Stalker. Ларс Кеплер

heavy eyelids close once more.

      ‘Are you looking at the house now?’

      Björn is standing in the cool night air in front of his house. A strange glow is lighting up the sky in time with the slow rhythm of his heartbeat. It looks like the house is leaning forward as the light expands and the shadows withdraw.

      ‘It’s moving,’ he says almost inaudibly.

      ‘Now you’re walking up to the door,’ Erik says. ‘The night air is mild, there’s nothing unpleasant …’

      Björn starts as some jackdaws fly up from a tree. They’re visible against the sky, their shadows move across the grass, and then they’re gone.

      ‘You’re perfectly safe,’ Erik says as he sees Björn’s hand move anxiously over the seat of the sofa.

       15

      Deep in his trance, Björn slowly approaches the door. He keeps to the stone path, but something about the black shimmer of the window catches his attention.

      ‘You’ve reached the door, you take your key out and put it in the lock,’ Erik says.

      Björn carefully pushes the handle, but the door is stuck. He tries harder, and there’s a sticky sound when it eventually opens.

      Erik sees that Björn’s brow is sweating, and repeats in a soothing voice that there’s nothing to be scared of.

      Björn tries to open his eyes and whisper something. Erik leans forward, and feels his breath against his ear.

      ‘The doorstep … something odd about it …’

      ‘Yes, this doorstep has always been odd,’ Erik replies calmly. ‘But once you’ve crossed it, everything will be just as it was on Friday.’

      Erik notes that the whole of Björn’s face is covered with a sheen of sweat as his chin begins to tremble.

      ‘No, no,’ he whispers, shaking his head.

      Erik realises that he needs to put him in deeper hypnosis if he’s to be able to enter the house.

      ‘All you have to do now is listen to my voice,’ Erik says. ‘Because soon you’ll be in an even more relaxed state, and there’s nothing to be worried about there … You’re sinking deeper as I count: four … you’re sinking, three … getting calmer, two … one, and now you’re completely relaxed, and can see that the doorstep isn’t any sort of barrier …’

      Björn’s face is slack, his mouth is hanging open, one corner wet with saliva: he’s in a deeper state of hypnosis than Erik had intended.

      ‘If you feel ready, you can … cross the threshold now.’

      Björn doesn’t want to, he’s thinking that he doesn’t want to, but he still takes a step into the hall. His looks along the corridor towards the kitchen. Everything is the same as usual, there’s an advertisement from Bauhaus on the doormat, too many shoes piled up on the shoe-rack, the umbrella that always falls over does so again, and his keys jangle as he puts them on the chest of drawers.

      ‘Everything is the same as usual,’ he whispers. ‘The same as …’

      He falls silent when he notices a strange, rolling movement from the corner of his eye. He daren’t turn to look in that direction, and stares straight ahead while something moves at the edge of his field of vision.

      ‘There’s something strange … off to the side … I …’

      ‘What did you say?’ Erik asks.

      ‘It’s moving, off to the side …’

      ‘OK, just let it go,’ Erik replies. ‘Look straight ahead and keep going.’

      Björn walks through the hall, but his eyes keep getting drawn to the side, towards the clothes hanging in the porch. They’re moving slowly in the gloom, as if a wind were blowing through the house. The sleeves of Susanna’s trenchcoat lift in a gust, then fall back.

      ‘Look ahead of you,’ Erik says.

      Someone suffering mental trauma experiences a chaotic jumble of memories that press in on them from all sides: they lose all coherence, fade away and lurch into view, all mixed up.

      All Erik can do is try to lead Björn through the rooms, towards the fundamental insight that he couldn’t have prevented his wife’s death.

      ‘I’m in the kitchen now,’ he whispers.

      ‘Keep going,’ Erik says.

      There’s a bag of newspapers for recycling in the passageway leading to the door of the cellar. Björn takes a cautious step forward, looking straight ahead, but he still sees a kitchen drawer slide open, and it rattles when it comes to a halt.

      ‘One drawer is open,’ he mutters.

      ‘Which one?’

      Björn knows it’s the drawer containing the knives, and he knows that he’s the one opening it, seeing as he washed a large knife several hours earlier.

      ‘Oh, God … I can’t … I …’

      ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of, you’re safe, and I’ll be with you as you go further in.’

      ‘I’m walking past the door to the cellar, towards the living room … Susanna must have gone to bed already …’

      It’s quiet, the television is switched off, but something’s different, the furniture seems to be in the wrong places, as if a giant had picked the house up and given it a gentle shake.

      ‘Sanna?’ Björn whispers.

      He reaches out his hand towards the light switch. The room doesn’t light up, but the glow fills the windows that look out onto the garden. He can’t help thinking he’s being watched, and feels an urge to close the curtains.

      ‘God, oh God, oh God,’ he suddenly whimpers, his face trembling.

      Erik realises that Björn is there now, in the midst of his memory of the traumatic event, but he’s barely describing anything, he’s keeping it to himself.

      Björn is getting closer, sees himself in the black window, sees the bushes outside move in the wind, far beyond the reflections.

      He’s gasping even though he’s under deep hypnosis, his body tenses and his back arches.

      ‘What’s happening?’ Erik asks.

      Björn stops when he sees someone with a dark grey face looking back at him in the window. Right next to the glass. He takes a step back and feels his heart pounding hard in his chest. A branch of the rosebush sways and scrapes the window ledge. He realises that the grey face isn’t outside. There’s someone sitting on the floor in front of the window. He can see their reflection.

      A calm voice repeats that there’s nothing to be scared of.

      He moves to the side and realises that it’s Susanna. She’s sitting on the floor in front of the window.

      ‘Sanna?’ he says quietly, so as not to startle her.

      He can see her shoulder, some of her hair. She’s leaning back against an armchair, looking out. He approaches cautiously and feels that the floor is wet beneath his feet.

      ‘She’s sitting down,’ he mutters.

      ‘She’s sitting?’

      Björn goes closer to the armchair by the window, and then the light in the ceiling comes on and the room is bathed in light. He knows he switched it on, but is still frightened when the bright light fills the room.

      There’s blood everywhere.

      He’s trodden