Let the Old Dreams Die by John Ajvide Lindqvist Read Free Book Online Page B

allergic to electricity.
    But if I had the choice, I wouldn’t want to be indoors at all during the warmer months. It makes my skin itch. Is being allergic to electricity actually an illness? Everybody who has it seems to be loopy.
    Went for a walk this evening. Everybody says there are no mushrooms at all this year, but as usual I still keep finding them. They’re few and far between, though.
    SEPTEMBER 21
    Very windy, the TV aerial is making a noise. Roland has sold two of the puppies and is thinking of getting a satellite dish. Good. That will keep him occupied, and I won’t have to listen to the sound of the aerial.
    Pulled up a bodybuilder with eight hundred cartons of M. He got aggressive, smashed the table in the little room. Had to lock him in until the police arrived. He broke the window overlooking the carpark. Didn’t try to jump, fortunately.
    The autumn changes the forest. The conifers regain the upper hand. That’s it. That’s exactly how it is. In the summer the forest is a fairground. Bright, laughing colours. All welcome. It’s still like that, with more colours than ever. But everything is moving towards the colours of the conifers. In a couple of months they will be in charge, because they will be the only ones still breathing.
    Went to see the addition to the family next door. The other children were playing video games. Looked at the little person all wrapped up in her blanket, and wondered how long it would be before she too was sitting in front of the television. The neighbours were tired but happy. The whole house smells of breast milk and static electricity. I can’t cope with it.
    Something has just struck me: perhaps Vore took/takes hormones? How could he be the way he is otherwise? Perhaps that was what I sensed. After all, I have no problem knowing when someone is under the influence of drugs.
    He’s hardly ever home. Either he’s off out in the car, or out walking. What does he actually do? I’ve never had a proper conversation with him.
    The storm is picking up. The noise from the aerial is terrible. It sounds as if the entire house is moaning.
    SEPTEMBER 22
    Checked the cottage this afternoon.
    Yes, there was a reason. This morning when I was on the way to work I thought I heard a child crying in there. Well, not exactly crying, it was more of a whimper. Of course it could have been something else (I think it was something else, or perhaps it was coming from the house next door), but…
    When I got home his car wasn’t there. So I did it.
    There was no child, of course. Everything was neat and tidy. The bed was made, everything in its place. Piles of paperback crime novels and
The Brothers Karamazov
, also in paperback. On the desk lay his binoculars, his camera and a notebook.
    Yes. I did read it. And I was none the wiser.
    (Did I think there might be something about me? Yes, I did. I admit it.)
    But it wasn’t a diary. Just numbers and abbreviations. Terriblehandwriting. The numbers might have been times. The abbreviations could have been anything. Insects, maybe. The times when he saw them. Do people do that kind of thing?
    The metal box was plugged in. I listened, heard a humming noise from inside. Didn’t dare open the lid. Thought a load of insects might come swarming out.
    Now I’m going to say what I think: my life lacks excitement. I make things up. I pick on just about anybody and try to use whatever clues there are to piece together that person’s life. It automatically turns into a mystery. Why did he go there? Why did he do that? What did he mean by that?
    It’s only in old-fashioned detective stories that everyone is gathered in the library for the final explanation. In real life there is no explanation. And if there is an explanation, it’s unbelievably banal.
    After I’d finished poking about I stayed in the cottage for a long time. Why? Because it smelled so good in there. If anyone ever reads this diary I will immediately commit seppuku. I slipped into the