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

It was thick and slimy, as if I’d been to the dentist and the gel from the fluoride treatment was still stuck between my cheeks and jaws. And this tasted sweet, but not with the reassuring hint of mint or strawberry. This was instead sickly and warm. Mucky.

I moved my tongue, smacked my lips to get the substance away, but it seeped back in my mouth, slid down my throat. I coughed, retched in order to get my airways clear again. A breath filled my lungs but at the same time that sickly stuff filled my whole mouth and dripped down from the corners of my lips.

I tried to come upright, but the muscles in my arms, legs, and rear refused service. I heard a sound – soft squeaking like from a young kitten. It took a while before I realized that I was the one producing the sound.

Above me I discerned the bare rafters, as if I was in an attic. Beneath me irregular bulges like on an old mattress. My fingers lay on rough fabric. I felt tiny grains underneath my fingertips. The cat scratches on my arm throbbed slowly. Something warm dripped over my arm, while that . . . that something slipped back in my throat and immediately again rose from my bowels. I retched again in a reflex not to choke.

I squeaked, fought against muscles that didn’t obey me. I gasped for breath while that foul sweetness oozed from my mouth, slimy tears dripped from my eyes, and my nose sniffled unpleasantly. I couldn’t get any air, I could no longer see, I . . .

Felt hesitating hands being placed against my temples and gently pushing my head to the side. I saw the edge of the mattress now – gray-­white with brown stripes – and a stainless steel bowl beside it.

With a dull plop a drop landed in the bowl and I experienced a bit of relief. Only a very little, for immediately a new wave of slime worked its way into my mouth.

Plop.

‘Better now?’ A thin voice. Man or woman? Boy or girl?

Movement. The figure walked around the mattress and squatted by the bowl. I saw sandals – not large. A child’s size? Filthy socks, the edge of a sky-­blue skirt. A girl then. I strained my blurry eyes to the utmost to be able to see her face.

Then the girl leaned farther forward and I would have recoiled had I been able. White blond hair, like only very young children have, was loosely stuck to a balding skull. The skin of her face was dark and rough, like willow bark. Fine veins crept through the off-­white of her eyes, but they were grayish-­black instead of red. A child, but no child. Not for a long time.

Along her narrow lips ran a yellowish-­white trail that was almost dried up. Under her eyes were smears of the same.

‘Crying or struggling makes it worse,’ said the child. And then, her head tilted: ‘But it gets better. Quickly.’

She took a piece of wood from her dress pocket. It was around ten centimeters long and spatula-­shaped. The edges were smooth. Sanded or worn?

She brought it to my face and began to carefully scrape away the slush under my eyes and nose. She tossed it into the bowl with a vigorous motion. Then she repeated the movement over my cheeks and chin.

I opened my mouth. I had to ask it. ‘Who are you? Where am I? What’s going on?’

But I didn’t get any further than a scratchy ‘who’ because once more my mouth filled with slime. The girl laid a hand on my head and her stick-­like fingers pushed it a little lower.

Plop.

‘I can’t do any more,’ said the girl. ‘I’m used up.’

She seemed to contemplate.

‘Her husband is really sick, you know? I help, and then he’s better. But it’s nice if someone else is going to do it. There’s not much left.’

I closed my eyes while I tried to understand what she was saying. What did she mean by ‘used up’? Who was she?

‘Do you think mommy was angry?’ the little girl asked. ‘When I didn’t come home, I mean?’

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My glance rested on the dried smears around her mouth. Then slid down to the bony hand that held the little piece of wood with which she had cleaned my face. A deep cat scratch on her arm. The edges of the wound were open, but there was no red bleeding through. Everything I saw was gray, dried-­out flesh that the life had seeped out of.

Used up.

And then I understood it. My feverish brain made connections in the swirling stream of images and associations, of fear and of knowledge. It was . . . It must be . . .

I hadn’t heard the door open, but I did feel the movement in the wood floor when she entered the room, and I heard her voice. ‘That’s the life streaming out of you, dearie. Your prana, your essence. The child is almost used up, but you . . . All that compassion, all that empathy . . . It drips out of you. Wouldn’t it be a waste if someone didn’t do something with it? A sin, almost?’

I wrestled the words out of my mouth. ‘Let me go. Please . . .’

Movement beside me. The girl? She picked up the metal bowl. Gave it to her. Gottlieb . . . was that even really her name?

And then once more I felt her thin hands and the cool porcelain against my skin. ‘It doesn’t last long,’ the girl’s voice whispered.

Liquid between my lips. Black, bitter tea with a hint of ginger. I swallowed. Panted.

‘Why?’ I asked again.

Her voice, far away: ‘Because I want to.’

This time it indeed didn’t last as long. The panic, I mean. Once again I awakened with the feeling I was choking, but I realized after a few seconds what was happening.

I managed to spit the slime out and air rattled into my lungs. There was no emaciated child beside me. No hollow, black eyes searching my face.

I tried to tell myself that this was progress, because the kid had scared me half to death. And I seemed now in any event to be able to use some muscles.

Where was the woman?

I lifted my head a little as I tried to move my fingers. My hand began to tremble and my index finger and middle finger came a little way off the ground.

My head slammed heavily back on the mattress. A new mouthful sought an outlet between my lips and dropped on the gray-­striped cover. A yellow-­gray puddle formed on the fabric. Transparent like a dead jellyfish on the beach.

I looked at it, my blurry eyes straining painfully as I tried to see it. I smelled it. Grim, poisonous, sweet. I . . .

. . . heard the footsteps on the stairs. The door of the room – it creaked a little – opening. I saw Mrs. Gottlieb – warm, old. But I smelled ash in her graying hair. I saw bones in her eyes. And I felt, knew suddenly, that she was more than just herself.

‘Ah, good girl. Just a bit more.’

Despair spread through my body when I felt the cup against my lips.

Black tea.

I didn’t choke any more when I woke for the third time.

The slime no longer forced its way out in great quantities from my mouth but oozed out the corners like drool at the dentist’s office. I commanded my hand to wipe my mouth and it obeyed.

Now I tested my neck and back and buttocks. I fought my way upright.

The movement brought wafts of heavy sweat and stale tea and the room swayed around me. I waited till it was over and then looked carefully around the room, which I was finally able to really see.

It was an attic room, that was now certain. I felt cool air on my face: wind that was coming in through openings in the rafters. I saw two small, square attic windows, soiled by dust and spiderwebs. But in the middle the filth had been wiped away by thin fingers.

I managed to stand up and tottered in the direction of the little window. Looked out.

Below me I saw the neglected garden; behind that, between the branches and shrubs, the cobblestones of Appelstraat. A red Volkswagen Polo was making its way and I perked up.