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  STALLO

  A Supernatural Thriller

  STEFAN SPJUT

  Translated from the Swedish

  by Susan Beard

  Stallo

  Contents

  Title Page

  Map

  The worm glued to the tarmac is as long as a snake. No, longer…

  Because the first news picture of Magnus Brodin, carried in the…

  She drove through intervals of snow, particles streaming fast in…

  It had been snowing all morning. It fell and fell in thick masses,…

  They plodded through snow a metre deep. Susso glanced towards…

  Seved had driven the tractor into the barn and switched off the…

  It got to be four o’clock, then five and then five thirty, and still …

  Cecilia was sitting in a corner of the sofa wearing jogging pants…

  After he had replaced the receiver on the wall he remained standing…

  The long hours of daylight that fortify us and the unyielding…

  The icy wind whipped in grainy blasts along Adolf Hedingsvägen…

  Seved stood on the veranda with his hands in the pockets of…

  It had been dark for a long time when the dogs started barking…

  The water that flowed through the heating system in Susso’s flat…

  It had taken Seved just over an hour to drive to Arvidsjaur and…

  In the evening Susso and Gudrun drove to the supermarket, a…

  The road to Ammarnäs was unlit. There was only the glimmer…

  With her hat pulled down over her forehead, Susso walked home…

  It seemed the lemming shapeshifters had been useful after all…

  Susso’s sleep was more like a hibernation, with intermittent explosions…

  There was a news programme on the television. Some social…

  When Susso entered the kitchen Gudrun was standing with her…

  Seved knew he would never be able to snatch a child. It would be…

  An aroma of coffee and cardamom met Susso as she walked into…

  It was not even half past five in the morning when Seved was…

  ‘A week or so ago’, said Susso in a low voice, ‘I got an email from…

  The snowsuit stood out like a red dot against the piles of snow…

  Torbjörn sat up, reached out his slim arm and pulled the pizza box…

  The boy was dressed in his outdoor clothes and holding the…

  Susso told me to put on teletext, and when I didn’t do as she said…

  The squeaking from the metal springs hurt Seved’s ears but it was…

  I had been sitting so long at the laptop that I had given myself…

  ‘Are you making a grotto?’…

  The police station in Jokkmokk was a yellow wooden two-storey…

  Seved recognised the little man immediately…

  Torbjörn stood holding the coffee-filled glasses, glaring at the…

  He tugged at the padlock a couple of times before returning to…

  They had decided to meet Magnus Ekelund at a pizzeria called…

  Jirvin had come out of the barn and was standing there in his…

  ‘This is Anette,’ said Magnus with a grin. ‘My mum.’…

  Ivan Wikström was the name of the plain-clothes police officer…

  After Magnus and his mother had left, Susso and Torbjörn stayed…

  Detective Chief Inspector Ivan Wikström put the small bundle…

  Edit Mickelsson was sitting in the kitchen in front of her laptop…

  Getting the foxshifter into the car was easy. Like an obedient dog…

  ‘You going up to Riksgränsen for Christmas?’ Susso stared at the…

  For the last ten kilometres or so Jirvin had been talking to himself…

  They had pulled in at the Statoil filling station in Gällivare. Susso…

  Seved took a dish from the washing-up rack, put it on the table…

  Sigrid Muotka tentatively felt a bag of walnut kernels. She…

  The Vaikijaur man is not a man. At least, not if you believe cryptozoologist…

  Lennart sat with the open newspaper in front of him, staring at…

  One evening at the beginning of the new year I was sitting in the…

  Lars Nilsson had cut out the Norrländskan interview with Susso…

  The sound of a television was coming from the upstairs landing…

  ‘If it’s true he’s been living with those Laestadians in Årrenjarka,’…

  First there was barking. Then beams of light…

  The sky was layered. Dark blue highest up, then greenish-yellow,…

  The police arrived at Holmajärvi only thirty minutes after Susso…

  It was morning, bitterly cold with a high, cloudless sky, and Seved…

  Susso sat in Torbjörn’s kitchen reading the newspaper. Torbjörn…

  Seved and Signe were building with Duplo bricks at the kitchen…

  Torbjörn must have been standing waiting in the entrance hall…

  It was not only the fact that Susso Myrén was still alive. The…

  They slept late and then ate breakfast sitting at the same table as…

  Seved stood with the red bucket in his hand, looking into the…

  The village where Mats Ingvar lived was about twenty kilometres …

  Animals were not allowed in the hostel, Seved was pretty sure…

  Mats had recommended the Mas Grill when they asked him if…

  Did it get into his mind? Could it really radiate that far?…

  They had taken the left exit at the roundabout south of Gränna…

  The shop was empty when Seved arrived. A woman was sitting…

  Susso had wandered off towards the pasture in protest. She was…

  Subdued music met Seved as he opened the door. Pan pipes, he…

  They found themselves on the outskirts of Mjölby. Swollen…

  Seved was sitting in his shirt and underpants, eating a meal he…

  It was nine by the time they stepped out of the car, stiff and tired…

  The phone had started ringing as soon as I had put the tray on the…

  The dark-red mobile swivelled and buzzed on the table…

  Tessin Park was ringed by tall chestnut trees with spreading black…

  Seved was aware that the old-timers could know things, that they…

  Fortunately the window in Sven Jerring’s old bedroom was slightly…

  Börje had left the kitchen and stamped up the stairs. Seved usually…

  ‘Why don’t we go there?’ Gudrun suggested. ‘To Magnus’s mother?’…

  Its eyes shone like small peppercorns and its mouth was wide…

  Susso had pulled out the yellowing newspaper articles and spread…

  At first Seved thought it was the boy standing at the top of the…

  I was scared to death of meeting Mona Brodin. I imagined a…

  He greeted them by imperceptibly lifting his chin, and when…

  In among the fir trees a stone’s throw behind Hybblet there was a…

  It was big. So big the Passat dipped as it leaned against it. It had…

  When Seved carried the petrol can out of the barn and hurried

  When the troll threw itself at Susso, when it wrapped its long…

  ‘Karats is dead,’ Börje said…

  Torbjörn turned on his phone and held the screen towards them…

  Tracks from paws of various shapes and sizes criss-crossed the…

  Mona had been staying the night with friends in Sundbyberg and…

  Seved was lying in bed fully dressed, and he could hardly breathe…

  It took time to find a garage that could repair the car window…

  H
e trudged on through the thin light of daybreak. The snow had…

  They had left the E4 at Luleå and driven in the direction of…

  It took them almost an hour to get down to the house and it was…

  Inger and Yngve Fredén told them the troll had been with them…

  He could not sleep, of course, but it was not the fear of being…

  Inger and Yngve Fredén said they were relieved the giant had gone…

  The tunnel was a black rectangle in the far wall and Seved thought…

  Ulf Eskilsson sat in his car with his elbows resting heavily on his…

  They were sitting leaning against the wall on either side of the…

  The snow fell thicker and thicker, and they drove as fast as they…

  The smoke had intensified in the tunnel and now their eyes…

  Amid the smoke from the blaze Susso went through corridors…

  I had parked outside Randolf Hedman’s house in Sorsele, but…

  There was a shower fitting in the room and a brittle, plastic shower…

  From his closed fingers it looked as if Lars Nilsson wondered…

  Towards the end of February we decided to arrange a presentation…

  About the Author

  Copyright

  The worm glued to the tarmac is as long as a snake. No, longer. It reaches all the way to the grass verge beside the main road. The boy’s eyes follow the slimy ribbon and notice that it stretches across the ditch and curls into the belly of a grey animal. A badger. Dead but still looking. Its eyes are black glass and one paw has stiffened in a wave.

  The car door opens and his mother calls, but he cannot tear himself away from the animal.

  Then she gets out.

  She stands beside the boy. Wrinkles her nose so her glasses ride up.

  ‘It’s been run over,’ she says.

  ‘But why does it look like that?’

  ‘Those are intestines. A bird pulled them out. Or some other animal.’

  He wants to know which bird, which animal.

  ‘Come on now,’ she says.

  ‘But I haven’t peed yet.’

  ‘Well, do it then.’

  *

  He presses his cheek against the window but the pine trees are so tall he can hardly see where they end. His knees are gripping a large Fanta bottle and from time to time he blows into the neck. The glass is warm and the last few mouthfuls have also been warm. They have been driving for almost three hours, and he has never travelled for such a long time in a car before.

  When they stop he does not understand that they have arrived, because they are right in the middle of the forest. There is no sign of a cabin. Only trees.

  ‘Are we there?’ he asks.

  His mother sits motionless for a while, lost in her thoughts, before pulling the key from the ignition and climbing out. She opens his door.

  It is as if the mosquitoes have been waiting for him. They come from all directions and land on him in such a teeming mass that his legs look mottled. He makes no attempt to brush them away but instead stiffens and lets out a plaintive yell.

  His mother heaves the bag onto the bonnet and finds a bath towel, which she wraps around him like a cape. After she has tied it round his neck she starts running, with the bag in one hand and the plastic carrier from the supermarket in the other. She leaves a kind of furrow behind her in the long grass. She is wearing a short-sleeved top in green velour, and an oblong-shaped sweat mark is spreading out between her shoulder blades. Her flared jeans flap around her ankles.

  He follows after her and the little figures in his backpack rattle inside their plastic box. He holds the shoulder strap with one hand and uses the other to grip the towel to stop it from flying away. Running is difficult and soon his mother’s back disappears in the dense greenery in front of him. He calls out to her to wait, but she carries on, calling over her shoulder for him to hurry up.

  The ferns have formed tight, thick clumps, and beyond them the fir trees tower above the pitch-black ground. All around him the spiky stalks of the grass hum and tick with insects, and his cloak flies behind him as he runs.

  *

  The forest is a silent reflection on the windowpanes. Pine cones, thin twigs and drifts of old pine needles are piled up on the metal roof. The fir trees sway high above against a sky that has grown pale.

  His mother has reached the door. Pulling a face she leans forwards, feeling under a windowsill.

  ‘Oh, please,’ she says, bending up the metal and forcing her fingers underneath while blowing puffs of air to each side to keep the mosquitoes away.

  The boy has untied the towel and pulled it up over his head like a headscarf. He spins around in pirouettes and his trainers thump on the veranda. Grass has grown up in places between the planks, and he stamps it under his feet. There is an ashtray filled with water resting on the wooden railing, and a fly is floating on the surface. Or could it be a beetle? All he can see are crooked legs sticking out. But when he looks closer he notices more insects. The water is thick with them. It looks like a disgusting soup, the kind witches make.

  His mother has knelt down and is trying to look under the windowsill.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ she says.

  Then she starts hunting in the grass below the window.

  The boy watches her for a while. Then he tries the door handle.

  ‘Mummy,’ he says, ‘it’s open.’

  *

  She pushes him in front of her, lifts in their luggage and slams the door shut behind them. The boy stands in front of a wall hanging of dark swirls and hard, staring eyes and he wonders what it is supposed to be. An owl? Then he gets another push from the hand holding the plastic bag. The bag is cold from the milk cartons at the bottom.

  ‘In with you then!’

  The words leave his mother’s mouth and seem to fasten in something inside, a web left behind by the silence that has reigned for so long inside the cabin. The boy feels it and is hesitant. He would prefer to stand where he is for a while.

  ‘Go in!’

  With wary eyes he walks inside and looks around.

  The walls are covered in unpainted pine panelling below and woven wallpaper above. Small pictures and copper pans hang here and there. Through a door he sees a bunk bed with fringed bed-spreads. He peers in. The room is very small. Beside the bed is a stool with a book on top of it. Outside the window stands a tree. Its pointed leaves almost touch the windowpane.

  He lays his rucksack on the kitchen table, unzips it and takes out the plastic box. It is an old ice cream container with BIG PACK written on a wrinkled label on the lid. Carefully he pulls off the elastic band because he knows it might snap, then tips the figures out onto the table. The ones that came free in boxes of biscuits are all tangled up as if to show they belong together. He also has Smurfs. A hippopotamus with a gaping mouth. A gorilla beating its chest. A galloping horse unable to stand up. A man who is sitting down. He is blue all over, even his head.

  Opposite the wood-burning stove is a little sofa, and he sits down on it with a Smurf in each hand. A floor lamp with a pleated shade leans over him. There is no light bulb in it, only a gaping hole. They have borrowed the cabin from someone his mother works with, and the boy wonders why the owner has not put in a bulb. Perhaps for the same reason that there is no television.

  He runs his hands over the sofa’s upholstery, which is mustard yellow and knobbly. He knows if you play about wildly in a sofa like this you can burn yourself.

  There is a small kitchen area, and he walks over to look. The fridge is so small he has to bend down to open it. It is empty inside; no light comes on and it does not even feel cold. He has to push the door firmly to make sure it stays shut. The wall above the draining board has the same cork covering as the floor – reddish brown with a hexagonal pattern.

  There is a string of plastic garlic hanging from a nail. He points at it and asks if he can take it down, and she says he can. By climbing on a stool he can
get onto the draining board and reach the garlic. Not that he can do much with it, but it is only pretend anyway. He pinches the stiff plastic leaves, testing to see how well they are attached, while his mother walks around opening cupboards and drawers. She opens the fridge too, and shuts it again.

  The boy says there is floor on the walls.

  ‘Yes,’ she sighs. ‘And walls on the floor.’

  *

  His mother brings in flowers, a large bunch, which she pushes into a vase and places on the table. They have a powerful, spicy fragrance and are called camomile. The boy notices that the white petals are covered in tiny, tiny insects, but she tells him not to mind. Some of them fall like snow onto the table, and so that he can see them against the grain of the wood he has to lower his head and look closely. The creatures are in a hurry and know exactly where they want to go. He tries to stop them and make them change direction, but he fails.

  ‘Do you know how small these insects are?’ he says.

  ‘I’m sure they’re minutely small.’

  ‘They are so small they die when I touch them.’

  *

  Later that evening they lie on the bunk bed under a quilt patterned with huge fantasy flowers and spiralling stems. They have fitted an insect screen to the window and the whole cabin echoes to the chirping of grasshoppers.

  ‘Listen,’ she whispers, her lips against his hair. ‘It sounds as if they are indoors, don’t you think? As if they are here, in the cabin, playing for us. Under the bed perhaps?’

  The boy nods and asks about the shielings she had been talking about in the car.

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘In the forest.’

  ‘Can we go there?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Can we?’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  *

  In the early morning the rain comes and does not stop. The raindrops are hitting the ashtray on the veranda rail so hard that the water looks as if it is boiling. Now the witch is cooking her soup, he thinks. The wooden seat of his chair is cold and he crouches on it, pulling his sweatshirt over his knees. He is waiting for breakfast. Once more he asks about the huts. Are they far away?

  ‘We’ll do it another day,’ she says.

  He protests loudly and is told they have no rain clothes with them. That disappoints him and he complains. He has his boots, after all. He whines until she strokes his hair.