door, he would open it saying he had an important appointment and, after excusing himself, would set off down the street at a rapid pace. He would also pretend there was no one home until the old man left. One time when he was returning from the store, he saw him at a distance, standing in front of the building’s door. He immediately turned around, took a taxi and went to see a movie. At first this game of cat and mouse seemed funny. Adela spent most of her time at her mother’s; dodging the old man became a source of entertainment for Esteban. A kind of challenge: to see who wore out first. The old man won’t hold out longer than me, he told himself. Several days passed in this way, until the episode with the answering machine.

It was on an afternoon that was gray with rain-­charged clouds. Esteban was reading Clemente’s recently published novel in his study. He was curious whether it would prove to be as bad as the previous ones. The intercom buzzer sounded. He peeked through the kitchen window, which looked out onto the street. It was polarized glass, which allowed him to look without being seen. He discovered it was Señor Ligotti and returned to his chair. After a few minutes, the buzzer stopped ringing. Esteban could go back to concentrating on his reading. He could hear thunder, a downpour was starting to fall.

Something distracted him from the book. A strange feeling: he wasn’t alone. There was a presence, not within the house, but outside. Through the kitchen window he saw an image that disconcerted him: Señor Ligotti was still outside, in the rain, staring at the building. The old man took a cell phone from the inner pocket of his bag and dialed a number.

The apartment’s telephone rang.

Esteban let it ring. He felt the muscles in his body twitch, as if they were shrinking. The answering machine switched on. Señor Ligotti’s irritated voice boomed:

‘I know you’re there. Open up.’

He tried to recall: had he given him his number?

‘You must let me in. Fulfill your part of the bargain.’

He had an absurd, unsettling thought: the old man could see him, his gaze penetrated the polarized glass. He didn’t dare to move, like a cockroach surprised when a light is turned on.

Señor Ligotti didn’t say anything more. He remained there with the telephone to his ear, getting soaked. The rain could be heard outside and through the answering machine as well. It was an unreal sound effect, the echo of a nightmare. The machine’s tape reached the end and the recording cut off, breaking the spell. Esteban reacted by going to his bedroom. He got in bed, hiding under the covers like when he was a child.

Adela suggested they go on vacation. You’re very tense, she told him, it would do you good to get out of the city. The next morning they got in the car and took the highway. When the first cows appeared, Esteban started to feel better. They stayed at a resort with thermal baths. They were sunny days, with a lot of reading. Clemente’s novel was rubbish, and that contributed towards improving his state of mind. It had too many legalistic details that dragged down the plot. A lot of knowledge about the judicial system, not much of a story.

Adela and Esteban devoted themselves to the vacation. They swam. They ate excessively. They made love slowly so they wouldn’t hurt the baby.

A week later, Esteban felt back to normal. He thought about his behavior the preceding days, the irrational fear that the old man had awakened in him. Now he knew what to do. He would confront him. He would put a stop to the situation. If necessary, he would shout the truth at him. He was nothing more than a senile old coot, finished, pathetic. On the way home his confidence grew. The end of the problem was nearing, the solution was in his hands.