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

Sam moves Manel away from the door and starts to run toward the chairlift. Manel takes two steps and observes the ascending seats. What is that? What is that shadow on the chairlift? He takes two more steps and notices Òscar’s yellow raincoat. Òscar? He opens his mouth slightly. Òscar? His mouth turns dry and he feels a scraping in his brain.

‘Òscar!’

He takes a running start and is off.

Running.

Running.

His old sneakers sink into the snow.

Running.

His socks wet.

Òscar doesn’t move, he can’t even see his face. He’s doubled over.

What is he doing? Is he looking at the photos in his camera?

‘Jump!’

Another shot is heard. A few birds fly out of the fir trees and scatter into the black night. The sound of their wings blends into the sound of the chairlift.

‘Òscar!’

He reaches the chairlift, his esophagus burned by the cold. He jumps into the damp seat. He looks forward, backward. Where is Sam?

Òscar hugs his camera. He hears Manel’s voice. Is he calling him? He’s afraid to look down, but he tries to open his left eye and turn his head a little. The voice is coming from a chair. He’s here. He came looking for him. The two of them are heading up into the forest. Together.

What did he make him do?

They would be soaking in the tub right now. No. Now they’d be naked in the bed, covered in soap, tipsy. With the cava’s sparks exploding in their heads. The photo. The abysm. The exhibition that would make his reputation. Give him a little more prestige. It’s not a hobby, Manel. Maybe feel more confidence. It’s not a hobby, Manel. Feel sure of himself. At home, and beyond.

I’m a photographer.

Oh, really? Is that how you earn your living?

To be able to say: The abysm. I’m a father and I’m a photographer.

That’s how I earn my living, support a family.

Father.

Father.

Manel grips the railing hard. Why isn’t he answering? Is it possible he doesn’t hear him? Does he not hear him? Is he not answering because he’s still angry? Why? He’s the one who wasted all his fucking vacation days last year on this project that . . .

‘Òscar! It was the snow! They closed because it didn’t snow! You hear me?’

Ever since the summer, since the first photo of the Abysms project, at the abandoned water park. That was where he wanted to tell him, for the first time, that he wanted to be a father. They had snuck into the park after lunch at a beachside bar. Òscar saw from the very first moment the photo he needed: a rusty row of seven slides with deflated flotation devices at the bottom. He took it from different angles while Manel observed him. Then they dropped down, tired, into one of those blue floaties covered in dirt and roasted ants, big enough to hold four or five people. Òscar lit a cigarette. Manel rubbed his shoulder. How did you come up with this idea for the project? Òscar exhaled smoke. I love these places. Places of premeditated leisure, filled with laughing people. Infrastructures we create to have fun and avoid thinking about death. And now, look, nature is devouring these rusty old objects designed as our saviors from the abysm, from having to think about the void.

Òscar, do you really think people come to water slides to escape thinking about their mortality? Are you sure it’s not you who’s depressed?

Òscar shrugged his wide, tanned shoulders and his expression grew sad.

I have been, but I’m much better now.

Manel never found the right time to tell him about the desire growing inside of him, they talked until it got dark about all the periods of depression that Òscar had suffered since his teenage years.

You have to have patience, it’s a long process. And how do you measure patience anyway? And since when did he have to start being patient?

Manel bites down hard on his lower lip. It can’t be. He’ll adopt on his own. He doesn’t need Òscar, not for anything. Actually, he would hold up the process. He would raise flags. No salary, a freelancer, with a history of depression. Manel can be a father on his own.

Father.

The papers: pay stub, lease, marriage certificate, are you divorced?

Is he divorced?

If he were a widower . . .

The chairlift is now reaching the top, in three seconds it will make a small turn and descend. In three seconds Òscar will have the ground just a few centimeters from his feet.

One.

Two.

Three.

Òscar grips his camera and jumps. He is trembling. It’s colder up here. Suddenly, he hears a howl of pain.

And silence.

Terrified, he looks to his left. A few meters away, amid the trees, there is a shadow on the ground. He rubs his nipple and slowly walks toward it. He extends his neck. He squints his eyes. His heart makes a jolt so hard his ribs shake.

It’s the mother bear. Enormous, furry.

She’s on the ground in the middle of a puddle of blood that blends into the snow. His knees grow weak. The piercing pain in his nipple intensifies and expands to surround the areola. He throws his head back. He opens his mouth. He can feel his guts twisting. He throws his head further back, but he takes a step. And another. He contracts his shoulders and now throws his head forward. The camera sways gently on his chest. The puddle of bear blood is spreading. A force he does not comprehend leads him forward.

A step.

Another.

An intense stab in his nipple. He curves over a little. He struggles to breathe.

The sound of footsteps makes him lift his head, fearful. His heart beats faster, which makes his nipple hurt even more.

From among the trees, a bear cub comes toward him, scared.

Òscar feels a cramp in his belly and he kneels down.

The little bear springs forward until it is at his knees. It sniffs him. Its snout is damp.

Tears.

Snot.

Snow.

Òscar lets out a smile when he exhales and strokes the cub’s back with a trembling hand, leans over and kisses its head. He feels his nipple boiling. Again he strokes the cub, who is now nestled against his thighs. It is rubbing its back against his belly. Suddenly, Òscar feels a burning in his pubis, a fiery scratching that travels from his belly to his thorax. He feels his heart melting and his nipple opening as if it were a camera shutter. He unzips his coat, lifts his sweater.

A stream of milk burbles from his left nipple and floods his belly button. The pain instantly disappears.

The cub moves into position, licks the liquid, smells it, rests its paws on Òscar’s belly and sucks on Òscar’s nipple. With each slurp, Òscar’s belly clenches, like it did when he took his first photo and his parents framed it in the dining room.

You’ll be a good photographer, my son.

Manel’s chair reaches the top and with a quick jump he hits the ground on his knees. Why did Òscar jump? Where is he?

He hears a whimper.

He looks to his right and sees a man’s body laid out on the ground. Encircled by a puddle of blood. Manel approaches him slowly. One step, another. The man has a giant scratch on his back that opened his coat, his sweater and his skin. Manel kneels beside him. The man is dying. Suddenly, his eyes widen and he stops breathing. His right hand limply holds a shotgun. Is it Sam’s brother? Manel takes the weapon with trembling hands. It weighs less than he imagined.

Milk keeps bubbling from Òscar’s nipple. The cub moves its back paws as it nurses with devotion. Òscar, suddenly, hears footsteps behind him. He turns his head as far as he can and sees Manel a few meters away. He doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t want to disturb the cub.

‘Manel!’

Manel turns abruptly and sees Òscar near the trees, on his knees with his back to him, but with his head turned, looking at him.