It began to dawn on my, by this time, that not even the national registry could help me. I’d just about given up. One day, however, just after I had radiated my colony of Necrophorus investigators to death, someone came pounding on my door. When I opened it, there was no one there — just a letter nailed to the doorpost with a dagger. I wrenched the dagger out of the wood, made sure I was alone, and relocked the door. The letter was typed and didn’t have a return address. I’ve reproduced this letter below, though I’ve edited out certain insulting comments regarding my lifestyle choices:
“…The old man, may Old Nick’s poisoned piss rot his guts, was born on October 7,1900, the same day as Heinrich Himmler. His mother was a peddler and a whore. Of course, her life was short. When she died, her father took in her little urchin. He’d been a widower for many years, he was used to going his own way. His property lay off the beaten path. No one went there if they could help it. Neither critter nor cretin was safe in Hebbershålet after dark. People say he was a tall, pale chap, a beanpole with glasses, as queer as the day is long. He put on airs, walked quick and proud, thought he was better than everyone else. ‘Better to be tall and dangerous than short and lame, he’d say.’ Or: ‘A devil in the flesh is better than ten in the bush.’ He raised the boy to take his place. Holger Holmlund was the old man’s name and he baptized the boy ‘Holger,’ in wolf’s blood. He never had a word for anyone. He could’ve said a mouthful, though, if he’d had a mind to. Black sheep and goats were the only animals he kept. He looked human, though that was just for show. He had books of black magic, and my own Grandpa told me he could flay your skin off with a look. Holger the Elder died on Hilarymas Day, 1910. The minnows were spawning in Hebbersbäcken, and everyone had joined in the catch. Folk said old Holger had been looking green about the gills, but no one thought much of it. That evening he took his usual enema. What happened next is anyone’s guess. The old devil you’re looking for, the one who lived to be ninety-one, till someone offed him last fall, said his Grandpa fell asleep at the table with his head on his hands. Suddenly, the old man jumped up and screamed: Smaajj å utajj!’ [Geld and destroy! my translation]. Then he grabbed the boy by the ankles and bashed his head against the wall. The next Sunday morning, three days after Hilarymas, the congregation came shuffling to church in their Sunday best, the boldest chewing tobacco and gnawing on licorice strands they’d stolen from murdered, hair-collecting Jews. And there on the steps of the chapel, what do you think they saw? Old Grandpa’s cold, dead head whistling tunes from Parsifall When the congregation was within earshot, he greeted them like nothing was amiss. Then he offered to suck dick in exchange for a smoke. For a drink he’d be happy to lick a woman, but only in the ass. People hissed and shook their fists. But the head just laughed and aped them, doing freakishly accurate impersonations, and spouted out all sorts of other foolishness beyond belief. He made animal sounds, howled like a soul in hell, moaned like a virgin in heat. But the worst of all was his laugh … Finally, a group of dogged sextons rushed the thing with crowbars. They thrashed his skull as hard as they could. Its pate cracked and blood dribbled from the wounds. The oldest sexton, a man called Epileptic Martin, even poked one of old Holgers eyes out. Thenhe picked up the head and spit on it. But old Holger — he went on the attack! He bit off Martins nose and overlip! At that the sextons grabbed a snow shovel and used it to scoop up the head and toss it in an oven. They could still hear the old bastard jabbering, though, even as the fire was scorching away his flesh. And when they finally took the head out, what do you think they saw? The skull was white and shiny, impossible to scratch or crack. No one knows what happened to the head after that … Little Holger recovered and learned to take care of himself. No one would have anything to do with him. He was a miserable little bugger; no one even noticed when he left his Grandpas house. He came back years later carrying Spanish influenza in a pigs bladder. He was something fey, you know, something that shouldn’t have been. He certainly wasn’t human … But you won’t find anyone around here who’ll tell you about him — not enough time has passed, the wounds are still too fresh. No one wants you here, you don’t belong here. The less you know about the old man, the better. Give up now — it’ll go bad for you here … We’re your worst nightmare …”
Signed: “Momus.”
In this, our blessed extrauterine season, wherein all thoughts and feelings are but memories, if that, I took this letter to be a decree. It was meant to silence me, but it had the opposite effect. It put all my doubts to rest. With the kind support of my good-hearted friend Nikanor, I decided to publish these stories, which are like screams from the heart of an inferno. I know there’ll be an attempt on my life, but I’m not afraid of it.
The stories were originally written in the country dialect of North Västerbotten. I’ve translated them into “plain” language, and when necessary I’ve provided a glossary at the end of the boy’s texts. The following resources have proven invaluable: T. Marklunds Skelleftemålet, E. Westerlund’s (ed.) Folkmål I Skelleftebygden, and M. Hellqvist’s Bättre grå kaka än ingen smaka. Assisted Living follows the organizational principle used by the dead child: each little wallpaper sample is numbered. However, it’s fairly clear that the numbering system has nothing to do with the date on which the fragment was written. It’s also apparent that several fragments have gone missing.
I’ve entitled the appendix “Memories of Grandpa.” The testimonies it contains, which were supposedly written by Holger Holmlund s “friends and enemies,” are almost certainly fictional — fantasies the boy used to try and dull his grief at his beloved Grandpa’s death. Any further interpretation we’ll leave to the feeble-minded.
As for the character of Grandpa: I picture him as a disreputable aristocrat whose knowledge of the classics would bore you to tears; an amiable and well-mannered man with biting wit, pampered flesh, and perverse energy. A hundred and ninety centimeters tall, fifty-five kilos light, appallingly beautiful. To my mind, he combined a satanic, sado-Nazi latrine-type vulgarity with the despondent devotion that can only come from the beaten and mangled sensitivities of a truly delicate soul. He might as well have been the founder of a new Teratology. He strove for the miraculous and the monstrous; it was this quest that kept him going. As befits an absurdist nihilist, he lived life freely … his path to the numinous took him straight through the scabrous … His adventures belong to the oral tradition. They should be read aloud in the cellars of haunted houses by the light of a dying fire, making sure to disguise the voice.
A child should read the little kids story, including his spoken lines. It’s important to remember that these are stories written by a child for his fellow children.
Furthermore, Grandpa’s sacred sentences should be read by only the oldest, meanest, ugliest creature in the group. The rest will fraternally share out the parts of the women and other minor characters.
May Grandpa’s voice drip with spite, derision, and scorn! May it creak with depravity and be oiled with bile! Don’t forget that he can adopt a genially cringing tone when it serves his purposes! May Hildingarna hiss with extinguished voices! May anarchic freedom reign!