The Guest

Her neighbourhood, in the suburban area of Paris, is noisy and grey. The streets are named after Bolshevik writers and poets, a remnant of the town's communist history. A disfigured fig tree grows on a narrow street next to her building, its branches growing over the garden wall, and in Summer rotten figs fall inside the courtyard, small and malnourished, starved for sunlight and the South's winds. She walks along the street with the fig tree to buy groceries, she likes the fig tree which seems familiar looking and comforting even though she is not from the South. In the morning she buys a loaf of bread and oily chocolate donuts she likes to eat on the way home. She could take the route to the grocers with her eyes closed, and feels she knows each cramped streets, the scrawny little trees scattered here and there, and the curious stacking of the buildings and houses, making the town look like an overgrown and jumbled village. She likes all of this familiarity thrives on it, and she does not tolerate alterations to her routines without annoyance.

The studio apartment is small and bright, with large windows framed by white and pale pink curtains. A neatly made bed sits in the corner, partially hidden behind a cheap looking set of bookshelves. When lying on the bed, she can see the room behind the books and trinkets on the shelves: a small sofa, a table with two chairs, a bowl of fruit on the kitchen countertop. The sofa is covered with mismatched pillows. The kitchen tile is yellow, the fridge is tall and wide. She lives alone, so it's often half empty, but it helps to know that there is room for abundance.

The room is not luxurious, but it is hers and exactly as she wants it. She owns the blanket on the sofa, the plush Moroccan rug, the many pillows on the bed which are hers, and only hers, to rest upon. She has her favourite cup for tea, round and blue. She has a pen next to her bed, a notebook, and when she cannot sleep, she writes.

Her work is meaningless but harmless, only alienates a little and allows her to sit behind a desk. When the sun shines she eats at the nearby park, if it rains she eats in the company restaurant. The salary is enough for her lifestyle. She likes her job, she feels it gives purpose to her day, and leaves her dignity intact. Every morning she leaves at 7:30 to be in for 8; she leaves early, at 4:30and is home by 5She takes a long proprietorial look at the studio flat, illuminated by the late afternoon light, all clear colours and soft fabrics. This is her favourite moment of the day, seeing how her beautiful home remains unchanged.

***

            On Friday evening, she stops into the grocers, to buy breakfast for the weekend. She likes to cook on Saturdays, and often bakes cake or bread. There is nothing she likes more than the smell of fresh baked bread wafting from her oven. She thinks it makes the apartment building less a cold row of doors and more a home. She buys ingredients for potato and leek soup, chicken with olive sauce and lemon butter sole. The intimate luxury of cooking for herself fills her with contentment. The sole she will get fresh tomorrow morning from the fishmonger, the chicken is for tonight. She buys bread and butter and eggs, strawberries and heavy cream. Returning home, she starts cooking up her chicken as the setting sun floods her room with evening light. Fridays evenings are her favourite days. She puts a record on the player. Her mind is free of fear, her senses are unchallenged by loud or brutal people. Everything is arranged to shelter and protect her. She is happy and calm and when it’s ready sits down to eat her meal. She decides to save the strawberries and cream for tomorrow’s lunch, after the sole. She goes to bed alone and satisfied.

Later that night she hears the noise. At first so soft and delicate she does not realise someone is knocking at her door. As she emerges from her slumber the knock becomes present. The room seems too dark for someone to conceivably be knocking at her door. She is safe behind two locks, secured, a chain, and so the knocking, so faint as she drifts back into sleep does not bother her. She imagines this disembodied hand, knuckles folded, tapping at the wood, a strange image to imagine, but no sooner has the thought occurred to her than she slips back into sleep.

She wakes to find a man sitting on her sofa.

She feels him, not knowing what he is, before she sees him. She opens her eyes and closes them immediately. She must be dreaming. She has to close her eyes and fall asleep again to make him go away. It is so unimaginable that there is someone on her sofa, that she cannot think of the questions she is supposed to ask herself (Who is he? How did he get in?), she can only think that this is not real. She peeks again and he is still here, sitting on the sofa, his face turned away from her. His feet are on the rug. He’s wearing boots. Her eyes are barely open, so he does not notice she is looking, but it hardly seems to matter; he does not seem to care about her presence. Her phone is on the countertop, her keys are on the table. She has to get up and run, open the door and scream while banging on the doors. She knows this is the time, he is not looking at her and it will take him time to realise what’s happening, and by the time he realises she’ll be gone. She has to get out now. Her heart is pounding in her jaw as she prepares to jump from the bed and run toward the door. She counts: one, two, three. Many seconds after and she has not moved. Her muscles refuse to follow her commands. and her legs are like stones. She lies paralysed, looking at this strange figure sitting on her sofa.

He is tall, with greying blond hair slicked back with wax. He does not look dishevelled, like a vagrant, the kind of man in desperate need of shelter. He looks like someone she would sit next to on the metro and look at from the corner of her eye; normal, even handsome. And yet she is sure he is a monster, because he is here. She is scared of him like she has never been of anything before, all of her fears seem childish, now that the worst is here. She is angry at herself, frustrated by her paralysis. It is her own fault her suffering must go on.

He does not move. She thinks: this is a nightmare, this is a horror film, this is not my life. She wants to call her mother and cry; she has never felt more alone in all her life.

Time passes. The apartment is bright with afternoon. She has never missed a day of work and she thinks maybe if she waits long enough they will call and when there is no answer they will come; they have my address, she thinks, they will worry, think I am dead on the floor eaten by cats; today they will come and when they come and knock I will be able to scream or stand up and run to the door; I will be saved. She is also aware that the man has not moved since he arrived. He has not risen from the sofa, used the toilet or eaten, she thinks he could be dead, and the idea fills her with terror greater than anything before. He will rot onto the sofa, the smell will be unbearable, we will both die here, and suddenly she is hungry. Her stomach will rumble, and the man will hear it and look her way. She thinks this as the man begins to stir and stand.

            He has moved into the middle of the room, as if preparing to go somewhere. Still his face is turned away from her. She dares not close her eyes and so she stares, petrified, as he walks toward the kitchen, grabs her kettle and fills it until it overflows. He opens drawers, her tea box. the kettle is so loud, no longer comforting but sinister. There is a man standing in her kitchen, lifting up her favourite cup  People will come, she thinks, they must, and when they do I will scream and they will grab him and beat him bloody and I will beat him too, and then I will wash my cup and kettle, the whole apartment and I will burn my couch and get a new one; she wants to close her eyes so that time passes by faster until they come but she does not want to have him out of sight. If he comes close to her, she has to know. She waits and no one comes.

            When the sun begins to set, he walks to the fridge and eats her strawberries and cream. Looking satisfied he returns to the couch, where he sits, still not looking at her, staring straight ahead. How does he stay so still? How can he not notice, she thinks, that I am right here?

She is so upset, now not by his presence, but by the fact he does not look at her, and from her bed she resists the urge to shout at him; Why did you come in here? Why won’t you look at me? Why did you come into my house, sit on my couch only to ignore me? If only she could open her mouth and shout at him, maybe he would realise how stupid and upsetting this all is and leave; maybe he does not realise because she has not begun to scream.

She lies there for what begins to feel like days. ­She stops trying to shake her legs awake, abandons the idea of flight. She does not know what will save her now, she only hopes he will take mercy on her and depart, but even if he did what then? It seems the very furniture, the room, the evening light have all betrayed her by welcoming him in. Her body seizes and she is numb. She wishes to sleep, then die; even her eyes refuse to obey her, and do not close. Nothing left on earth is hers.

He is the one who is at home here now. He cooks himself an egg, some toast. The blood leaves her as she watches him. It seems she’s less than human. Her arms and legs are entangled in the fibres of the mattress. She is little more than furniture, slowly sinking down into the mattress.

And so she descends, with no one there to notice, no one mourning her. She is inside the bed but can see the room and breathe, feeling the sheet tight above her face. A shadow covers her. His eyes look down; finally, he has come to collect her. He takes off his shoes and smooths the bed down, lifts the covers, and it suddenly occurs to her that he is getting into bed, to sleep. The unbearable truth shakes her: he cannot see her. Violently, she tries to raise herself, but she has not succeeded before and does not now. She screams too late and everything goes black.

Isabelle Le Coustumer is a 28 year old French author. She holds a degree in English literature from the University of Lausanne, Switzerland, and is currently researching the legacies of the European witch hunts in contemporary horror fiction. She draws inspiration from Shirley Jackson, Daphne Du Maurier and Robert W. Chambers. She lives in Paris and sociology at the American Business School in Paris.