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

I don’t know how many days, how many weeks, passed before my twin returned to the family home. I had lost all pleasure in dancing long ago and continuously swung from the bar, murmuring secrets to Olga. At every moment the atmosphere of the house seemed more oppressive. Floriane’s visit finally pulled me out of the torpor into which I had slid and awoke feelings in me that had been only partly swallowed up in oblivion.

As soon as she arrived, my sister rushed to the wardrobe to beg me to forgive her, I who had always remained faithful to her. Through her tears, I understood that she excused my childish behavior, which after all was only the mark of my attachment and the expression of my grief at her betrayal. I felt the extent of her sadness when she explained to me how Hector had cheated on her, how naive she had been to trust him.

When night fell, I slid into her bed as delicately as possible. This time, Floriane warmly invited me to sleep beside her. I inhaled her scent with delight, the smell of her bare neck, the dark strands scattered over it like the hair of Medusa. Then I placed my lips on hers in a long kiss. A feeling of rebirth spread through my breast at the same time as a sudden tingling sensation, while I continued to embrace her with a still unquenched desire. I felt her fitful breath, her wish to lose herself in our entanglement while our embraces continued. Around us the white sheets rose and fell, moved by a light breeze exhaled by invisible breaths. I saw one of them knotting around my sister’s neck as she tried to free herself from the fabric that was squeezing her throat. The bottom of the sheet twisted around her ankles, pressing them together to keep her from moving. Her body arched as the cloth strengthened its hold, constricting her rib cage. The bedcover increased its pressure on her neck. Floriane’s face grew more and more purple. My twin struggled, with disjointed movements. The sheets restrained her limbs once again. Then her muscles relaxed as she fell back on the bed, inert, her eyelids open. I finally moved away from her, admired her slender silhouette, her supple legs, perfect for dancing, her delicate arms, outstretched across the bed.

I didn’t much care what our parents would think when they discovered Floriane’s frozen body in the morning. All I desired at present was to spend one peaceful day after another waltzing through the room with my twin, performing ever more dizzying aerial movements in tandem. When night fell, we would return together to the wardrobe, where we would hang upside down from our shared perch, our hands caressing the worn-out body of the sleeping plush toy. For all that mattered now was that we were finally together again.

Sweden’s history of horror fiction dates back to Gothic tales and ghost stories published in the early 1800s. The first Gothic novel in Swedish was Hin Ondes Hus (1853) [The House of the Devil] by Aurora Ljungstedt ( 1821-­1908 ) , who might be likened to a Swedish Sheridan Le Fanu. The writing of ghost stories and fantastic tales continued into the 20th century with writers like Selma Lagerlöf ( 1858-­1940 ) , the first woman to win a Nobel Prize in Literature, and Sven Christer Swahn ( 1933-­2005 ) . Sweden has a active modern-­day horror scene whose best-­known representative is John Ajvide Lindqvist, author of Let the Right One In (2004) , and which also includes short story writer Kristoffer Leandoer and novelist Mats Strandberg. However, one of the most interesting Swedish horror writers of recent years is Anders Fager ( b. 1964 ) , who burst on the scene with his volume of Lovecraftian horror tales, Svenska kulter [Swedish Cults] , in 2009. An expanded version, from which the following story is taken, appeared in 2011. Fager’s collections have been translated into French and Italian, but he has had limited exposure to date in English. ‘Backstairs’ ( the title is a 19th-­century term for the servants’ staircase in wealthy families’ homes ) , is set in turn-­of-­the-­century Stockholm, where a doctor’s Freudian methods may be no match for the unspeakable horror that haunts a girl’s dreams. A note on the Swedish terms in the text: proper nouns ending in ‘–gatan’ are street names; ‘Stora Skuggan’ ( literally ‘The Big Shadow’ ) is a historic Stockholm park dating to the 18th century, and ‘Fru’ and ‘Fröken’ are the Swedish equivalents of ‘Mrs.’ and ‘Miss’, respectively.

Elvira Wallin walks down the staircase. The long, narrow staircase down to the cellar under the house on Upp­lands­gatan. Walks slowly. She’s dreaming. Knows she’s dream­ing, is wholly certain she’s dreaming, and she goes down the stairs. Down into the damp and darkness. While a wind plays at her petticoat. Even though it can’t be blowing in the cellar. But Elvira Wallin is dreaming, so crazy things can happen. Everyone knows that. For it is only in dreams that one walks down the stairs in only a corset, underwear, and petticoat. White chemise and bonnet. She should have stockings on. At the very least. After all she doesn’t want to run around completely undressed. Not even when she goes down into the damp and darkness. Down the long staircase into the cellar on Upplandsgatan. Down under the house. Near Tegnérs­lunden. Which mother built with father’s money.

Dr. Lohrman asks about her father. The major who became a timber baron. Was he a good father? Was he kind? Loving? Did he have time for you? Dr. Lohrman is that kind of doctor. A nosy, inquisitive little man with thick glasses, frock coat, a high cravat, and a well-groomed, pointed beard. A doctor who asks and asks and who always comes back to her dream.

‘Do you dream the same dream every night?’

‘Yes. Almost.’

‘And have you dreamt the same dream for a long time?’

‘I don’t really know. A month or two.’

Dr. Lohrman says that he can cure her of the dreams. If she answers his questions. But Elvira Wallin wants medicine. Chloroform or tincture of opium. She wants to avoid Dr. Lohrman’s questions. They’re too prying. And he asks her to describe the dream carefully. Goes on and on about it. He ‘wants to understand’, he says. For he can only cure her through talking.

‘What else do you dream about? Can you remember anything?’

‘I dreamt a lot about papa when he died. That he came back from Sundsvall. That it was someone else who died in that accident.’

‘Did you wish for that? That someone else had died in his place?’

‘Naturally. Then my father would still be alive.’

‘Of course.’

Dr. Lohrman doesn’t say that she is selfish. Instead he keeps harping on about the dream.

‘But now you dream exactly the same thing every time?’

‘The past few weeks, yes. The same dream. Over and over again.’

‘Are you certain? It doesn’t change? It doesn’t develop? Doesn’t become worse or more frightening?’

Elvira Wallin thinks about it. There’s a tickling at her belly. She thinks about walking down the stairs. Always dressed like a slut. Always in the damp and darkness. Over and over again. Until she awakes soaked in sweat and screams. And screams. And screams.

‘I don’t think so,’ she says.

It’s all a little peculiar, thinks Elvira Wallin. Talking with a doctor about a nightmare. She isn’t very old and doesn’t know anything about medicine. But a doctor who just talks? A person can’t talk with someone to make their dreams stop, or make them sleep better. If you can’t sleep, you drink some cognac, right? That’s what mother does sometimes. Or maybe an opiate. Elvira Wallin has read about opiates. Oriental medicines that make you dream. That let you ride the dragon. That sounds exciting. Maybe she could ride the dragon down the stairs and her dragon would kill everything down there. Kill that horrid thing that waits for her in the cellar. Night after night. In the damp and darkness.