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

‘What am I going to do? I’m ruined.’

Clemente tried to calm him:

‘I’ll investigate Ligotti with my court contacts. I’m sure we’ll find something shady in his past, something that could help you. Meanwhile, don’t leave your home or you’ll lose it.’

When he hung up, Adela already had her suitcase ready. She was going to her mother’s house. Esteban agreed: it was the best thing to do. For her to be safe while he sorted out the serious mistake he had made. He would barricade himself in the apartment. It was his home. He had poured all the money he had into it.

To take it away from him, they would have to kill him.

When he was young, Esteban lived through something similar. His parents spent years saving with the goal of buying a house. After great sacrifices they collected enough for the down payment. The family moved from the small apartment where they were living to a two story house with a garage and a yard. To celebrate, they organized a meal attended by relatives and friends: everyone hugged them, congratulating them on their new lifestyle. Esteban met the neighbor kids his own age, soon he was playing football and hide and seek with them.

That phase didn’t last. The expenses smothered his parents; they stopped making the monthly payments on the house, they ended up losing it. Esteban never forgot the day they moved out: the neighbors looking out their doors and windows with sympathetic faces, the feeling of profound shame at the public exhibition, the defeat in his father’s tired expression, his mother’s tears, his older brothers’ silence.

Now the story was repeating itself. The family curse that condemned them to be eternal renters. However, there was a difference: with his parents it had been a poor financial calculation. On the other hand, he had let himself be tricked like a child. And what was at risk wasn’t only the apartment.

He could lose Adela. He could lose his sanity.

He remained sitting on the living room sofa for hours, watching the closed hole in the fireplace as if he expected to see Señor Ligotti come out of it, until night fell. He put his thoughts aside, got up, and flipped the light switch.

It didn’t work.

He went through the house pressing the other switches, with the same result. Just what he needed: the power had gone out. He didn’t have a flashlight, nor candles. The time had come to ask the neighbors for a favor. Maybe he could even get some information out of them about Señor Ligotti.

He went out to the hall. It was illuminated by a milky white bulb, the outage had occurred only in his apartment. He knocked on the door next to his and realized it was half open. He didn’t want to be taken for an intruder, so he said loudly:

‘Hello . . .’

There was no response. He knocked again, this time louder, and then added:

‘I’m your neighbor, my power’s out.’

As no one responded, he pushed the door a little and stuck his head in. The hall light allowed him to see that the apartment was empty. It smelled damp, musty. The floor was bulging, rotten. It was obvious it had been abandoned for a long time.

He headed for the adjacent apartment. Its door was also ajar; he knocked and waited several seconds, then opened it slowly, as if he wanted to delay the moment of revelation.

There was nothing inside except for a forgotten paint can.

Was it a coincidence? There was only one more apartment, at the end of the hallway. If he found it empty he would go up to the next floor and the next, until he found someone.

He walked, listening to the amplified echo of his steps. He felt like the ghost of a lonely castle. A lost soul in eternal search of companionship.

The door was closed. He put his ear against it: silence. Nothing seemed to be moving inside. He put his hand on the knob; it wasn’t locked, so he could turn it, producing the grinding sound made by rusty objects. He was going to enter, but he was stopped by the ringing of a telephone behind him. He remained frozen for a few seconds until he realized it was his. He ran to his apartment and answered it, panting.

He heard Clemente’s voice.

‘Get out of there right now!’

Esteban caught his breath and asked:

‘What are you saying? Why?’

‘I found out some things about Ligotti. Get your things and get out! There’s no time for explanations.’

Esteban had left his apartment door open. He saw that the hall light was going out. Then he heard someone unlocking the front door of the building.

Before the line went dead, Clemente managed to say:

‘Ligotti owns the whole building.’

That day in his childhood when Esteban and his family moved from the house they had lost to a minuscule apartment, something strange occurred. He woke up thirsty in the early morning hours, he felt feverish, claustrophobic. His older brothers snored in their bunks, resigned to the overcrowding. He went to the kitchen for a glass of water. He wanted a little air too, some space.

A glow coming from the living room caught his attention. The television was on. The screen showed colored bars indicating the channel was off air. They had always seemed enigmatic to Esteban: a signal, the key to an encoded message. He saw his father’s silhouette outlined against the light. He had fallen asleep in the chair. He went up to him to wake him; he was surprised to discover his eyes open, fixed on the screen.

‘What are you doing, Daddy?’

His father didn’t notice his presence. Esteban was going to talk to him again but something stopped him. In that moment he didn’t know it; now, as he held the telephone in his hand, as he listened to the emptiness of the line that had gone dead, taking Clemente’s voice along with it, he understood what it had been.

Señor Ligotti’s figure appeared in the doorway. He recognized him despite the darkness: in one hand he gripped his walking stick.

He hadn’t said anything more to his father because his empty gaze contained a warning. Something sinister was living inside him and if he broke the trance it would emerge with all its power. The bars on the television kept it at bay. It was better to leave it like that.

Underneath people’s skin there were monsters, like the one he now had to face.

Energized by the whiplash of adrenaline, Esteban looked around for things that could help him hurt his attacker. The darkness only let him make out the largest objects: a chair, a dresser, a plant, nothing he could use as a weapon. He weighed his chances. Señor Ligotti was crazy but he was an old man. It would be easy to subdue him. Various images passed through his head: he would knock him down with a shove, he would straddle him, he would humiliate him with slaps. He wanted to see him break, listen to him sob. The rage built up in recent days overflowed. Opening his mouth, Esteban let out a sharp, primitive, animal cry and sprang at his rival.

He didn’t manage to topple him.

Señor Ligotti easily sidestepped his attack, then struck his cane across his face, breaking his nose. Esteban fell to the ground, bleeding profusely. The old man bent down, grabbed him by one foot and began to drag him down the hallway.

While he was being hauled like a sack, Esteban wondered: where did the old man draw such strength from? He saw a flash of lightning and heard the rain start to come down. Where was he taking him? He tried to escape, but his strength failed him. The darkness became thicker, he lost consciousness.

The cold water of the rain woke him. The world had gone upside down, the buildings hung from an asphalt sky. It took him a moment to understand that he was upside down on the building’s rooftop terrace, that his body was hanging over the edge. He looked towards his feet and saw that Señor Ligotti was holding him by one leg. How had he gotten him all the way up there?