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

According to the map, after the ski resort comes a straight stretch, then a big sharp curve and, just as it ends, you should see the hotel. Manel wiggles his fingers a little because he’s feeling the cold make its way into his joints.

Òscar, riding shotgun, studies the three long-­exposure photographs he made, cycling through them slowly.

He gently presses the button.

They’re dark. All three of them are too dark.

He pauses at the last photograph. He lifts his thumb off the button and strokes the fingerprint-­covered screen.

He brings the camera to his face as he feels his biceps throbbing.

There is a shadow in the trees.

A big, curved shadow. It’s in profile, but it seems to be looking at him.

Manel glances sidelong at Òscar. The light coming off the camera screen illuminates his intensely blue eyes and his wrinkled brow. What if he brought it up now? Is now a good time? They have five days ahead of them, but maybe now . . . No, it’s better to wait until they’re in the hot tub, after a bottle of cava, after he’s rubbed him down with the foamy pink soap he bought this morning. One that’s really foamy, please. He inhales. He hasn’t brought it up in three months, not since the last argument. He has to be subtle, speak calmly. He’s got it all planned. He blows on his bangs again. He has to tell him. Òscar, Wednesday is the information session at the adoption center, they haven’t held one in a long time. He needs to emphasize that: it’s just a first informational meeting. That will be enough for him to see if Òscar’s changed his mind.

Òscar zooms in on the photograph.

He zooms in more.

But the pixels are already huge. He can’t make out anything.

He closes the camera, puts it in its case, and looks out the window, chin in hand.

‘Why’d they shut down the ski resort, Manel?’

‘I have no idea. But that’s not important, is it? I mean, you keep focusing on that but you can still take the photographs, without knowing why it closed.’

Òscar turns and stares at him.

‘Actually, no. I want to know what happened. I want to understand the landscape.’

When Òscar came up with the idea that the final photo of his Abysms series could be an abandoned ski station, he spent a week searching on the web before finding this one: small and near a town hidden in a valley, and with a hotel nearby where he could stay. He’d have to fly in and then rent a car to get there.

He searched for more information, but all he found out was that it’d been shut down for eighteen years. He looked at the photographs again.

It was perfect.

He had found the place to finish Abysms .

The car’s headlights reveal an enormous gray square building, seven stories high. Two gilded columns ascend to an arch over the revolving door reached along a grand marble staircase.

‘We’re here.’ Manel looks through the windshield at the hotel’s dark windows. ‘And I was right: I think we’ll be the only ones here.’ He swallows and contemplates the hotel. ‘Maybe it will be more inviting in the daylight.’

Weeks ago, after Òscar explained that he’d found the location for his final photograph and showed him the map online, Manel called the hotel from his office at the architectural firm, and made a reservation. Òscar had said that the most important thing was that it was during the full moon, in case he wanted to make some night shots. Manel spoke directly with the manager. He had a deep, hoarse voice, as if his vocal cords hadn’t vibrated in years and his saliva had solidified. Manel asked for a room with a hot tub. They were already spending their vacation working on Òscar’s photographic project, and he wanted to feel that he was making some decisions. At least one.

They get out of the car. Manel rubs his arms. He looks around and smiles at Òscar.

‘This is all fine, right?’

Òscar shrugs.

‘Should we go in? I want to download the photos.’

Manel sees someone pulling aside the red curtain on the window closest to the door. Òscar puts his camera case carefully on his shoulder. Manel opens the trunk and pulls out their red suitcase. They hear a creak. The revolving door starts to move and out of it comes a tall man, slightly hunched over and with wrinkled, yellow skin. He walks toward them.

‘I was expecting you earlier.’

The man’s voice, in person, sounds even deeper to Manel.

The manager shakes first Manel’s hand and then Òscar’s. He’s maybe sixty years old.

‘Welcome, I’m Sam.’

Sam positions himself behind the long black reception desk. Manel puts down the suitcase. Òscar looks around him. On the right-­hand side of the lobby there is a waiting room with armchairs and sofas upholstered in red and white flowers, with gilt legs. In one corner there is a small bar and a gramophone.

Sam opens up a thick, square notebook, with hard brown covers. Its pages are yellowed. He removes the cap on a fountain pen.

‘I’ll need your IDs.’

He writes their names slowly, pressing hard with the pen and making flourishes on each letter.

‘There is no one else staying at the hotel.’ He shakes his head and contemplates the empty room. ‘This used to be full of life. This will most likely be the last year I stay open. If you need anything,’ he turns and points to a door behind him, ‘this is my room.’

Sam closes the notebook, turns, rummages around in some small drawers and grabs a keyring that he then gives to Manel.

Òscar contemplates the paintings of forests that decorate the walls.

Manel takes the key and realizes that, hanging right below the paintings, there’s a shotgun.

The room smells musty and stale, like thick fusty blankets covered in dust. The walls are covered in peeling wallpaper patterned with brown- and ochre-colored round shapes. The floor has red carpeting and a grayish cloud lifts at each step.

Òscar, stretched out on the bed, connects his camera to the computer and transfers the photos as he chews off a piece of skin on his lip.

The bathroom is small, but the tub is big and round. Manel takes off his clothes, folds them carefully and places them on the stool. He lays out two towels that smell like an old closet. He turns on the hot water faucet and grabs the bottle of soap. He pours it into the water and stirs. A nice, relaxing atmosphere to bring up the subject again, to very tactfully say, Òscar, next Wednesday there’s an initial information session at the adoption center. He runs through the list of papers in his head:

His pay stub.

The lease.

Medical records.

Marriage certificate.

It’s just an initial meeting, but he wants to make a good impression and show the documents that he knows they’ll ask for at some point in the future, to prove they meet all the requirements.

They’ll be good parents.

And Òscar will take beautiful black-­and-­white photos of the three of them, and they’ll hang them in the dining room in golden frames.

Suddenly an engine is heard. He looks out the bathroom window. A brown off-­road vehicle parks beside his rental car, brakes hard and raises a cloud of dust. He brings his head closer to the pane. He steams it up.

The driver gets out of the car, violently slams the door, and then opens the trunk.

‘I want to go back.’

Manel turns suddenly with a start.

Òscar is drumming his fingers on the bathroom’s doorframe. He’s wearing a yellow raincoat and his red wool cap.

‘I want to go back, Manel. Take the photos again. The ones I took before are too dark. I could try it with the flash I bought. I don’t think it’ll look good, but it’s worth a try . . .’

Manel shakes his head, lifts his eyebrows, takes a deep breath, and sits on the edge of the tub. The marble is cold and he feels strangely ridiculous, so naked, with so much skin, so fat. He crosses his legs to try to impose a little seriousness and blows on his bangs. He lets one arm drop.