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

By the road the car door slammed shut. An engine started.

A black bolt flashed down over the shingles, leapt into the tall alder by the house. Disappeared in the bushes underneath.

The Polo began to drive. Slowly. Then faster.

The black spot shot out from under the bushes and then towards the bend in the road.

Matt sped up. Dante did the same.

Then the sound. Screaming brakes. Dull thud.

And the outline of Matt, who hurried out of the car, knelt down on the cobblestones.

He remained sitting motionless for at least twenty heartbeats. Then he lifted the limp body from the cobblestones and laid it in the grass on the side of the road. Carefully. Lovingly.

He stepped back into his car, started the engine.

I closed my eyes, just for a moment. But I didn’t see Dante’s eyes anymore.

Translated from the Dutch by James D. Jenkins

For many years, the horror world in the French-­speaking Canadian province of Quebec has been dominated by Patrick Senécal, a prolific novelist sometimes compared to Stephen King ( though apparently only one of his novels has so far appeared in English ) . Recently, though, horror fiction in Quebec has begun to grow into more than just a one-­man show, as evidenced by the 2017 anthology Horrificorama , which features stories by fifteen Quebecois horror writers, including the one featured here. Multi-­award-­winning author Ariane Gélinas ( b. 1984) has published five novels and numerous short stories, some of the best of which, including the following tale, were collected in Le sabbat des éphémères (2013) . The publisher of that volume describes Gélinas’ work as existing at the crossroads of the Gothic and the fantastic, with forays into science fiction. The author’s first publication in English, ‘Twin Shadows’ is an eerie tale that fits squarely into the Gothic tradition, a story about two sisters with a strange secret living in an isolated mansion. It will surely leave readers wanting to see more from this talented young author.

Time passes in slow motion in the silence of the sleeping house. That’s what I used to repeat to Floriane when we would talk, after dark. I grew used to these conversations, which broke the monotony of my anonymous existence. The rest of the time, I felt only the coldness of our vast residence, which had become familiar to me over the years. Only my sister deigned to look after me, often discerning my presence when I was hidden in the darkness of a hallway or lurking in a corner of her bedroom. And since we were identical twins, she possessed an innate ability to anticipate my intentions, predict my reactions.

Her devotion to me had been remarkable during our early youth. It is true that, unlike Floriane, I did not have the benefit of our parents’ attention, nor anyone else’s. Aside from their concern when they would catch her talking to me after midnight, they ignored me, letting me wander alone through the corridors of our centuries-old home, built well away from the city.

To keep me close to her, my twin decided, shortly before we turned five, to arrange her closet to suit me. Although I had always made do with only a little space, she insisted on removing her clothes from the closet, preferring to put them in her dressers. Our parents were surprised at first by this whim, which they came to consider as a simple childish caprice. Floriane kept only the metal rod, from which she had noticed I liked to hang, upside-down. She had laid several cushions on the floor, where she would come to lie beside me almost every night. She would wait until our parents had reached their room at the other end of the hall. She would then slip in to the back of the closet with a thick blanket to keep warm. I would let go of the bar to join her on the pillows, even though their comfort meant nothing to me. It was a different story with my sister’s warmth, which aroused little tingling sensations in me. I knew it wasn’t the same with my parents or their guests. Everyone except Floriane was impervious to me. I consoled myself going to sleep night after night in the arms of my twin, among the shadows of the closet.

I always awoke with the impression that time had stood still, that I had only just submerged myself in my sister’s ­invigorating embrace. Unfortunately, for her part, it was time to get up and have breakfast at the family table, where three places had been set. I would close my hand one last time over her burning one, after she had assured me that she would come back to me as soon as the meal was finished. She would then hasten to get ready before closing the door of the wardrobe, where I would remain awaiting her return. During that time, I would invent quivering shapes on the walls or try to stick my fingers into the closet’s partitions, which seemed to elude me when I tried to touch them. In any case, I had never liked to venture to the ground floor, which inspired a peculiar dread in me. I only felt safe upstairs, near my parents’ bedroom, where Floriane and I had been born, or close to my twin, whose presence could always calm me. Outside seemed even worse to me, since everything there was a blinding white as far as the eye could see. So I was careful to stay away from the windows, whose formless brightness attacked me, like an immaculate grave, where I often felt the urge to destroy myself.

A diffuse light filtered through the slats of the wardrobe, illuminating the cushions and toys that Floriane had given me. So that I would feel less alone she had given me several stuffed animals as well as three of her dolls, which sat lined up against one of the walls, looking at me with their dead eyes. All of them had names, unlike me, which had always made me sad. Sometimes I would avenge myself on Floriane’s dolls when the loneliness became too oppressive. A savage energy would take hold of me, pushing me to do violence on whatever was around me. Spurred on by anger, I would pick the toys up and shake them until their eyes rolled back in their heads and their joints threatened to break. Then I would cry for a long time in the darkness, hugging Olga, an old, worn-out plush toy whose eyes had been torn out and whose stuffing was coming out all over.

Every day I would relieve my boredom by long hours of dancing in my twin’s room. I had always loved moving gracefully, fluttering over the floor tiles after performing several ethereal twirls. I would sketch movements worthy of an elite ballerina, like our mother when she gave private classes in the dance studio that had been set up upstairs. I would imagine myself on a stage, like the dancing stars I loved to admire on my sister’s television when she watched athletic competitions. Like them, I would be cheered, dressed in a shimmering leotard that made my supple body more beautiful.

I would whirl around the room until Floriane finally returned to take her turn dancing.

Around that time, my sister started taking classes with our mother. She was preparing a performance for school at the same time. When her teacher was busy, which was often the case, I would help her to practice her figures, to make her movements more wispy. Initially she had been rather awkward, heavy in her movements. Thanks to my good advice she had gradually improved into a remarkable ballerina, to the point that she had been offered one of the lead roles in the production. I was very proud of my twin, even if I would have liked more than anything to leap at her side, to blend our identical bodies in a choreography, joined in the classical music.

She was so lovely in her pink leotard, with her loose black hair down to her waist, her bangs falling over her big, deep-brown eyes. I would have loved to make her whirl on a stage, take off in my turn with a gossamer agility before landing again after a long flight. But I was aware that all I would be able to see of Floriane’s performance would be her rehearsals with our mother in the dance studio, hidden behind the half-open door. On rare occasions, I would slip noiselessly in with them, hiding in the set decor. I was careful to be noticed by my sister, who didn’t like me to appear unexpectedly. She had explained to me on several occasions that, despite our bond, my intrusion could be inappropriate and that she hated it when I startled her. She retained a bitter memory of the remonstrances she had brought on herself in her younger years when our parents caught her talking to me. So I was careful to respect her rules as much as possible and not to upset her.