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

‘You aren’t going to kill the bear, are you?’

Tom tightens his lips.

Òscar leaps from the car. He observes how the dogs are watching him through the glass. They steam it up. Tom starts the car and the dogs begin to bark. Òscar is left standing there, stock-­still, watching the off-­road vehicle head into the distance. He lifts his chin and looks out at the black night. There are no longer any clouds, and the stars shine much more intensely without the moon.

He jumps over the fence, passes by the small lodge and heads decisively to the ski lift. The freezing wind moves the rusty chairs.

They creak.

A lament amid the white silence.

He looks around him.

A mother bear. This stillness is a mother bear’s fault.

Fear’s fault. The fear of death. The same engine behind the building of a ski station is what causes it be abandoned. The fear of dying makes us build devices to distract ourselves, Manel, and then, abandon them. That’s the subject of Abysms . My new project. You like it?

He looks to right and left and approaches one of the chairlift’s pylons, its paint peeling.

When he finds the perfect spot, he pulls out his camera.

The flash lights up one of the chairs. Its sound travels through the mountains and comes back to his eardrums, like a boomerang. He quickly puts the camera in his coat so it doesn’t get wet and then looks at the photograph.

There’s too much snow. It doesn’t look like an abandoned ski station. It doesn’t have the effect he wants.

What if it snows every day they’re here? What will they do? Stay warm in the room. Soak in the tub. Massages.

He wants to try to take the photograph from another angle that shows the cable of the chairlift merging with the pine trees at the top of the mountain. He’ll try to not show the snow. He could focus just on the tree trunks. He pulls out his camera quickly and adjusts his hood so it covers it a little bit.

He looks through the viewfinder. He tries to imagine the chairlift working. Families laughing. Colorful anoraks. What are you afraid of, Òscar?

He shoots.

From the distance comes the sound of high-­spirited barking.

He lets go of the camera. He turns and looks at the completely snow-­covered road.

And where is Manel anyway? It would have been so simple for him to have just come with him. Manel could have stood behind him, watching him take the photos, saying this one is good, that one’s not. Like when they selected the images for his exhibition on evictions, stretched out on the floor of the dining room. Manel wanted a few to trace for the comic book project he’d been envisioning. That was when he was still on unemployment and was taking that illustration course, before the idea of adopting a kid flooded his entire brain, swallowing up the comic, the photo selecting, the this one is good, that one’s not.

Adopting.

Òscar, I found out that in Ethiopia it would take us three years. In Vietnam it seems like it’d be faster. And Òscar, alone looking through the photos. Losing intensity. This one’s good, that one’s not. Look, Manel, maybe this one could work for the cover of your comic?

My comic? Pfff . . . don’t know when I’ll get around to it, with all the work I have in the office right now! But you had the whole plot figured out! You had it all perfectly figured out before you found a job!

Òscar contemplates the chairlift. Immobile. Are you soaking in the tub, Manel? Did you know there’s no full moon? But I guess it’s okay. In the distance, the dogs bark more furiously. A few seconds later, Òscar feels another, more intense stab in the nipple of his left breast.

They can already see the chairlift’s enormous pylons. It seems it’s not snowing as hard. Manel walks behind Sam, who hasn’t said anything in a while. He feels his socks wet and a shiver climbing his legs, moving through his entire spine up to his neck. He looks at his old sneakers. Do you know my shoe size, Òscar? Do you know it? Do you know whether I need new sneakers because these ones are super old? They’re nice; let me get them for you. Oh, man! Stop acting like my daddy!

Daddy.

He should have stood up and thrown it all to the floor. Every boot on the shelf. Every single one of those boots for the photo expedition to the abandoned ski station. The hotel stay they would pay for with his salary, the salary he earns working at the architecture firm. The trip he would meticulously prepare: the rental car, the hotel, the flights. OK, he didn’t know there would be no full moon. That’s the only thing Òscar can reproach him for, but he could have taken care of all the arrangements himself. But, of course, he is the artist. All Òscar can think about are landscapes and positioning the lens. Oh, and on insisting about his comic. Manel, innocently, had defended himself: the comic’s just a hobby.

A hobby? But you love it, you even had an editor interested.

Òscar, please, it’s a tiny publishing house.

So? That’s a start.

Yeah, right, and how would we pay the bills then, with your exhibitions? Maybe you should start thinking of your photography as a hobby, too, and look for a real job!

Sam stops, turns, looks at him and places his index finger on his ear.

‘Did you hear that?’

The cold has made its way into Òscar’s coat and he’s been shivering, and he still hasn’t got a decent photo.

The best.

Abysms .

Exhibition: Abysms , by Òscar Torres.

You need a more powerful photo, Òscar, your work is losing its strength. What do you think about an abandoned ski station, Quique? I found one. Far away. I’d have to fly there but I think it’s a good idea. Sure, give it a try.

Òscar exhales loudly. Manel, I’m going to go on a trip to an abandoned ski station. I think I’ve found the idea for the last photo of the abysm. Manel was annoyed that he’d planned the vacation. By yourself? I don’t know . . . You want to come with me? Yes, but it’s not that, Òscar, it’s not that. Two days later Manel showed him the page he’d printed. It’s the hotel reservation, we’ll spend our vacation there. We’ll take a plane and then we’ll rent a car. It’s all paid for. You’ll have five days to find the photo you’re searching for.

Suddenly, another stab in his left nipple. It feels like it’s burning. He approaches the chairlift and sits in the seat closest to the ground. He props up his boots on the footrest. He rubs his nipple. He folds forward and that seems to lessen the pain. The dogs have stopped barking.

He hears a shot in the distance. The sharp sound spreads along the ski slope. The chairs sway and it seems they’re howling. Òscar turns and his gaze runs up the cable that leads into the forest.

Frightened, Manel looks at Sam, who turns and observes the mountain. His eyes are gleaming.

‘It’s Tom.’

He starts to run and Manel follows him. They hop the fence. Sam pulls a set of keys from his coat pocket and opens the door to the ski station’s little hut. Manel contemplates the landscape. He doesn’t see Òscar anywhere. He’s having trouble breathing. He looks inside the hut. Sam turns on some lights.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I have to go up.’

Sam lifts a wood panel and presses a button.

Suddenly, the spotlights on the chairlift switch on. Òscar puts his right arm in front of his eyes. The stab in his nipple pierces his guts and reaches his back. He shakes his right leg compulsively. Who turned on the spotlights?

He hears a deafening screech followed by a cadenced hum.

The chairs swing and start to move.

Òscar grips the frozen bar and rams his feet into the footrest.

And he starts to ascend.

He wants to scream, but his voice is trapped in his throat. The pain in his nipple is sharp and he doubles over again. He bites his lips. His eyes are beginning to get used to the light, he looks down and feels a dizziness that runs through his neck and sinks into his eardrums. It’s too late to jump, he’s too high up.