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

It took her less than two weeks to seduce me. I was a willing victim. Her age didn’t bother me; she was attractive, intelligent, self-­confident. Available. And she could open doors at the university.

Then I found out she was married. The ring she always so deftly hid when we ran into each other on campus was actually not as great a shock as who had given it to her. The dean of the Faculty of Letters and Philosophy.

Yet I allowed her to convince me not to break off the relationship. And thus to weave me into her web.

And here I sit in Knysna, and it’s already been a year that we’ve been going on like this.

I wake up with a start. Sebastian is barking. I stand up and walk carefully down the stairs. I had left the sliding door open a little in case he needed to go out. That was obviously not such a great idea.

Sebastian stands a little way back from the sliding door and growls, his body tense.

I look but don’t see anything.

He walks a couple of steps closer to the door, barks, and trots towards me.

Whoever or whatever was there isn’t there anymore.

I can’t get back to sleep. I push the sheet off, pull it up, roll on my side, turn the pillow over, kick the sheet off my feet . . . give up, lie on my back and stare at the ceiling.

It’s just before three.

I get up and creep down the stairs, over the tiles, and out the sliding door. The night air is delicious on my skin; I’m wearing only a pair of pajama pants.

I walk over the rough sand to the water. In the early morning hours it’s just a large dark pool, a mysterious, opaque mass. A lake is different from the sea. There isn’t the constant energy of the surf breaking on the shore, it’s like something that breathes.

That waits.

When we were here ten years ago over the December holidays, a little girl drowned. Her name was Samantha and she was six. It was a particularly warm day and I recall how her mother’s screams cut through the air, right through the laughter and buzz of vacation. I remember that little body on the sand. She was wearing a neon pink bikini. She lay there so still, her eyes half open.

And beside her was the lake.

The lake gives life and takes life. The lake feeds the village and the village feeds the lake.

But why a six-­year-­old child?

Goosebumps break out on my upper body and I fold my arms.

I become conscious of something to my left. She’s standing there like a statue, looking out over the water. She has the same white dress on.

At first I just stare and then begin to step closer, slowly, like in a dream. ‘Excuse me?’

She doesn’t answer. It’s as if she’s not aware of me.

I look at the dark hair that covers her shoulders, the roundness of her cheek, and I want to reach out and touch her.

She turns and looks at me. Her eyes are dark and unfathomable. I can’t look away. She begins to hum a little tune, soft and sweet, takes my hand and starts to dance with me. Slowly and dreamily we turn, her fingers cool. Beside us the lake murmurs. I drown in her eyes.

I feel her lips against my collarbone, cool and soft. Her mouth moves along my neck and I close my eyes. I put my hands on her hips and lose myself in her touch.

She takes a step back.

I open my eyes, reach for her. ‘Wait. Don’t go.’

She just looks at me.

‘Who are you?’

She takes my hand and turns around. I follow her over the sand, alongside the lake. I don’t care where she’s leading me. I’m only aware of her fingers against mine.

She stops at the old hanging tree with the long misformed branches that touch the water. She turns around and I raise my hand to touch her cheek. I can’t stop looking into her dark eyes. There’s a heartache in there. I want to take it away.

‘What’s your name?’ I whisper.

She holds her index finger against my lips, comes closer and presses her mouth against mine. Her lips are cool. Her mouth is cold. I taste the taste of the lake and then water, in my mouth, in my throat, in my lungs

( kira )

and I cough, bring the water up, and pant.

I look around, but she’s just gone.

I’m awakened by someone licking my ear. I open my eyes and see it’s Sebastian.

‘Oh, no, man.’ I push his head away.

And remember last night. Or did I dream it? I imagine the mineral taste of the lake in my mouth and feel even more confused.

Sebastian sits and looks at me with his head at an angle.

‘Yeah, I’m going crazy.’

I shake my head and stand up. I go wash my face in the bathroom and look at my eyes.

And then at my neck.

At the red mark where she sucked on me.

I touch the mark gingerly.

It wasn’t a dream.

I’m still smiling as I wash the breakfast dishes. My hands feel like they’re charged with electricity. I can’t wait to see her again.

The last time I felt like this was at university, when I met my first love. Mariska, a shy beauty with bright eyes, round cheeks and light brown hair that never wanted to stay behind her ears. It was she who taught me to appreciate Romantic poetry, to see the deeper beauty in it. In the afternoon we lay in bed and talked and laughed and drank. We read poems aloud to each other, discussed the words and emotions and fought over what the poet had meant. I traced her form with my finger

never before have i painted more beautifully than last night

i painted your whole back full of pictures

frolicking tangerines, guitars, and coins

We walked to class across the colored leaves and threw the leaves at each other on the way back. We stared out the window at the rain and wrote messages in the steam. Her name was the prettiest word I knew,

her figure is my coolness in the day

my brazier filled with red-­hot coal in the night

We drank so much green tea that we couldn’t stop giggling. We climbed under the covers with a bottle of red wine and talked about profound things. We forgot time and words and everything but each other. But

our love died with the dawn

and we buried it, pale and mute

tender grass and fragrant spring soil

cover it, unadorned by wreath and flower

And then came Deloris Mouton, not a second love, but a second-­rate love, false, a trap, a fraud, a waste, like Langenhoven’s moth . . . will the end of it be my ashes?

The long weekend is almost over.

You can run, but you always catch up to yourself.

The day doesn’t want to end. Sebastian and I play on the sand and cool off in the lake. We eat and I play listlessly on my guitar. My thoughts are already on tonight, waiting anxiously for time to catch up.

After dinner I lie down on the bed in a T-­shirt and jeans. I try to read but I keep having to flip back to find out what happened. A little after eleven Sebastian starts barking. I walk down the stairs to where Sebastian stands stiff-­backed and growling.

She’s standing outside, on the sand in front of the porch, barefoot in her white dress.

Sebastian growls again. I press my hand against his chest and hold him back while I slip out the opening in the sliding door. He forces his way towards me and I struggle to get the door closed. He stands up against the glass and barks.

I turn around.

She’s still standing there. Her hair rises and falls in the wind. Her dress makes little waves over her body.

She takes a step back. Her eyes are large and haggard. She takes another step away from me.

‘Don’t be afraid.’ She looks different tonight, so defenseless that I just want to put my arms around her. I want to feel her head against my shoulder and tell her that nothing else matters.

Slowly I go closer.

She turns around and runs.