Ghosts

[Siggdalos]

PART 4

AUGUST 2014

Once again they were surrounded by noise and music, once again they stood off to the side, and once again Andrea wondered what the point was. At least it was in Blackeberg this time, within walking distance from home, so it had felt like less of a commitment to come. On the stereo, Veronica Maggio repeated time and again that the line stretched från gatan upp till hallen. Andrea wondered how many people that would've taken in this case. From Björnsonsgatan to the eighth floor. A hundred people? More? She pictured an entire building filled with bodies, shoes and bags thrown here and there in the stairwell, a spiral-shaped human tentacle.

She shook the image out of her skull. Held out the wine bottle to Nadine, who shook her head. She looked kinda pitiful where she stood in her black tank top with her arms crossed, looking at nothing. The guy she'd started chatting with last weekend had said at first that he'd show up but then ghosted her, and so far they'd seen no sign of him nor any of his mates.

Nadine had been a bit cold toward Andrea after last weekend. Andrea had apologized and then they'd been friends again, but Andrea sensed that if she said the wrong thing now it could piss Nadine off all over again. Therefore she said nothing, and it was a relief when Nadine eventually went to ask around if anyone had heard anything from the glasses guy and came back with a:

"He's not coming."
"Did they say that?" Nadine asked.
"No", Nadine said and leaned her back against the wall with her hands forced into her tight denim pockets. She started chewing on her upper lip, the way she always did when sitting with physics homework or when thinking intensely in general. "But no one's heard anything about him coming, anyway. So he's not coming."
"Wanna dip?"

Nadine stopped chewing her lip, got a different expression on her face.

"No. Gimme that." She took the wine bottle, swallowed a few gulps, handed it back, and said while wiping her mouth with the back of her hand: "We're here to have fun. Fuck it."

Andrea blinked, then broke into a smile and was about to say that that was the way to go, when Nadine suddenly grabbed hold of her hand and started dragging her out into the middle of the room, which had been designated as an improvised dance floor.

"Come on."
"Huh?"
"Let's dance a little."

The stereo had reached a much calmer section of the playlist that made Andrea think of the slow dances at the school disco in seventh grade, and sure enough, there were already people standing in the open space and swaying with each other while the ones who'd occupied the space earlier had sat down for a breather on couches and cushions.

"No ..." Andrea said.
"Yes", Nadine said. "It'll be fun. You're always telling me to be more confident."

Yes, but not with ME, Andrea thought. That was as far as she got before Nadine had pushed her out onto the middle of the floor, taken hold of her arms, and started leading her around in slow circles. Andrea did her best to follow. The fact that she was quite a bit ganglier than Nadine made it a little tricky at first, she kept almost stepping on Nadine's toes, but after a while Andrea relaxed and it started going, if not better, then at least not utterly to hell. A guy sitting on the floor next to a sofa loudly asked when she and Nadine were planning on making out. They both gave him the finger.

Andrea had just started reciprocating Nadine's smile and thinking that it was actually pretty fun, when she out of the corner of her eye saw Liv and her friend Adde come in through the front door. Andrea and Liv's eyes met and in the same moment Andrea stomped on Nadine's foot.

"Ow!"
"Shit, sorry!"
"Nevermind. Keep going."

Andrea did her best, but she could no longer concentrate. She'd suddenly become very aware of all the people watching and she saw a couple phones that had been raised in their direction. Her movements had gotten stiff and she felt her face starting to sweat. Shortly after the song faded out—thank fuck—and before the next one had time to begin, she let go of Nadine and said that she had to take a break. Nadine nodded and stayed where she was to keep going on her own by casually swinging her arms to the opening notes of the next song. Andrea fled, stumbled over someone's outstretched leg. She heard people laugh and was sure that it was at her.

* * *

Isak couldn't sleep. He'd been turning this way and that under the cover for what felt like hours. He finally got up, stood by the window, and opened the blinds. If he was going to be awake, might as well have something more fun to look at than the ceiling and the walls, and his parents wouldn't let him keep his phone in his bedroom.

He'd always liked the view from his window a lot, located as it was all the way up at the top of the easternmost of the three high-rises on Björnsonsgatan. Wasn't the least afraid of heights. From up here you could see for miles, out over the woods and all the way to the pearl string of lights that always glittered along the horizon. The lights' name was Stockholm. Right now the last of the sunlight was shrinking like a pink ball in the farthest-away part of the sky and leaving room for the dark-blue night.

He felt like he needed to pee a little, but wanted to stand by the window a while longer. There was a party in the farthest of the two neighboring houses, in one of the apartments near the top. There were blue and purple and pink lights coming from there too and he could see movement in the windows. His eyes continued down toward the school, then to the parking lot next to the preschool. There were two figures standing there.

He stared at them. They stared back—no, now he saw, they were facing the preschool. They looked like kids, maybe sixth- or seventh-graders. Both were carrying bags. He immediately knew who they were.

He quickly pulled back from the window, drew the blinds, and prayed to God (whom he didn't believe in most of the time) that they hadn't seen him. He felt the pressure in his bladder again and took the chance to escape to the bathroom.

When he came back he didn't really have the courage to take a second look, but he forced himself to creep up and carefully angle up one of the blinds with his finger, expected to see them standing down there and looking straight up at his window. But the street was empty. They'd disappeared.

He didn't get any sleep that night. Kept his bedside lamp on just to be safe.

* * *

Andrea sat on the edge of the stair landing with her head resting against the railing, her feet tossed out on two different steps below her. A relief to sit here, so much of a relief that it almost hurt. After the warmth and the crowding inside the apartment, the cool air in the stairwell was a soft breeze. The door was two meters behind her and she could still both hear and feel the music from in there, but it was dampened, as if heard through water. She was holding a bottle of wine in her lap. Unclear whose, but no one had protested when she took it with her on the way out.

The door opened and let out a couple seconds of that old nineties hit. "Brightmountain". Andrea brushed her long brown hair out of her face and looked over her shoulder, immediately sat up straighter when she saw who it was.

"Hey", Liv said after closing the door behind her.
"Hey."
"Mind if I sit here?"
"It's a free country."

What did she say that for? Andrea's mouth had croaked it out with no involvement from her brain. The kind of thing they said in the cartoons she used to watch as a kid, when one character wanted to be ironic to another. Liv gave a kind of lopsided smile.

"I'll take that as a yes."

She sat down on the edge of the landing a couple decimeters from Andrea. She was half a head shorter, had brought her own bottle of wine, and was dressed in a pink hoodie. The kind of thing you could picture someone wearing when they were sat at home studying. She looked so much like someone who didn't care that Andrea felt a little impressed.

Andrea kept expecting to be subjected to a comment about the dance, but Liv didn't say anything. From inside they could still hear the melancholy song. Andrea had never really understood what the deal with it was, why people liked it. The melody was alright, she supposed, but the lyrics were kinda nonsense.

"No hand on your shoulder, it should've been mine ..."

"Did you know she's from here? The girl singing", Liv said and pointed with her thumb over her shoulder.
"From Blackan? Yeah, sure. You like her?"
"She's alright. Her later stuff is better."

Liv turned the bottle back and forth in her hands a couple times. Andrea couldn't decide if Liv was the first or last person she wanted as company right now.

"Your name is Andrea, right?" The question sounded like an afterthought, as if she'd only now remembered that they'd never spoken before.
"No. I mean yes." Andrea felt her face heat up a little again. "And you're Liv."
"That's right." A long pause. Then: "I don't really like going to this kinda thing either."
"How ... Or, I mean, why'd you think that I ..."
"It's been noticeable." Liv gave a kind of apologetic smile and shrugged. "I'm mostly here to back up a friend, really. He'd never go to this kinda thing otherwise."
"Same ... same here."
"In that case. Cheers to us ... sidekicks."
"Cheers."

They clinked their bottles together and took a swig. The fizz stung against Andrea's tongue. She'd decided that it felt alright to sit here with Liv. She wasn't like what Andrea had expected. Sitting on the mottled concrete and drinking wasn't exactly glamorous, but right now it didn't feel as though that mattered very much. They sat in silence for a while and Andrea tried to come up with something to talk about, wanted to hear more of Liv's voice. For lack of anything else, she said:

"What was your last name again? Mårtensson?"
"Almost. Mortensen."
"Norwegian?"
"Danish. Dad's from Roskilde."
"Speak any Danish?"
"Sure. Biksemad."
"What?"

Liv grinned.

"I talk Danish with my Dad and Swedish with my Mom. You? I mean, what's your last name?"
"Siskov."
"Shit. Is it ... Slavic?"
"Russian. But I'm only ... quarter Russian. My great-grand ... No ... Is that right?" Andrea shook her head. Her head was getting a little woozy. "Dad's grandpa and grandma came here after the civil war or whatever. Like, in the twenties. I haven't met Dad's family a lot and he doesn't talk about them much."

She quickly shut her mouth and wondered if she'd babbled on too much, but Liv was looking at her with interest and was about to say something when the door flew open and a guy staggered out, opened the garbage chute, and threw up in the shaft.

"What the sh-" Liv launched to her feet and almost tipped over backward down the stairs.
"Be careful", Andrea mumbled, but Liv was busy glaring at the guy.
"Hey", she said. "What're you doing?"

The guy slammed the hatch shut and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Looked at Liv with a puzzled expression.

"What? Toilet was busy."

With that he plodded back inside. Liv turned to Andrea with a shocked expression, but as soon as their eyes met it was replaced with giggles. Andrea started giggling a little too, and Liv said:

"Wanna ... like, head down and get some fresh air?"

That she did. But she couldn't just dip without saying anything to Nadine like last time. Liv nodded and said that it was probably for the best if she told Adde as well. Andrea got up and opened the door to the apartment, came to a stop on the threshold. Liv almost bumped into her from behind.

Nadine and Adde were standing in a corner of the dance floor. People were dancing around them, but they didn't move an inch and seemed to be very preoccupied with each other. Andrea hadn't had any idea that Nadine could make out like that. She turned to Liv, who for some reason looked worried, but her features softened when Andrea smiled and said:

"I think they'll manage without us a while."

* * *

The doorbell rang.

Tommy snorted, fumbled for the armrest without opening his eyes. Wanted to fall back asleep.

The doorbell rang.

Flickering lights beyond the membrane of his eyelids. He reluctantly forced them open, was forced to squint. Music and voices came drifting from the glowing box in the other end of the room. Dammit. Getting into the habit of falling asleep in front of the TV was a sure sign of age. He didn't like being reminded of the fact that he was almost fifty. Tommy closed his eyes again, rubbed them with his hand, then opened them wide. Some Latin American soap opera on a channel he'd never heard of. Must've accidentally touched the remote while he slept. The screen showed a little boy running alongside a brook under yellow sunlight. What time was it?

He listened. Had he heard the doorbell for real or had it come from the television? He'd just reached for the remote when he heard it again. He turned off the TV and got up, let out an oath when his back protested against the hours spent in the armchair. His eyes found the clock on the wall and he muttered a little while plodding through the hallway. Who the hell rang the door this late?

He hesitated with his hand on the doorhandle. Wished he'd had a peephole. Could always try looking through the keyhole or the mail slot, but bending down would take too much effort. The bell buzzed again.

Yeah, yeah, I'm coming.

He opened the door, saw who was standing outside, slammed it shut again. Jerkily turned the lock, fastened the security chain, and quickly backed deeper into the apartment again.

No. Nononono no.

He bumped his back against the wall frame separating the hallway from the living room. His hand fumbled around the corner, got hold of the protruding part, held it fast to keep his legs upright. His heart was busy trying to pound its way out through his chest and something big had been wedged into his throat so he couldn't breathe.

This was not happening. A nightmare, imagination. He'd had times, when he was younger, when his brain had sometimes, with complete conviction, thought that it was back in the basement, back in the darkness with ... It would pass, he'd wake up, the stairwell would be empty. He knew that, but still he felt the panic approaching, preparing to pounce on him. Then he heard the mail slot get pushed open and a cautious voice from the other side of the door.

"Tommy?"

Tommy closed his eyes.

OurFatherwhoartinheavenhallowedbethyname

"Tommy, it's us."

thykingdomcomethywillbedoneonearthasitisinheaven

"We're not going to hurt you, I promise."

giveusthisdayourdailybreadandforgiveusourtrespasses

He opened his eyes, started moving sideways toward the kitchen, all the while staring at the front door.

asweforgivethosewhotrespassagainstus

"Please."

He pulled out a drawer, picked up the biggest knife he had, held it close to his body while he shut his eyes again and tried to force his breathing to slow down.

andleadusnotintotemptationbutdeliverusfromevil

"We know you're there."

* * *

While Oskar crouched in front of the door, Eli listened to the sounds from the house. The man's footsteps, the rattle of a drawer of tools. Knives, based on the sound and Eli's experience of what people usually did in this kind of situation. On the floor above someone was trying to console a crying child woken up by the painfully loud doorslam. Low voices in some of the other apartments, but no motion, no immediate danger. Oskar was still talking into the mail slot. Eli cautiously signed a question:

»Sure it's him?«

Oskar nodded, replied with hurried motions:

»Why else would he react like that?«
»I was just checking.«

Eli went over to the window to look out at the street that shared his first name. The lights were on in a few of the windows on the other side. It was pretty here in the summer. He'd previously only seen the place in autumn, and it had sometimes been hard to picture it as a warm and green place when Oskar talked about his childhood memories from here. When Eli had gotten so close to the window that his nose almost touched the glass, his reflection appeared faintly. Above his shoulder a shine of clear blue eyes, the same ones he'd seen reflected in other windows many times on the journey here.

Vous ne lui rendez point service en le laissant faire de la sorte.
I know, Eli replied. But I have no choice.
My dear friend. Is that what you tell yourself?
You should know. You're inside my head.
Alas, yes. And what a dreadfully empty and desolate place to be relegated to!

After a few minutes the crying child upstairs had started to calm down. The man in the apartment was still moving back and forth between rooms some but didn't go anywhere near the front door. Oskar crouched in front of the door and looked at it while Eli sat on the windowsill and looked at Oskar. They'd gone over in advance what they'd do if this or that happened. If nothing happened they'd stay in the stairwell all night, give him time to think through if he wanted to open or not. If he never opened they'd leave him alone and not come back. If they heard him make a phonecall—to the police or anybody else—they'd leave right away. And if he actually opened ... in that case Eli didn't know. Oskar had only talked in loose terms about what he was planning and Eli hadn't pressured him, even though he realized that he should've.

The child quieted and its parent returned to their own bed. The light in the stairwell went off and Oskar's eyes lit up in the dark. Neither of them moved. Half an hour after Tommy had slammed the door, the sounds from his apartment changed. A swishing of paper and a frenzied scratching, then footsteps that slowly approached the front door and stopped just inside it. Eli slid down from the windowsill and stood next to Oskar.

The mail slot flew open. An A4 graph paper was tossed out, whirled onto the floor, and came to a stop in front of Oskar's gym shoes. It was followed by a worn stump of a pencil which landed on the concrete with a thin, brittle sound before the mail slot snapped shut again. On the paper was written, in jerky handwriting:

What do you want?

Oskar looked up at Eli, who shrugged and reminded him with a few gestures that this had been his idea. Oskar picked up the pencil, hesitated, then got to his feet and placed the paper against the door. It took a long while of writing and crossing out before he was done. He held the result out to Eli. His scrawly handwriting covered a large portion of the surface that had been left empty underneath Tommy's question.

We just want to talk to you. About everything that happened. About what happened since then. I wanted to see you again. We know it was you who sent that picture to the police a couple years ago. We're not angry with you. We're not going to hurt you. You don't have to let us in if you don't want. If you want us to leave we will. In that case we won't come back. You decide.

The text felt a little messy, but Eli didn't know what else they could say, so he shrugged again.

»Worth a try.«

Oskar carefully angled the mail slot open and slipped the paper in. They could hear Tommy breathing in there. It occurred to Eli that Tommy might be frightened by seeing their eyes in the dark, so he quickly took a step forward and pushed the angrily glowing red button, blinked in the sharp light that filled the stairwell and strained his eyes. He'd just taken a step back to stand next to Oskar again when the lock turned and the door opened.

[metoo]

Very good, again!

[PeteMork]

Don't stop! You've got a good thing going here.

[metoo]

Music in part 4:

Välkommen in (från gatan upp till hallen) by Veronica Maggio.


Brightmountain:
No idea...

[Siggdalos]

PART 5

Already he was stooping to embrace
My Teacher's feet; but he said to him: 'Brother,
Do not; for shade thou art, and shade beholdest.'
And he uprising: 'Now canst thou the sum
Of love which warms me to thee comprehend,
When this our vanity I disremember,
Treating a shadow as substantial thing.'
— Dante Alighieri (transl. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)
Purgatorio, Canto XXI

* * *

It felt as though they walked around and talked for hours. If Liv had been a bit on the quiet side before, it was now as if a dam had burst. Andrea wasn't sure what had caused the change but had nothing against it. They talked about music, about swimming, about parents, about life, about school. Andrea had started her first year at Blackan only two weeks prior, and Liv was excited to tell her all about the place. She was in the social science program, wanted to be a writer or journalist, was a member of the student council to boot and helped organize events and other stuff. The evening was lukewarm and she had tied her hoodie around her waist, wore only her off-white tank top which matched the pale hair falling straight down to just above her shoulders. She laughed often, a loud, bubbling, unabashed laughter that did not at all match her appearance. Every time Andrea heard it, she tried to think of something to say that would allow her to hear it again.

At one point, Liv wanted to prove how not-drunk she was by balancing on top of the midsized rocks lined up alongside the footpath between the high-rises. She put down her half-empty wine bottle in the grass, stepped up and stood teetering on the nearest rock with her arms outstretched like a tightrope walker while Andrea watched. She took an elk stride over to the next rock, but when she hopped over to the third she lost her footing and stumbled straight into Andrea. Andrea caught her and for a brief moment their eyes met, but then Liv pulled out of Andrea's arms with a jerk without looking at her. A hint of her flowery perfume lingered in Andrea's nose. Her mouth had gone all dry, but she didn't understand why.

Their legs took them along the foothpath, past a couple birches to the edge of Björnsonsgatan. They kept on talking as before, but something in the tone between them had shifted, gotten more serious. They crossed the street, checked out the Thai kiosk that was set to open a few days later, turned right and headed in under the subway bridge. Seated themselves on the rocky slope behind the pillars, shared what was left in the bottle, and talked about death. Only now did they realize that they'd left the other bottle over by the rocks.

From where they sat they had a good view of the low, worn, graffiti-covered garage building next to the Wergelands-Björnsons intersection. On the long side, a pretty talented person had sprayed a picture of birds and blue flowers around the text Ps 103:15-16. A less talented person had left their own touch by spraying YOLO in meter-tall red letters straight across the whole thing.

Andrea said that she was an atheist and didn't believe in heaven, but liked to think that you still ended up someplace. A black void, maybe. Where you could float and be weightless, not have to deal with all the idiots in the world, not have to think and feel. Just exist.

"Wouldn't that be heaven, in that case?" Liv asked thoughtfully. She sat with her arms wrapped around her knees, had laid out the hoodie underneath her like a blanket. "For you, I mean."
"Yeah. I guess, maybe." Andrea had never said that stuff about the empty place to anyone else before. Not once. And yet it felt completely natural to discuss it with Liv.
"I don't think you go anywhere", Liv said. "Lights go out in the brain and then the show's over, basically."
"Mm. I mean, I guess that's what I actually believe too."
"You only get one shot", Liv continued. "No use sitting there when you're ninety and ... regretting all the fun stuff you had a chance to do but didn't have the bravery for."

She gave Andrea a long look after she said it. It felt as though she meant something else, something she expected Andrea to get, but the tipsiness made it hard to think straight.

The wine was running out. Andrea checked her phone and saw that it was probably time to head back to the party. From off in the distance came a rising, rumbling hiss from an approaching subway train. They slid down from their seats, but the bottle went down with them, landed on the sidewalk with a hollow clink and started rolling down the slope. Andrea was about to go after to pick it up when she heard a movement behind her back and turned around.

Liv was standing twenty centimeters from her face, and before she had time to react she felt Liv's lips being pressed against her own. She was so caught off guard that her arms automatically flew up and shoved away the body in front of her at the same time as she took a step back.

They stared at each other. Liv looked horrified. Andrea opened and closed her mouth, but before she'd managed to form a sound, Liv had gotten halfway back up the street. She dashed around a corner onto Ibsengatan and disappeared. Andrea stayed where she was, unable to move.

With a deafening roar, the subway train passed four meters above her head.

* * *

They looked at each other. Registered changes. Tommy Samuelsson felt Oskar Eriksson's eyes linger on his stomach, face, his gray stubble. Oskar himself looked more or less the way Tommy remembered him. Slightly longer and unrulier hair, maybe—Tommy couldn't remember the photograph's every detail. Other than that, the years had passed over him without changing his appearance in the slightest.

The girl was different. Assuming it was a girl. Her short haircut and more boyish clothes made him unsure. In fact, if he hadn't so clearly recognized the round, pale face with the small nose and the huge dark eyes, he would've taken her for a boy.

Tommy and Oskar realized simultaneously that they were both waiting for the other to say something. They opened their mouths at the same time, closed them at the same time. Oskar ended up being the one who opened it again and said:

"Well ... hi."
"Hi", Tommy echoed. What were you supposed to say, really?
"Sorry. For ... showing up like this."

Tommy said nothing. Oskar looked at the girl, then back at Tommy.

"Can we come in?"

Tommy threw a quick glance over their heads at the nearest neighboring door, stepped aside and waved them inside.

"Yeah, yeah. Get in, dammit." Before anyone notices.

He closed the door after them, made sure to keep them in his line of sight at all times and keep his body angled in such a way that they wouldn't see ...

"You won't need that", Oskar said after kicking off his shoes on the doormat.
"Need what?"
"The knife in your back pocket."

Tommy tried to ignore the cold jolt that shot up his spine.

"And if I want to feel like I can defend myself?"

Oskar furrowed his brow and was about to say something, but then seemingly changed his mind and shrugged instead.

"OK. Do as you like."

The children looked around the hallway. Only now that he was up close did Tommy become aware of the fact that they stank. An acrid whiff of sweat and unwashed clothes.

OK. Now what?

They were here to talk. They weren't talking. When you talk, you sit down. The kitchen. They could sit in the kitchen. Tommy cleared his throat and made a gesture telling them to head there. They did as they were told and he followed. Tried to think of what would be ... a normal thing to say in a situation like this. Had it been a normal situation.

"Do you ... want something to drink? I have a Coke in the fridge if ..."
"No thanks", Oskar said.

No, of fucking course they don't drink soda, I know they look like kids but they haven't aged a day in thirty years, do you have a functioning brain or what you bloody chuckleh-

Tommy only had two chairs by the small kitchen table. Oskar seated himself on one, but the tomboy—who had thus far not said a word—instead hopped up and sat on the edge of the countertop. Tommy hesitated, decided it didn't matter, positioned himself with his back leaned against the opposite wall.

"You live alone", Oskar said.
"Yes", Tommy said and immediately wished he'd said no. Should've said he had a girlfriend or something, anything, who'd come home any minute now. No, right, shit, they would've seen through that straight away, they'd seen the clothes in the hallw-
"I can tell. From the scent."
"The scent", Tommy repeated. "That it ... smells of bachelor, you mean?"
"No. But there aren't any scents from other people here."

Tommy closed his eyes. Of course. No scents from other people. Which they could of course detect the moment they stepped inside as though they were bloodhounds. How silly of him not to think of that. Why was he even surprised? He opened his eyes again.

"Look", he said. "This is the thing. The only reason ... the only reason I let you two in is because you wrote that you wanted to ... explain everything. Tell the truth or whatever it was you wrote. Go on, then. Explain. I've had thirty years to think everything over and I'm still none the bloody wiser. Go on."

That wasn't entirely true, since he'd spent a not inconsiderable portion of the years in question not thinking about it, but they didn't need to hear that.

Oskar said nothing. Turned his head and looked at the girl, turned it back and looked straight ahead. Didn't look at Tommy. The only sound filling the silence was the second hand of the wall-mounted clock. Tick. Tick. The realization came slowly.

He didn't plan this. He comes back out of nowhere after thirty years and hasn't even planned out what to say.

"OK", Tommy said when the silence compelled him to lend a hand, especially since the girl still wasn't saying anything. "For how long have you been back?"
"A week", Oskar answered immediately. As if he was relieved to get an easy-to-answer question.
"Does anyone else know you're here?"
"No. Nobody that recognizes me anyway. As far as we know."
"And even if they did recognize you, they wouldn't think it was you."
"No."

Tommy nodded, then another thing occurred to him.

"And how'd you get in here? The front door is locked at night."

Based on the earlier answers, he almost expected them to say something along the lines of: We turned ourselves into mist and flew in through the door gap, but instead the girl opened her mouth for once and said:

"I waited outside until I saw someone enter the code."
"How long?"
"Couple nights in a row."
"Did you see me?"
"Through the windows. Yes."

Tommy felt goosebumps crawling across his neck and back. He looked out through the kitchen window, immediately saw several locations where a small body could keep itself well-hidden in one of the maple canopies or bushes, especially when it was dark. Simultaneously realized that anyone would be able to clearly see them through the window. He reached the window in a single step and pulled the curtain down with a jerk, so far that the hem dangled over the sill. When he backed up against the wall again, the knife in his back pocket chafed a little against his bum. Äh. Damn it all. He pulled it out and threw it onto the table with a clatter. Oskar started in surprise and looked at the knife but stayed seated.

"Alright then", Tommy said. "So where have you been? All this time."

Oskar shrugged.

"Different places."
"Spain."
"Yes. Right. Among others." He hesitated. "That picture. How ...?"

Tommy thought of Robban. Of the children. They were older than Oskar now. The thought was dizzying. Robban had called a couple days earlier and asked if Tommy wanted to come to an evening barbeque before the yearly grill season was over.

"That's not important", Tommy said. "How did you find out it was me?"

Oskar and the girl exchanged a look.

"It's a long story", Oskar said.
"You got it from a police."
"Not in the way you think", the girl said.

He saw from their expressions that they weren't going to discuss the subject further.

"Uh-huh. So where you planning on explaining any of the rest?"
"You said you've thought a lot about ... all of it", Oskar said.
"I did."
"How much do you know?"
"To start with, I don't even know her name", Tommy said and nodded at the girl.
"Eli", she said.
"Eli." He rifled through his memory. Tried to find a category where the name fit. "Is that ... You a boy or a girl?"
"Does it matter?"

Tommy looked at her. Him. Whatever. He shook his head and rubbed his hand over his mouth. The important part. What was important? Right.

"You had ... something to do with that man Bengtsson."
"Yes."
"The cops have always thought that he and the person who ripped up those kids at the pool had something to do with each other."
"Yes."
"You're the one who did it. At the pool."
"Yes."
"And then you and Oskar disappeared."
"Yes."
"And you have an illness that makes you want to drink blood."
"Not ... want. But yes."
"And I'm guessing this is the same illness"—Tommy accompanied the word with air quotes—"that makes both of you still look like thirteen even though you should be past forty."

Eli and Oskar nodded.

"So you are, in other words, basically vampires?"
"Basically", Oskar said.
"Uh-huh. Well, then, why didn't you say so? Then it all makes perfect sense. What happens if I do this?"

Tommy held his hands up and placed his right index finger straight across his left to form a cross. The children just looked at him.

"What?" Oskar said.
"Äh, nevermind. Do I have any garlic around here?" Tommy started looking around the kitchen with exaggerated gestures as if he thought he had a bunch hanging somewhere, until Oskar said:
"Tommy."

No, that's fair. That's totally fair. I'M the one who should get a grip. This is all perfectly normal. I'm the only one acting strange. A totally normal situation, that's what this is.

Tommy looked at the two ... children. Boys. Or whatever they were. Took a deep breath, closed his eyes, let the air out in a long sigh. Looked at Eli.

"Bengtsson. He cut the throats of his victims and drained their blood."
"Yes."
"Was that to ...?"

Eli pointed at herself and gave a short nod.

Shreds. She- he ripped them to shreds.

"Why didn't you ... do it yourself?"
"There are times when I'm weak. I needed someone to help me."
"Uh-huh." Tommy looked between Eli and Oskar. "So who's ... 'helping' you two now?"
"No one", Eli said. "The two of us get by on our own."
"I see. Good for you. How many?"
"Huh?" Oskar said.
"You heard me. You feed on people. How. Many?"

The seconds stretched the silence out like a rubber band before it snapped and Eli said:

"We don't keep count."

Tommy nodded. Swallowed. And so he'd reached the question. Couldn't postpone it any more. He swallowed again. There was a place. A pitch-black corner of his consciousness that he always avoided. He could not, was not allowed to return there. For thirty-two years, nine months, and twenty days he'd struggled to stay on the right side of the threshold. Live in the light. If he looked straight into the abyss and stepped over the event horizon, he was lost. But now the answer sat right in front of him.

"After you bought my blood, you locked me in the shelter with that ... thing."

For the entire conversation so far, Eli had looked indifferent. Now there was a hint of something else. Shame. Regret?

"I didn't mean for ..."
"What was it?"
"I didn't know you were in th-"
"What the hell was it?"

A pause.

"Håkan."
"I know. I know who it was. But it damn well wasn't a human being. So what was he?"
"A mistake."

Tommy stared.

"I had killed him", Eli continued with his eyes locked on his socks. "Or tried to. But I didn't destroy the body properly. He didn't die completely. Instead he got infected. By the illness I have. It took over his body so he woke up again, as ... that. A shell. And came looking for me."

His toes tensed, relaxed again. Tommy felt the unspoken hang in the air between them.

"What ... did it do to you?"
"That is none of your business."

None of your business. None of your business. Let us in, we want to explain everything. OK, how did you know it was me? That's none of your business. Where have you been? None of your business. How many have you offed? None of your business. God, they smell bad. Could've at least taken a bath before coming here.

"Do you know how long I was in there?" Tommy asked. His blood had started throbbing in his ears.

Eli looked up at him, shook his head.

"Me neither", Tommy said. "But the police thought around an hour. Me? No clue. It was a very long hour in that case."
"I didn't mean t-"
"Couple hours, maybe. Or not even one full hour. Let's say one hour for the sake of argument. Do you know how much that single hour ... ruined me?"

Eli said nothing. The blood was thundering in Tommy's head like the thuds of stone against stone.

"Do you have the slightest idea of what you did to me?"
"No", Eli said in a low voice. "I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry", Tommy repeated.

He scoffed, shook his head. Went over to the table and picked the knife back up, held it in both hands and tried to make them be still. The handle rattled between his fingers. He looked at it while he said, with a calm that surprised even him:

"Has it happened any more times?"
"What has?"
"That you've turned people into those things. Not killed them properly or whatever you said."

The silence stretched out longer this time.

"A couple times", Oskar said. "We never meant to. We've destroyed them. Every time it's happened."
"Never meant to", Tommy repeated. "And that thing at the pool, was that also something you didn't mean to do?"
"I had no choice", Eli said. "They were hurting Os-"
"And all the others. You've lost count, you said. Did you not mean to do anything to them either?"

Oskar and Eli knew better than to answer. The knife fell between Tommy's fingers, landed on the table again. He pulled out the empty chair, slumped down in it. Looked at Oskar.

"Well? Was that all?"
"We ..." Oskar swallowed. "I ... had hoped that we maybe ... could talk about ... I dunno. About what's happened here since then and how you've ... been. And stuff."
"Do you think, after everything you've just heard, that I have even the slightest desire to discuss that with you two?"

Oskar sucked on his lips and looked down at the knife, shook his head. Tommy sighed, leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table. Buried his head in his hands, rubbed his temples and eyes. He was so damned tired.

"Oskar. I don't know what you hoped to ... accomplish by coming here and finding me. But it's ... too late for all that. I know we were friends once, but that was thirty bloody years ago. More than that. Even if it maybe hasn't felt that way to you, it has for the rest of us." He looked up, rested his hands on the surface between them. "Do you hear me?"

Oskar nodded mutely, still with his eyes on the knife. Hesitated, then said:

"Can I just ask you something?"

Tommy sighed.

"Sure."
"Are my parents still alive?"

They looked straight at each other. Somewhere behind Tommy's head, the clock kept up its rhythmic ticking. Three seconds. Five.

"I have no idea. I don't know, Oskar."

Oskar nodded and looked at the knife again. Tommy leaned back against the backrest, let his eyes travel back and forth between the two children.

"I'd like you to leave now."

They didn't move.

"Gone deaf, both of you? Get out of here."
"Tommy ..." Oskar began, but Tommy got up so quickly that his chair fell over.
"You said you were going to leave if I asked you to leave, and that's what I'm doing. Get out."

They got to their feet and were out in the hallway in a matter of seconds, strapped their shoes back on. Halfway over the threshold, Oskar turned around and tried again:

"Tommy, I ..."
"OUT!" He shoved them out the door, and the moment they'd crossed the threshold he slammed it shut with enough force to rattle the walls.

It took several minutes for his hands to stop shaking.

[PeteMork]

Very well done...and very sad. You are an excellent writer. You've found many very interesting and original ideas to explore.
I took them away from their past. You're taking them back to it, with both good and bad results for them both. Your Oskar is a bit harder than mine was; a bit surer of himself in many cases. Except this time.

[metoo]

Excellent!

[VerbalHamster]

Great writing! The choice to have Oskar and Eli visit and come face-to-face with Tommy was an interesting one. It's pretty tough on everyone, but maybe also necessary for Oskar's own sake. For Tommy, it just seems to have been a reopening of old scars.

[Siggdalos]

PART 6

She took the bottle and Liv's sweater back with her. Found the other bottle lying in the grass and brought it to her mouth. Gagged when she caught the scent. Puked in some bushes and then took the elevator back up. The house lurched and twisted around her like a living thing.

She wasn't sure how long she'd been gone, but it felt as though something in there ought to have changed, that everybody should somehow already know. Nothing had changed. The party went on as usual. Nadine and Adde sat clambering on each other like they'd never done anything else. Andrea felt another wave of nausea fill her mouth when she saw them, but she clenched her teeth and swallowed hard multiple times until it receded. Placed the bottles on the first empty surface she could find, went up and said a bit too loudly into Nadine's ear:

"Dina!"

Nadine separated her mouth from Adde's with a jerk.

"Huh?"
"I'm going home."
"OK!" Nadine said, but her dreamy smile faded in sudden soberness when she saw Andrea's expression. "Wait, hang on. Are you OK, has something happened?"

Andrea shook her head.

"Want me to come with you?" Nadine insisted.

Andrea shot a glance at Adde. He was out of breath and red-faced as though he'd just been interrupted during a marathon and she could clearly see the outline of his hard-on at the front of his jeans. Andrea shook her head again.

"Do what you want."

She went back out. Just before the elevator door closed, Adde came running out and put his hand in to make it glide open again.

"Sorry, but ... where's Liv?" His voice was mumbly, apologetic. It was definitely not he who had made the first move when it came to gluing himself to Nadine.
"She ... went home", Andrea said.

Since she didn't want to look at his face and didn't want to accidentally catch sight of his crotch again, she kept her eyes locked on the elevator buttons. Something pink was protruding into her field of vision. She looked down. Had forgotten she was still holding the hoodie locked under her left arm.

"Why, what happened?" Adde insisted.
"We ... argued."
"Did ... did she try to ...?"
"What the hell is that to you?! Go ask her yourself if you're so fucking curious, you're practically her damn boyfriend!"

It burst out of her without warning, surprised even her, filled the cramped elevator and cut into her ears. Adde's mouth closed. After a moment he let go of the elevator, turned around and went back inside without a word while the door closed in front of Andrea.

* * *

Eli rubbed his hands against his ringing ears. Hadn't expected Tommy to slam the door so loudly. The child upstairs had woken up again and was screaming its head off. Eli turned to Oskar, but he'd already gotten down the flight of stairs and out the front door. Eli hurried after, stopped the door with his hand before it closed. Went past the man in the wig, who stood leaning His shoulder against the exterior wall, inspecting His black nails with a bored expression.

Once and again I attempt to steer them off the path of folly, but do they listen? Non.

Eli didn't pay Him any mind. Oskar stood completely still and facing away under the nearest tree. Eli went up and touched his shoulder, but he pulled away and took several steps further down the sidewalk. Eli let his hand fall. The man came up next to him with His arms behind His back.

Are you acquainted with the tale of Oisín, Élie?
Yes.
Good. Then you know that the hero in question spent years in the land of eternal youth following his enamorment with a beautiful faerie. In defiance of the latter's counsel he ultimately returned to his once-home in the belief that but a brief time had passed since his departure. He found the place irrevocably altered, everyone he had known and loved long since relegated to the gloom of the grave, himself only remembered as a most ancient legend. The moment he alighted from his steed and touched the ground, time caught up with him as well. He aged centuries in a heartbeat and struck the earth as a cloud of dust. Tragique, n'est-ce pas? As a droll coincidence, one can also mention that he, before his unfortunate demise, sired a son by the name of ...
I know what his son was called, Eli interrupted. What's your point?
Là où je veux en venir, said the main, who had now turned around to look up at Tommy's curtained window, is that there was perhaps a lesson to glean from the tale. Granted, that possibility assumes the audience to possess a not altogether defective brain, which by all accounts ought to exclude both you and Ganymède.
Good to hear. Are you finished?
Pour l'heure.
Thanks.

Eli crossed the distance between himself and Oskar, stood in front of him, didn't care that he turned his face away or that he wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

"We can't stay here. Come on."

He grabbed Oskar's hand and yanked him back along the same way they'd originally come, past the rows of cars and bicycles, out of the illuminated street and into the neighboring wood. Oskar's hand tried to slip free, but Eli's grip hardened and forced to keep stumbling along. They kept going over dry ground, under a high green ceiling held up by sparse pillars of pine, through air satured by yellowed needles. Passed the tree in whose branches they'd hid their bags, finally stopped atop the edge of a tall and steep incline. Eli turned around, placed his hands on Oskar's shoulders.

"Look at me."

Oskar reluctantly looked up. His eyes were red but dry.

"You're pissed off at me", Eli said. He didn't wait for a reply, instead continued: "And you're pissed off at Tommy. But most of all"—he let go of Oskar—"you're pissed off at yourself. I mean really furious. Am I right?"

Oskar took the released grip as an excuse to turn his head to the side again.

"... yes", he mumbled.

Eli nodded slowly. Took a deep breath and straightened to his full length, which wasn't saying much.

"Hit me."
"What?" Oskar said and looked up.
"Pretend I'm Tommy. Hit me."

Oskar looked at him for three whole seconds, then shook his head.

"You're crazy."

Eli sighed. Looked at a point above Oskar's head. Then, without warning, his hand flew up and lightly smacked the side of Oskar's head. Oskar started, tried to dodge.

"What're you doing?"

Eli didn't answer, smacked him with his other hand. And again. And again.

"Knock it off!"

Oskar's arms tried to grab hold of Eli's wrists, but Eli twisted out of the grip, pushed his hands up into Oskar's face, pushed and shoved him, and now Oskar finally started replying in kind, shoved him backward and tried to keep Eli's body away from him until Eli's fist shot out and landed a hard, reverberating blow straight across his chin. Something twitched in Oskar's face, and the next moment his body slammed into Eli's belly like a cannonball. They crashed down the slope in a tangle of claws and fangs to the sound of snapping twigs.

* * *

Tommy stood with his hand leaned against the wall in the hallway. Rubbed his itching eyes with his other hand. Took the graph paper down from the shelf where he'd put it, quelled an impulse to crumple it into a ball. The paper bore Oskar's handwriting. And fingerprints. Maybe he ought to ... No. Would have to decide tomorrow.

Ought to cut the bloody thing into pieces, throw it in the trash. Burn it. Forget about it. Tomorrow.

He returned to the kitchen, erected the chair he'd flipped over, pushed in the chair Oskar had sat in. Picked up the knife, weighed the heavy steel in his hand. Considered bringing it along to the bedroom. Keep it within reach. Just to be safe. In case they were stupid enough to come back.

Why would they come back?

He put the knife back in its drawer, stopped. Something was changed. He looked around, couldn't make out what it was. The curtain looked ridiculous hanging that far down. He pulled it up a tad to a more reasonable height, looked around again. It was something else. But what? He stood there for a while, then went to brush his teeth. Only when he stood with the toothbrush inserted into the corner of his mouth in front of the bathroom mirror did it hit him. He spat the toothpaste out, felt it burn his gums when he went back to the kitchen. One of the cabinets above the the countertop, the one that never wanted to close completely, stood a bit more ajar than usual. It was located right next to where Eli's head had been. He opened it wide, looked at the keys he kept hanging on a nail along with small screws, rubber bands, and other odd small items he'd saved "in case they were needed". He checked the keys. No, all of them were there. The cabinet door had slid open slightly, that was all.

He sat on the edge of the bed and was just about to lay down when he realized. He hurried up, opened the cabinet again. He hadn't noticed at first since he never used it, but now he saw. All of the keys were there, except one. The basement key was gone.

* * *

Eli's fingers gently stroked Oskar's forehead, tidied his hair and pushed his bloodied bangs to the side. Oskar put up with it without saying anything.

Five deep furrows were raked straight across Eli's left cheek. A piece of his cheekbone had been exposed deepest down, a sharp white dot in all the darkish red. His nose was broken to the side and his right leg couldn't support his weight. As for Oskar, he felt that his lip had swollen up from all the blows he'd taken and he was bleeding from a deep bite mark on one of his shoulders where part of the shirt's collar had been torn up. He was pretty sure a rib or two had been broken and it hurt when he breathed, so he didn't. His finger bones crackled and groaned when they shrunk back to their usual shape, but compared to the pain in the rest of his body he barely felt it.

Eli leaned his intact cheek on Oskar's shoulder. By this time tomorrow or the night after, everything would have healed. In a week not even the scars would remain.

Oskar felt empty. No, emptied. The throbbing, buzzing pressure that had been building up inside his skull for weeks—months—had been let out. Empty. Nothing more to extract. He thought that he wouldn't be able to get angry even if he tried.

They sat on top of the ancient monument. A large boulder, grayish-green with lichen, balancing on top of three smaller rocks atop a hill carpeted in needles. Through the twigs of the surrounding rowans and firs they could see down to the buildings around the mill a couple tens of meters away. The place was exactly the way Oskar remembered it. He'd played here sometimes when he was little, alone or with his friends. Back when he'd had real friends. Imagined the collection of rocks to be a disguised space ship, or that the small hollow underneath concealed an entrance to an underground world inhabited by trolls. A gateway to something else, whatever it might be. Something that was more than bricks and concrete.

Eli spat out something small and reddish-white on the ground. A tooth that had been knocked loose. Oskar felt the inside of his own mouth with his tongue, found that he had a loose tooth as well, moved it back and forth with his tongue until he could pull it out with his fingers and flick it off. A gaping vacuum in his mouth. He automatically stuck his tongue into the gap, and in the same moment he was six or seven years old again, huddling under the cover in his room in Södersvik, eyes glued to the glass of water next to his bed, telling himself that this time he would stay awake, pretend to sleep under the blanket with his eye cracked slightly open, wanted to see when the tooth fairy arrived even though he knew deep down that it was really only ...

The image dissolved as quickly as it had arrived. He was sitting on a rock in a forest, and the warmth against his shoulder was only Eli. And his parents ...

I have no idea. I don't know, Oskar.

His hand sought Eli's, tangled their fingers together. Eli moved a little at his side and Oskar looked down at him, saw that he wanted to show something. Oskar nodded and bent his head down, allowed Eli to bring his own mouth up to his. The darkness behind his eyelids soon started to move, the boulder disappeared and he fell, fumbled for footing and

*

stumbles over something on the floor while he runs. A stinging, suffocating smell fills his nose, mixes with a scent of human blood that causes his starving mouth to water, but he can't stay, must continue, doesn't stay to examine the face of the person he's just stumbled over, doesn't care who's laying there like a discarded ragdoll. He runs through the corridor, through doors, up stairs, more doors ...

... the images blur together, it all looks the same ...

... a wild animal or hurricane has swept through in front of him, torn wallpapers off walls, crushed furniture and vases, left the servants' bodies in pieces. Everywhere, the same smells well in and fill him, he hears a rising clamor from far away, the rooms and hallways never want to end, he knows he must continue, like a hand pulling at his arm and dragging him along through the destruction until ...

... he comes to a sudden stop on a threshold on the upper floor, as if he's run into a wall, and he realizes that it is the scent of the freshest blood that has drawn him here. The room is a ruin like all the others. The contents of the bookshelf have been heaved out over the floor and a chandelier has been smashed against one of the walls, covered the carpet in thousands of glass shards that glitter orange in the glow dancing in through the large windows along the far wall. A head which Oskar recognizes as that of the funny man stares up at him from the floor, frozen in a surprised expression. The left side of the man's upper body lies a few meters away. The rest of the body in a third spot. The intestines have spilled out like a nest of adders over a painting that has been ripped down from the wall. The picture shows a handsome young man being lifted into the sky by a huge eagle. In one of the painting's corners, a bearded man leans down from the shining clouds to hand the boy a cup of red liquid.

The scent of the funny man's blood is overwhelming, Oskar's stomach screams for food, and it is only what he sees over by the windows that makes him unable to move. The man in the wig stands in front of the panes, facing away from Oskar, watches the pillars of smoke and the swarm of sparks rising toward the dark sky. A din of loud voices from the graveled yard outside. The man turns around. His wig is gone and without it his round, bald head looks tiny. In combination with the winglike robe, the folded neckband, and the skinny legs in tights it makes him look like a human-sized vulture. In his hand he holds a glass filled with blood.

"Élie. Approche-toi."

He stretches out his free hand to Oskar, who feels—feels in his whole body—the memory of the cold iron grip that has so many times yanked him up from the floor like a helpless kitten. He automatically takes a step back.

"Come now, do not be shy", the man says. His voice is soft and completely calm. "My tale is come to an end, I am afraid, and we are both afforded a seat on the first row to witness the downfall."

When Oskar doesn't move, the man lets his hand fall and shrugs. He drinks a little from the glass, then cocks his head to the side and looks at Oskar, his white face blank and expressionless like a theater mask. Oskar hates those blue eyes, doesn't want to look into them, wishes that the man would blink or look away, but it's impossible to tear himself from that yawning gaze. Outside, the smoke and voices rise ever higher.

"You are wondering. My paths of escape lie unobstructed. I could also, if I wished, meet our guests at the gate and treat them the same as I have our friend here. Nevertheless would both options be the end of the comfortable existence I with such considerable effort have arranged for myself. The masquerade is ended, the cup hath run over, and no matter what occurs here tonight, no refuge nor rest shall remain accessible to me. And so I would rather face Thanatos unflinching."

Without warning, one of the window panes explodes. A rock lands on the floor in a shower of shards, and through the hole in the glass the voices and smell of fire well into the room clearer than before. The man doesn't even blink. Holds Oskar nailed in place with his gaze and keeps talking as if nothing's happened, even as smaller rocks follow the first one and pelt the windows with the sound of raindrops on glass.

"Moreover, I am afraid that this world has little more of interest to offer me. To the one that has once sampled the nectar of perfection, only the taste of ashes remains, and when Pygmalion has completed his Galatée, no work attempted by him shall ever achieve the same height again." He pauses. "I speak of you, my friend. My grand œuvre."

As if to prove what he's just said, he empties the glass, makes a grimace of disapproval, and tosses it across the room. It rolls between the shards and comes to a stop next to the funny man's head.

"Merde. He was a faithful servant, but as a last meal he was scarcely satisfactory."

A pounding noise echoes up from the front door. Something heavy is being rammed into the wood again and again.

"As for you, Ganymède", the man says, "disparais et vie, ou reste et meurt. Ça m'est égal. We are finished with each other."

The doors down there give way. Oskar hears the crowd pour into the castle, their steps thunder across the ground floor. The chorus of their anger mixes with shouts of disgust and fear when they see the bodies. Oskar's jaws move and he hears his voice say:

"It's me they're here for. To rescue me."

He can hear how silly it sounds. The man stares at him in surprise and a grimace contorts the red lips the second before the laughter bursts out of his mouth. The laughter is long and shrill. Hysterical. As if he's never heard anything funnier in his entire life. Oskar wants him to stop, but he just continues and continues, sinks onto the carpet on his hands and knees. The voice grows hoarser, hardens, and when it ebbs out an eternity later it sounds more like the barks of an animal than anything human. Standing on all fours, the man looks like a hairless cat trying to cough up a furball. The steps move through the castle, vibrate through walls and floors, louder and louder now.

"Dear child", the man says, giggling, and wipes tears out of his eyes, "do you believe that still? It is for me alone they are here. You are long since dead and forgotten. Mosses carpet your grave. The day they gave you unto me was a relief to them, for it left them one less mouth to feed. To me you have been everything, but to them you are nothing. Rien. Nothing. To them your life will be of scant worth the moment they realize what I have made you."

Oskar has no time to say or think anything more, because any second now the men with torches will round the corner into the corridor and catch sight of him, catch sight of him standing together with the man. Fear of the man's words fills him, yanks him into flight like a hand tugging at his, makes him run like before, run almost without touching the floor, run so that he loses his footing again and the floor dissolves, becomes air, he hears ...

... glass that shatters, he is weightless and shards everywhere, shards beating against his forehead and cutting open his cheeks like ...

... snow that claws him when the wind hurls itself at his face. He sees the light over the snowdrifts as he runs, doesn't need to turn around to know that the pillar of smoke rises above the trees behind his back like a lindworm about to strike. He has run without stopping, his breath dissolves in the wind. In among trees in winter dress standing silent and indifferent, unmoved by the display in the sky. The snow is shallower here and he moves quickly, naked feet on naked roots, through the dark maze, until he suddenly stops in a glade, feels the breath go out of him when the perspectives fall into place and he realizes where he's come. At the same time, everything is all wrong, instead of the slender young linden he's climbed up so many times there is now a towering thick trunk raising its skeletal arms high above his head. The forest around him is heavier, older.

The man's words. How long? How many years?

The closeness is unbearable. He must continue, so he continues. Crashes down the path, sees a huge uprooted tree and thinks "crossbow", feels a fleeting, tingling fear shoot up through his feet and legs when he flies past a crevice of large rocks, past dead aspens, and finally out past two boulders that have been turned to snowmen in the cold. He follows the stream, a gushing black wound slashed through all the white, and up there it finally lies, and as soon as he catches sight of it he feels the thought, it shakes through his body like a cannon detonation and makes him stop abruptly in the ankle-deep snow. The thought is: "Home".

His heart contracts, painfully, when he sees the ridge of the roof, the splintery walls, the surrounding earth's familiar forms. So long. So many times he's pictured it. He wants to rush ahead, he wants to look at it like this, be close and stay put at the same time.

But the more he looks, the more errors he discovers. The roundpole fence looks newer and has changed shape, some of the trees that are supposed to be there and make up the edge of the forest wall have been replaced with stumps, and all of a sudden he knows: here lives nothing but strangers.

How long? How many years?

The same fear he felt in the castle at the man's parting words fills him again, seeps deeper inside now, jolts all the way out into every fingertip and hair strand. Everything he's done. Everything he is. Will they even recognize him? Will they even remember him? Do they even want him back?

Is any of them still alive? In the castle he's seen time wear out and wither the servants apart one after another, even those that have not been taken prematurely by disease or the whims of their employer. The young have become old, the old have become older, the older ones have died, all while he and the lord of the castle have remained exactly the same. Why should the world out here be any different?

He knows nothing about the world out here.

The linden tree in the glade. During all the years it's been growing they must've known where he was. And yet they never lifted a finger to get him back. Never.

And now? If they saw him now?

"... the moment they realize what I have made you."

His stomach rumbles.

A monster. Undesired, uninvited. Buried and forgotten. A ghast. Nothing more.

The memory flickers, and what must be hours hurl themselves past like seconds while Oskar stands motionless, torn between emotions, until the moon breaks out of the clouds and blinds him. He stands illuminated out on the snow, naked and visible, and he realizes that he's long since made his choice, he simply doesn't want to tear his eyes away from the place where he belonged in another life. But no one can be allowed to see him. No one can find out that he's here. He turns around and flees back through his own footsteps to the edge of the forest. When he's gotten a bit into the gloom he stops, glances over his shoulder, throws a last brief look at the cottage in a gap between the trunks. Untouched, unspoiled. That's how he wants to remember it.

Then the hand in his hand gives a jerk, turns his head back to the path that's his to find. He disappears into the dark and all turns to winter mist.

*

A cool wind set the pine canopy aripple.

For a long time they sat still, held each other tightly while skin and tissue slowly knitted itself back together and smothered their wounds. Oskar didn't need to ask. He already understood the answer.

Do you regret that you didn't ...?
I've never stopped regretting it.

The morning wasn't many hours away. Eli said:

"I'm sorry I made Tommy angry."
"It doesn't matter. It would've turned out the same anyway."
"Maybe it would've been better if you'd gone alone."
"No." Oskar closed his eyes, leaned his forehead against Eli's shoulder. "I can't do this without you."

Eli didn't answer, simply placed a hand on the back of Oskar's head and dug his fingers into his hair.

After they'd slipped down from the boulder, they picked up their knocked-out teeth and walked a bit in among the trees, buried them between two fir roots. Made sure to pick a spot that was well-concealed under a bush, where no one would ever think to look. Then they left, with Eli limping and leaning on Oskar's shoulder.

* * *

Liv had a strategy she turned to when she couldn't sleep. Instead of uselessly turning back and forth on the mattress she would sit by her PC, arbitrarily pick one of the news sites, then read every word in every article one after another until she was so bored that her eyelids started fluttering on their own.

It wasn't always it worked, but right now it at least helped in the sense that it partially drowned out her thoughts.

She wiped the corner of her eye with her hand, tried to force herself to concentrate on what was in front of her. Tonight it happened to be the Expressen's home page. Kristallen awards, an old children's show host who'd died, infighting in the Christian Democrats, flooding in Skåne, crisis in Ukraine, Armed Forces on high alert.

Ukraine Crimea Russia Siskov her her face her motions disgust why why why did I do it like that

Her right hand clenched automatically, but she managed to restrain the impulse to hit herself in the head. Had done it enough already, still had a headache. She wiped her eyes again, shot a glance at her phone. Adrian had texted earlier and asked if she was alright. She hadn't had the energy to explain, had replied yes just to keep him from worrying.

She left the article, did an election compass instead. She wouldn't get to vote until 2018 and already knew more or less what she was going to vote for then, so it felt just distractingly pointless enough.

A light knock on the door. It opened slightly and her ten-year-old little brother poked his nose in, asked in a quiet voice so that their parents wouldn't hear:

"You awake?"
"No, I'm asleep."

Liv was aware of the fact that her red eyes probably showed clearly in the cold light from the screen.

"What's wrong?"
"Ska du give fanden i."

Rasmus stayed where he was for a second, then closed the door behind him, snuck in, and sat on the edge of her bed, wrapped in a thin cover he must've brought with him from his own bed.

"Is it about a girl?"

Liv stared at the screen without answering.

"OK, it's about a girl."
"Is this a fucking interrogation or what? Get lost."
"Can't sleep."
"Missing the part where that's my problem."
"What was that noise earlier?"

Shortly after Liv had gotten home and locked herself in her room to cry, a loud bang from the floor below had shook through the house, followed by a second even louder one not long thereafter. The baby in the apartment next door had yelled for a quarter of an hour afterward.

"I don't know. Can you leave?"

Rasmus looked at his bare feet where they stuck out of the bottom fold of the blanket.

"Can't you ... tell me about something?"

It got quiet for a second. Then Liv let out a deep sigh, turned around in her chair and looked at her brother.

"Maybe I don't feel like it."
"OK", Rasmus said. He shrugged and started to stand up. "I was just thinking ..."
"Thinking what?"
"No, I dunno."

Liv shaped her mouth into a thin line, sighed again, and said:

"Äh. Fine."

She got up from the chair and slumped down on the bed next to him.

"Ever heard about when Blackan was full of cats?"

He shook his head, and she started telling him about how, during a couple years in the eighties, the woods around Blackeberg had been teeming with half-feral cats. Inbred and deformed ones to boot, which sounded like a made-up detail but was completely true as far as she had read. Packs of them could be seen lazing about in the parks, lurking under bridges, begging for scraps of food from the junkies in the main square. It had taken several years before the people in charge got control of the situation, after constant complaints from pet owners who could no longer let their own cats out and from nature conservation groups who pointed out the devastating effect on bird populations in Grimsta and Judarn. All this she told him. Rasmus absorbed every word.

When he was little, Liv had often read aloud to him from books about Alfie Atkins, Bruno Beaver, Little Spook Laban. Rasmus hadn't had anything against Mom or Dad reading, but if he got to choose he always chose his big sister. When there was something he wondered—like what to do if he fell into quicksand or if that stuff about the Bermuda Triangle was true—it was always his sister he turned to with his questions. When she talked to him now, she felt herself—as always—falling back into the comforting old habit, and when she rounded off her story with the rumor that a pack of feral cats had killed and eaten a Cocker Spaniel over by the kennel in '83 and that one could still sometimes catch a glimpse of their descendants roaming the rooftops or down in certain basements, she realized that she felt a little better. Not well. But better.

"Damn, that's cool", Rasmus said and smiled in a way that didn't look all that genuine. Liv looked at him.

The little bastard knew exactly what he was doing.

"Have I ever told you that you're too smart for your own good?"

Rasmus shrugged.

"Well, I ... learned from the pros."

She felt a wave of affection and before he had time to escape she trapped him in a bear hug of a sort she hadn't given him for ages, ignored his grossed-out protests. She mussed his hair and let him go, they said good night, and he shuffled out with the blanket around him back to his own room.

Liv stayed seated, felt how her mood which had buoyed a couple centimeters up through her body slowly sank back into the dark as the thoughts of Andrea started streaming back into her skull and pushing down from above. She wasn't much sleepier than she'd been when her brother had come in, so she sat down at the PC again. Finished the election compass, got the expected result, returned to the Expressen's home page. Clickbait and trashy articles about C-list celebrities and dieting. Her cursor was halfway to the cross in the upper right when a side notice caught her eye.

Footage of mysterious Alpine beings confounds viewers

She read the words again. Clicked. The short article was about how the summer had seen the appearance of multiple independent videos, photographs, and testimonies of humanlike figures that had been glimpsed flying around the mountains of southern Switzerland and northern Italy at night. Not exactly big news—it wasn't like there was an article every time someone claimed to have snapped a picture of a chupacabra—but apparently the videos had gone a bit viral in Switzerland lately, gotten many thousands of views and created an online debate about whether or not they were real.

The article was crowned by a paused frame from one of the videos. It was blurry, heavily zoomed in, and largely composed of gray, but clearly showed a pale human figure with long black hair and some kind of ... something suspended between the arms and a bare chest, stretched out in mid-air against a backdrop of dark mountain massif. It didn't look all that convincing, but something about it still caused the hair on Liv's arms to stand up.

She skimmed through the article, found links to two of the original YouTube videos, even if the text mentioned that there were more. They had been uploaded by different channels on different dates, but both were from June and had titles and descriptions in German. They seemed to have been recorded in different locations based on the landscapes, but both nonetheless showed roughly the same thing: that flying figure plus another nearly identical one, soaring together through the air between the peaks, diving and rolling and doing what seemed to be various tricks. In both videos the figures were far away from the camera, periodically shrank to little more than smudges of white pixels, only to periodically come closer and become more clearly visible again. The longer of the two videos included parts where the uploader talked to the camera about what he'd experienced, and in the description he asked people (as far as she could tell using the translation software) to suggest explanations for what he'd seen, since he himself was unsure.

The comments (mostly in German and English) were filled with theories. Wingsuits, CGI, aliens, slightly strange-looking wingsuits, Mothman, a viral marketing campaign, very strange-looking wingsuits. The recommendations included more videos about the same phenomenon. A term, apparently the commonly-accepted name for the figures, appeared time and again in titles and comments: Alpen-Engel or angeli delle Alpi. She googled the words, got served up news articles and forum threads, realized that here was a rabbit hole she could get stuck in all night if she wanted to. She did not want to. She returned to the tab with the original picture. Stared at it for a long time, felt the same bottomless unease as before. The body shape. The hair. What little could be gleaned from the pixels of a ... face?

Something warm ran from her nose. She looked down and saw a red droplet hit the keyboard. Cursed and grabbed two tissues from the nightstand, did her best to wipe the blood off the keys with one while she pushed the other into her nostril with practiced motions. Two vivid thoughts ran simultaneously through her head while she leaned her neck back and closed her eyes.

The first was that she knew where she'd seen the Angel of the Alps before.

The second was an expression that had stayed embedded in her skull ever since she'd first heard the long version of it: If it isn't one thing it's the other, said the girl with a nosebleed.

[metoo]

Many loose ends twisting around each other seeking their ties.
Good!