Let The Right One In aka Let Me In

by John Ajvide Lindqvist

  Oskar pressed his hands against the bathroom door, rested his forehead against his hands. He tried to think. Hard. And he didn’t get it. That he could somehow accept that she was a vampire., but the idea that she was somehow a boy, that that could be… harder.

  He knew the word. Fag. Fucking fag. Stuff that Jonny said. To think it was worse to be gay than to be a…

  He knocked on the door again.

  “Elias?”

  A weird feeling in his stomach as he said it. No, he wasn’t going to get used to it. She… His name was Eli. But it was too much. Regardless of what Eli was, it was too much. He just couldn’t. Nothing about her was normal.

  He lifted his forehead from his hands, held the pee back firmly.

  Steps outside in the stairwell and shortly thereafter a sound of the mailbox opening, a thud. He walked out there and looked at what it was. Advertising.

  Ground beef. 14:90 per kilo.

  Garish red letters and numbers. He picked up the advertisements in his hand with dawning comprehension; pressed his eyes against the keyhole while footsteps echoed in the stairwell; more bangs as additional mail flaps were opened and shut.

  After half a minute his mom passed by the keyhole, on her way down. He only managed to catch a glimpse of her hair, the collar of her coat, but he knew it was her. Who else would it be?

  Delivering the advertising packets in his absence.

  With the flyers clenched in his hand, Oskar sank down into a crouch by the front door, leaned his forehead against his knees. He didn’t cry. The need to pee was like a stinging nest of ants in his groin that in some way prevented him.

  But the thought ran through his head over and over:

  I don’t exist. I don’t exist.

  ***

  Lacke had spent the night worrying. Ever since he left Virginia, a sneaking anxiety had been intent on gnawing a hole in his stomach. He had spent about an hour with the regulars at the Chinese restaurant Saturday night, trying to share his concerns, but the others wanted none of it. Lacke had sensed things could get out of hand, that there was a danger he would get really ticked off, so he left.

  Those guys weren’t worth shit.

  Sure, it wasn’t exactly news to him, but he had thought that… well, what the hell had he thought?

  That we were all in on it.

  That at least one other person also had the feeling that something damn creepy was going on. There was so much talk, big words, especially from Morgan, but when it came down to it, no one had the gumption to lift a finger to actually do something.

  Not that even Lacke knew what to do, but he was at least worried about it. If that helped. He had lain awake most of the night, tried to read a little from Dostoevsky’s The Demons but kept forgetting what happened on the previous page, the previous sentence, and he gave up.

  But the night brought something good with it; he had made up his mind about something.

  Sunday morning he had gone over to Virginia’s place, knocked on the door. No one opened and he had assumed that… hoped that she had gone to the hospital. On his way back home he walked past two women

  who were talking, heard something about a murderer that the police were searching for in the Judarn forest.

  There’s a murderer behind every damn hush these days, for god’s sake. Now the papers have something else to jump all over.

  About ten days had gone by since they captured the Vallingby killer and the newspapers had grown tired about speculating about his identity and possible motive.

  In the articles that mentioned him there had been a strong streak of… ghoulish delight. With painstaking care they had described the murderer’s present condition and how he was unlikely to leave his hospital bed for six months. A separate factual box about hydrochloric acid and what it could do to the body, so you could really revel in how much it must hurt.

  No, Lacke took no pleasure in that kind of thing. Just thought it was creepy how people got all worked up about someone getting their “just deserts” and all that. He himself was absolutely anti-death penalty. Not because he had some “modern” sense justice, no. More like a premodern one.

  His reasoning went something like this: if someone kills my child, then I kill that person. Dostoevsky talked a lot about forgiveness, mercy. Sure. From society’s perspective, absolutely. But as a parent to the child it is my moral right to end the life of the one who did it. That society in turn gives me eight years in jail or something is a different matter.

  That wasn’t what Dostoevsky meant, and Lacke knew it. But he and Fyodor simply didn’t see eye to eye on this point.

  Lacke thought about these things as he walked home to Ibsengatan. Once he was home he realized he was hungry and cooked up a batch of quick macaroni, ate them from the pan with a spoon, squeezed some ketchup on them. While he was pouring water into the pan to make it easier to wash up later he heard something in the mail slot.

  Advertisements. He didn’t care about that, had no money anyway.

  No, that was just it.

  He wiped off the kitchen table with the dishrag, went and got his dad’s stamp collection from the sideboard, which he had also inherited from his father, and that had been hell to transport back to Blackeberg. He put the album down on the kitchen table, opened it.

  There they were. Four unmarked specimens of the first stamp ever to

  be issued in Norway. He leaned over the album and squinted at the lion, raised up on its hind legs against a light blue background.

  Incredible.

  They had cost four shillings when they were issued in 1855. Now they were worth… more. That they were connected in two pairs made them even more valuable.

  That was what he had made up his mind about last night, while he tossed and turned between his smoke-saturated sheets; that it was time. This thing with Virginia had been the last straw. Then, on top of that, the complete incomprehension on the part of the guys, his realization that: you know, these are not people worth hanging around with.

  He was going to leave this place, and so was Virginia.

  Depressed market or not, he would get about three hundred thousand for the stamps, plus two hundred for the apartment. Then they would get a house in the country. Or alright: two houses. A little farm. There was enough money for that and it would work out. As soon as Virginia had recovered he would present her with the idea, and he thought that… he was almost certain that she would agree to it, would love it in fact.

  So that was how it was going to be.

  Lacke felt calmer now. He saw everything clearly. What he would do today, and in the future. It would all work out.

  Filled with pleasant thoughts, he wandered into the bedroom, lay down on top of the bed to rest for five minutes, and fell asleep.

  ***

  We see them on streets and squares and we find ourselves standing in before them at a loss, saying to ourselves: what can we do?”

  Tommy had never been this bored in his whole life. The service had only been going for half an hour and he thought he would have had more fun if he had sat in a chair staring at the wall.

  “Blessed be” and “Hallelujah!” and “Joy of the Lord,” but why did they all sit there staring in front of them like they were watching a qualifying match between Bulgaria and Romania? It didn’t mean anything to them, that stuff they read in the book, that they sang about. Didn’t seem to

  mean anything to the minister either. Just something he had to get through in order to collect his paycheck.

  Now the sermon was underway, at least.

  If the minister mentioned that place in the Bible, that stuff Tommy had read, then he would do it. Otherwise he wouldn’t.

  Let him decide.

  Tommy checked his pocket. Everything was ready and the christening font was only three meters behind him from where he sat in the back row. His mom was sitting in the very front, no doubt so she could twinkle at Staffan as he sang his meaningless songs with his hands loosely claspe
d in front of his police dick.

  Tommy clenched his teeth. He hoped the minister was going to say it.

  “We see a lost look in their eyes, the look of someone who has wandered astray and is unable to find his way back home. When I see a young person like this, I always think about the Israelites’ exodus from Egypt.”

  Tommy stiffened. But maybe the minister was not going to mention that exact place. Maybe it would be something about the Red Sea. Still, he took the stuff out of his pocket; a lighter and a small tinder cube. His hands were trembling.

  “For it is thus we have to view these young people who sometimes leave us so perplexed. They are wandering in a desert of unanswered questions and unclear future prospects. But there is a great difference between the people of Israel and the young people of today…”

  Go on, say it…

  “The people of Israel had someone leading them. You are probably familiar with the words of the Scripture. ‘And the Lord went before them, by day in a pillar of cloud,

  Public interest in the police search of Judarn forest was at an all-time high. The evening news realized they would not be able to print the composite picture of the murderer one more time. They had been hoping for images of an apprehended suspect but in the absence of this both evening papers ran the sheep picture.

  The Expressen even put it on the front page.

  Say what you will, there was undeniable drama in that photograph. The police officer’s face twisted by exertion, the splayed limbs and open mouth of the sheep. You could almost hear the panting, the bleating.

  One of the papers had even tried to reach the royal court for comment, since it was the King’s sheep that the officer was manhandling in this way. The King and Queen had only two days earlier inweet smell.

  He had done this a bunch of times: burned saltpeter and sugar. But rarely in this quantity, and never inside. He was excited to find out what the effect would be without a wind to disperse the fumes. He interlaced his fingers, pressing his hands hard together.

  ***

  Bror Ardelius, temporary minister of the Vallingby parish, was the first to notice it. He took it for what it was: smoke from the christening font. He had been waiting for a sign from the Lord his whole life and it was undeniably the case that when he saw the first pillar of smoke he thought for a moment,

  Oh, My Lord. At last.

  But the thought did not last long. That the feeling of it being a miracle left him so quickly, he took as a proof that it was indeed no miracle, no sign. It was simply this: smoke from the christening font. But why?

  The janitor, whom he was not on particularly good terms with, had decided to play a practical joke. The water in the font had started to… boil.

  The problem was that he was in the middle of a sermon and could not spend a long time thinking about these questions. So Bror Ardelius did what most people do in these situations: he carried on as if nothing had happened and hoped the problem would resolve itself on its own. He cleared his throat and tried to remember what he had just said.

  The works of the Lord. Something about seeking strength in the works of the Lord. One example.

  He glanced down at the notes on his paper. He had written: Barefoot.

  Barefoot? What did I mean by that? That the people of Israel walked barefoot or that Jesus… wandered for a long time…

  He looked up and saw that the smoke had thickened, formed a pillar that rose up from the font to the ceiling. What was the last thing he had said? Yes, now he remembered. The words were still hanging in the air.

  “And the strength for this we can take from the works of the Lord.”

  That was an acceptable conclusion. Not great, not what he had been planning, but acceptable. He gave the congregation a somewhat bewildered smile and nodded to Birgit, who led the choir.

  The choir, eight people, stood up as one and walked up to the podium. When they turned to the congregation he could tell by their expressions that they also saw the smoke. Blessed be the Lord; it had occurred to him that perhaps it was only he who could see it.

  Birgit looked at him for guidance and he made a gesture with his hand: go on, get started.

  The choir started to sing.

  Lead me, God, lead me into righteousness. Let mine eyes behold Thy path…

  One of old Wesley’s beautiful compositions. Bror Ardelius wished he had been able to enjoy the beauty of the song, but the pillar of cloud was starting to worry him. Thick white smoke was billowing up out of the christening font and something inside the basin itself was burning with a blue-white flame, smoking and sputtering. A sweetish smell reached his nostrils and the members of the congregation started to turn around in order to figure out where the crackling sound was coming from.

  For only you, my Lord,

  offer my soul

  peace and security…

  One of the women in the choir started to cough. The members of the congregation turned their heads from the smoking font to Bror Ardelius in order to receive instruction from him as to how they should behave, if this was a part of the service.

  More people started to cough, holding handkerchiefs or sleeves in front of their mouths, noses. A thin haze had started to form inside the

  church, and through this haze Bror Ardelius saw someone get up from the very last row and run out the door.

  Yes, that is the only reasonable thing to do.

  He leaned toward the microphone.

  “Yes, well, there has been a small… mishap and I think it is best if we… clear the building.”

  Already at the word “mishap” Staffan left the podium and started walking toward the exit with quick, controlled steps. He got it. It was Yvonne’s hopeless delinquent of a kid who had done this. Even now, as he was walking down from the podium he was trying to control himself, because he sensed that if he got hold of Tommy right now he would give him a good hiding.

  Of course this was exactly what the young hooligan needed; it was exactly the kind of guidance he was lacking.

  Pillar of cloud come help me. A good spanking is what this kid sorely needs.

  But Yvonne wouldn’t accept it, as things stood right now. Once they were married things would be different. Then he would, God so help him, take on the task of disciplining Tommy. But first and foremost he would get ahold of him right now. Shake him up a little bit, at the very least.

  Staffan didn’t get very far. Bror Ardelius’ words from the podium had worked like a starting gun on the members of the congregation, who had only been waiting for his go-ahead in order to stampede out of the church. Halfway down the aisle Staffan found himself blocked by little old ladies who were hurrying toward the exit with grim determination.

  His right hand flew to his hip but he stopped it halfway, clenched it into a fist. Even if he had had his baton this would hardly have been a good time to use it.

  The smoke production in the font was starting to die down but the church was now full of a thick haze that smelled of candy and chemicals. The exit doors were wide open and through the haze you could see a strong rectangle of morning light.

  The congregation moved toward the light, coughing.

  ***

  There was a single wooden chair in the kitchen, nothing more. Oskar pulled it up to the sink, stood on it, and peed into the drain while he had water running out of the tap. When he was done he put the chair back. It looked strange in the otherwise empty kitchen. Like something in a museum.

  What does she keep it for?

  He looked around. Above the fridge there was a row of cabinets you could only reach by standing on the chair. He pulled it over and steadied himself by putting a hand on the refrigerator door handle. His stomach rumbled. He was hungry.

  Without thinking more about it, he opened the fridge in order to see what there was. Not much. An open carton of milk, half a packet of bread. Butter and cheese. Oskar put his hand out for the milk.

  But… Eli…

  He stood there wi
th the carton of milk in his hand, blinked. This didn’t add up. Did she eat real food as well? Yes. She must. He took the milk carton out of the fridge and put it on the counter. In the kitchen cabinet above the counter there was almost nothing. Two plates, two glasses. He took a glass and poured milk into it.

  And then it hit him. With the cold milk glass in his hand it finally hit him, with full force.

  She drinks blood.

  Yesterday evening, in his tangle of sleepiness and sense of detachment from the world, in the dark, everything had somehow felt possible. But now in the kitchen, where no blankets hung in the window and the blinds let in a weak morning light, with a glass of milk in his hand it seemed so… beyond anything he could comprehend.

  Like: If you have milk and bread in your fridge you must be a human being.

  He took a mouthful of milk and immediately spit it out. It was sour. He smelled the rest that was in the glass. Yes, definitely bad. He poured it out into the sink, rinsed the glass out, and then drank some water in order to get the taste out of his mouth. Looked at the date on the carton.

  USE BY 28 OCTOBER.

  The milk was ten days too old. Oskar had a realization.

  The old guy’s milk.

  The refrigerator door was still open. The old guy’s food.

  Revolting. Totally revolting.

  Oskar slammed the door shut. What had that old guy been here for anyway? What had he and Eli… Oskar shivered.

  She has killed him.

  Yes. Eli must have kept the old guy around in order to be able to… drink from him. To use him like a living blood bank. That’s what she did. But why had the old guy agreed to it? And //she had killed him, where was the body? Oskar glanced up at the high kitchen cabinets. And suddenly he didn’t want to be in the kitchen anymore. Didn’t want to stay in the apartment at all. He walked out of the kitchen, through the hall. The closed bathroom door.

  She’s in there.

  He hurried into the living room, collected his bag. The Walkman was on the table. He would have to buy new headphones, that was all. When he picked up the Walkman in order to put it into his bag he saw the note. It was lying on the coffee table, at the same height as his head had been resting.