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

‘Did you really think you would meet Oskar?’

‘No.’

‘But you went all the same?’

‘Yes. I know that some things are in fact not governed by science. And I thought that man was one of them. Someone with some kind of insight. Stupid, isn’t it?’

‘Perhaps. But very human.’

Dr. Lohrman wonders. Where should he lead the conversation? Should he ask the critical question?

‘I know that you know,’ says Hedda Wallin at last. When she can’t be bothered to wait on Dr. Lohrman any longer. ‘Signe told me this morning. That she told you she saw Elvira and me on the stairs last night. She’s loyal, that girl. Even if not very clever. If she had come to me first, she could have saved herself the trouble of sitting up last night.’

‘Saved herself the trouble?’

‘I could have shown you the door. Or asked her to lie.’ Fru Wallin looks him in the eyes. Sternly. He understands how easy it was for Signe to choose sides. He can’t measure up to this woman. ‘Do you, the new kind of doctor, keep your patients’ confidences? Whatever they may be? Like a confessor?’

‘Of course. An intimate conversation would be impos­sible otherwise.’

‘I thought I could handle this myself.’

‘This?’

‘What Elvira is going through. But it pains me to see her suffer. She is so weak. Not like me.’ She falls silent. Notices that he doesn’t know what to say.

‘Consider yourself hired. As my family’s doctor.’

‘I’m not a medical doctor. You know that.’

‘I know what an army doctor can do and what he can’t. I know three pharmacists, and if you don’t want to pull one of my teeth, I’ll go to a smith in Kungsholmen. Do you understand? You shall help me to help Elvira get through something that I had to get through alone. And keep quiet about the business. Forever. You understand?’

Dr. Lohrman nods.

‘Out of respect for my spouse. Your company commander.’

Dr. Lohrman nods again. Humbly.

‘The slightest whisper about this to anyone and, well, you understand. I’ll destroy your reputation as a doctor, you can count on it.’ Fru Wallin smiles. Almost maliciously. They have nothing more to talk about. They wait. Dr. Lohrman leans back. Dozes with one eye open. Hedda Wallin knits. Without looking at what she’s doing. When Hedda Wallin knits, it’s always scarves. She doesn’t know how to do anything else. Every Christmas the poorhouse gets a large bundle of scarves from the Wallin household.

It’s midnight when Elvira Wallin gets out of bed. With unseeing eyes and her hands at shoulder height. She looks like someone walking in the dark. As if she’s listening for something. In just her corset, underwear, and petticoat she walks down the hall towards the kitchen. Dr. Lohrman walks carefully behind her. Hedda Wallin walks in front. Fiddles with the key. The key to the door to the backstairs. Sets it in her daughter’s hand.

Elvira Wallin fumbles. Unlocks the door. Goes down the stairs. The long, narrow staircase. Hedda Wallin walks in front of Dr. Lohrman. Holding a kerosene lamp in front of her. That’s what Signe saw the previous night. They go down into the damp and darkness. Catch up with Elvira Wallin. Walk a step behind her. Without her noticing them.

They come to the cellar door. Dr. Lohrman sees. Hedda Wallin has put on gloves. Her daughter opens the door. With the same key. A wind comes up through the dark doorway. It smells of seaweed. Hedda Wallin takes the key from her daughter. Takes her by the hand. Looks at Dr. Lohrman.

‘One last chance,’ she whispered. ‘You can leave here now. And never speak with us again.’

Dr. Lohrman doesn’t answer her. He only meets her gaze. She can’t see his eyes behind the thick glasses, but she supposes he’s trying to look brave. Ready to go down the stairs in the name of science. For its new methods and for his own curiosity’s sake.

Hedda Wallin walks down the stairs with her daughter’s hand in hers. Down into the damp and darkness. To atone for a mistake. To keep a promise. The dance in Stora Skuggan seems like something that happened a century ago. What was adventure and excitement then now just feels banal. Mundane and malevolent. Curiosity always has a price. She’s known that for nearly twenty years. And now the doctor will learn it too.

The cellar at the foot of the stairs smells of peat and moisture. Seaweed and mold. The kerosene lamp shines on the coal and firewood. Empty bedpans. Empty room. Space to burn coal. If it comes to that.

They continue downwards. To the next floor. Blasted in the mountain. The lodge’s room. No hall. No coats of arms. No seats where men sit and drink wine and pretend it’s blood. Just a dirt floor. And an old bed. And an even older presence. The one that welcomes her. And which greedily wants its gift.

Hedda Wallin lets go of her daughter’s hand. Lets the one twisted around Elvira Wallin’s other wrist lead her further. Further towards that which is crawling over the bed. Further towards that which is covering the floor. That which is big and oily like piles of black rope. Black snares that tighten around Elvira Wallin’s white clothing. Ensnare her arms. Tear at her corset. She takes a faltering step forward. Mumbles a protest. Tries to break free. Weak like a kitten. The black snares creep up her legs. Tear her skin. Press her knees apart. Elvira Wallin whimpers.

Hedda Wallin turns her back. Walks out of the room. Dr. Lohrman remains there, hypnotized by the sight. Sees the girl fall forward among all that black. She screams for her mother. And the tentacles swoop over her. Tearing and pulling and clawing. They twist around Elvira Wallin, force themselves on her, and toss her to and fro.

Dr. Lohrman glimpses the girl’s face. One last time before he flees for the stairs. Her eyes are open but empty. They shine with pain and bliss and madness. Her cries for her mother have turned into a gurgling, half-­stifled scream.

Dr. Lohrman darts for the small staircase. Towards the kerosene lamp. Away from the unfathomable. Away from the inexplicable. He sees Hedda Wallin standing there. Calm, with her back against the stone wall. The lamp makes her skin look yellow. The light glints on glassy eyes. He knows she is forcing herself not to cover her ears.

The scream lingers in the air. It dies out. Replaced by a rhythmic panting. Hoarse and full of mumbled words. Dr. Lohrman stares at the woman beside him.

‘What was I to do?’ says Hedda Wallin. She doesn’t sound apologetic. Not angry. ‘It wants to breed. It wants offspring. Nineteen years ago it was me. Now it wants to meet its daughter.’

Reviewing a Finnish novel for NPR in 2016, a critic noted that ‘Finland . . . has a thriving spec[ulative] fiction scene whose best writers rival those of the English-­speaking world’. ‘Finnish Weird’ ( or suomikumma in Finnish ) is enough of a phenomenon that there’s a whole website devoted to it – finnishweird.net – complete with free stories ( in English ) from leading Finnish weird fiction authors. Marko Hautala ( b. 1973 ) , by contrast, is more properly classified as a horror author than a weird fiction writer. With several volumes of fiction to his credit, and works translated into eight languages, including the novel The Black Tongue , published in English in 2015, Hautala has been deemed the ‘Finnish Stephen King’. ‘Pale Toes’ originally appeared in an anthology of Finnish horror fiction in 2015 and makes its first English appearance here.

They found a place for the night at the last minute. August had been a terrible time to travel, like Petri had said time and time again. Nina hadn’t listened to him, and Petri hadn’t cared to argue. Now, they’d exhausted and sweated themselves into a breakdown way too many times.