The Home

by Mats Strandberg

Genres: Horror

Synopsis

Once inseparable, Joel and Nina haven't spoken in twenty years.

When Joel's mother Monika develops dementia, he has no choice but to return to his home town. Monika needs specialist care, and that means Pineshade - which also means Joel is going to have to deal with his one-time best friend, for Nina works there.

It's not long before Monika's health deteriorates - she starts having violent, terrifying outbursts, and worse, she appears to know things she couldn't possibly know. It's almost as if she isn't herself any more . . . but of course, that's true of most of the residents at Pineshade.

Only Nina and Joel know Monika well enough to see the signs; only by working together can they try to find answers to the inexplicable . . .

The Home is an eerie story about love, friendship and the greatest fear of all: losing control of ourselves . . .

Release date: August 6, 2020

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 400

Sample

He strains his ears. Scared to even breathe.

Sunlight is seeping into the room round the edges of the blind. Joel lifts his head up and squints at the digits on his old stereo. It is not even half past five in the morning.

His mouth is dry and his sheets are soaked with sweat. He stares at the closed door and slowly lets the air out of his lungs. He must have imagined the scream: the remnants of a dream that faded as he woke and can no longer be recalled.

He puts his head back down and tries to close his eyes, but his eyelids keep popping open. His body is tired – he just wants to sleep – but his brain is wide awake, inundated with thoughts of what he needs to get done today.

He gives up and traces the cord of the bedside lamp until he finds the switch. The light is so bright his face contracts into a grimace. Brett Anderson and Debbie Harry watch him from the posters pinned to the slanted wall of the sleeping alcove. Kathleen Hanna stares urgently at him from a torn-out newspaper page at the foot of the bed.

Get up. Get up. You might as well get going. Get out of bed. Shower before Mum wakes up. Get up now. You’re not going back to sleep anyway.

But he doesn’t move. Standing up seems to require strength he simply doesn’t have. The bed is a damp cloth tomb. If he doesn’t get a full night’s sleep soon, he is going to lose his mind.

He stares out into the room, where nothing has changed since he left home. He is the only thing that is not the same.

When he was eighteen, everything seemed possible. The world was waiting for him. Outside this house. Far away from this village. And now he’s back, twenty years later, and he can’t even make himself get out of bed.

Downstairs, the door between the kitchen and the hallway opens. Joel holds his breath again.

‘Hello? Where is everybody? Is there anyone here?’

The voice is shrill. Frightened. It cuts Joel like a knife and makes his stomach contract into a knot.

And then he hears a heavy thud from below.

Mum.

Joel throws his duvet aside and dashes across the yellowed pine floor into the upstairs hallway. The June sky outside the window is pale blue. This early, the garden is still in shadow, but the rising sun has set the trees on the mountain ablaze. The stairs are brightly illuminated, as is the pattern of butterflies dancing across the lemon-yellow wallpaper.

‘I’m coming!’ he calls out, racing down the stairs.

The hallway is empty. Nothing but his mother’s fleece jackets and her windbreaker, hung neatly on their hooks next to Joel’s tattered leather jacket.

‘Mum?’

Silence. Joel tries the front door. It’s locked. Thank God. His mother’s still in the house then.

The bathroom door is open, so he walks over and is greeted by a sweet, musty smell. A pair of knickers, yellow in the crotch, lie discarded on the floor. Dried-in droplets of urine surround the toilet. The shower hose is coiled like a sleeping snake in the tub.

She could have fallen over trying to wash herself. Broken something. Cracked her skull. Called for help. I may not have woken up.

Wouldn’t it be typical for that to happen on their last day together in the house? The last day he’s responsible for her?

He walks into the kitchen. The long rag rug is askew. The memory of the thud reverberates through him like an echo.

‘Mum? Where are you?’

He picks up the wine box sitting on the counter where he left it last night.

Almost empty.

‘Joel? Joel!’

Joel hurries into the living room and finds his mother staring at him from the spot where the small dining set used to be. Her pale eyes are childishly fearful in a face that has aged rapidly over the past few months. Her hair has several inches of grey roots; she looks almost bald. He will have a go at dyeing it before they leave.

Poor Mummy.

She’s so badly stooped over, the old T-shirt she’s wearing is hanging halfway down her thighs. Her knees are just bony protrusions on her emaciated legs.

‘Call the police,’ she says. ‘We’ve been burgled.’

Joel tries to smile soothingly, but he recognises the look in his mother’s eyes. Wherever she is now, she can’t be reached.

So far, she has always come back for short periods, allowing glimpses of who she once was. But those periods are becoming fewer and further between.

‘It’ll be okay,’ Joel says.

‘Be okay?’ his mum snorts. ‘Can’t you see they’ve stolen the furniture your grandpa made! And the armchair your dad loves so much!’ She totters towards the open bedroom door. ‘And the dresser! Would you believe they managed to steal the dresser even though I was asleep right next to it? They’ve even taken the photographs!’

She points accusingly at the wall. The faded wallpaper is darker where the framed portraits used to hang. Joel walks over to stand next to his mother in the doorway and puts an arm around her shoulder.

‘What could they want with our photographs?’ she says, shaking her head.

The bedroom looks naked. Exposed. The edge of the vinyl floor is curling where the chest of drawers used to be, while the old textured wallpaper is fraying in the corners and the greasy spot next to the headboard that Joel has tried to scrub clean several times has reappeared yet again. One of the closets is open. Empty hangers dangle abandoned on the railing inside. The clothes that are going with her have been folded and packed in a suitcase underneath her bed.

‘We haven’t been burgled,’ Joel says. ‘The movers came to pick up your things yesterday. Remember?’

He realises his mistake the moment the words leave his lips.

Never remind Mum about how forgetful she is. It only makes her more anxious.

‘What are you talking about?’ she snaps.

‘The movers. You’re moving today. Isn’t that exciting?’

Hearing the feigned levity in his voice makes him want to crawl out of his skin.

Things can’t go on like this, Mum. I’m doing this for you.

‘Look,’ he continues, and pulls out the suitcase. ‘Yesterday you helped me pick out the clothes you wanted to bring, didn’t you?’

‘Stop it, Joel,’ his mum says sternly. ‘I don’t like these jokes of yours.’

‘Mum …’

‘Just where am I moving to then, according to you?’

Joel hesitates. Can’t bring himself to say Pineshade. The name of the nursing home has been a symbol for so long. A joke to mask the fear. Every time his mother misplaced her reading glasses or couldn’t find the word she was looking for: I guess I’ll end up at Pineshade soon.

‘You’re going to live with other people your age,’ Joel says instead. ‘Down in Skredsby. It’s going to be great. There will always be people there to look after you.’

His mum’s eyes widen. She seems to recognise that Joel is serious, even though what he’s saying must sound insane to her.

‘But … we’re happy here, aren’t we?’

‘You’ll be happy there, too. You’ll see. I’ve been down there to sort out your room – you’re going to …’

‘I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but that’s quite enough now. What do you think Dad would say if he came home and I had moved out?’

Not this, too. Not today. When he says nothing, his mum shuffles into the kitchen. The water starts running. Something topples over and shatters against the floor. Joel sighs.

Pineshade is located in Skredsby, a small town on the west coast of Sweden invariably overlooked by the hordes of summer tourists headed for the popular nearby resort of Marstrand. The one-storey brick building is nestled behind blocks of flats, past the football field, at the foot of the wooded slopes of the mountain. It’s a square, compact building. No superfluous ornamentation. Wide steps, flanked by wheelchair ramps, lead up to the front doors. During office hours, the doors slide open automatically when you approach. The vinyl flooring in the lobby is green, stippled to prevent stains and scuffs from showing too clearly.

It’s not a large care facility. Just four corridors surrounding an atrium referred to as the common room. The shared spaces also include a number of smaller lounges for the residents. The wallpaper, though contemporary, imitates old-fashioned motifs. There are plastic covers on the sofas and armchairs.

The vinyl flooring in the corridors is so shiny it reflects the fluorescent ceiling lights. There are railings along the walls, painted a shade of pastel green that is intended to be soothing, but which in reality only lends a sickly pallor to everyone’s skin. Each corridor is its own ward with a total of eight suites, which are small and can accommodate only so many furniture configurations. They have bathrooms but not kitchens; no hobs to accidentally leave on. The windows can only be opened a crack. You can lock the doors from the inside if you want, but the staff have keys so they can always get in. The suites of wards B and C, which overlook the forest, have balconies, but they are encased in chicken wire to block that route of escape. And if you’re in the habit of getting up at night, or you have a history of falling out of bed, motion sensors and guard rails on your bed will be installed to prevent it from happening again.

The new owners want the staff to call the residents clients, even though almost none of them are there voluntarily. When the home was built in the seventies, the residents were younger and healthier. These days, you have to be significantly frail to secure a spot at Pineshade. This is supposedly in the best interests of the elderly; it is said they benefit from staying in their home environment for as long as possible. When a tenancy is offered at Pineshade, the client’s relatives have, at most, a week to decide. To avoid under-occupation, which is a drain on profits, things need to move along at a brisk pace. If you don’t want it, someone else will.

The most recent Pineshade resident to pass away was Britt-Marie in D6. She stopped eating and drinking. Started sleeping more often and for longer. Let herself slowly fade away. It’s not uncommon behaviour among older people who become depressed. Their death certificates give anorexia as the cause of death.

At Pineshade, death is always present. This is the end of the line. What everyone knows, but no one talks about, is that any form of life support is rare here.

A new set of furniture has been waiting in D6 since yesterday. A small dining arrangement. A dresser. An armchair. Photographs on the walls. A new home at the home. The bed is the only item of furniture provided by Pineshade. It has been disinfected since Britt-Marie died in it and made up with fresh linens.

In the D Ward staffroom, Johanna is scrolling through the feed on her phone, staring vacantly at the screen. She finds nothing new. This early in the morning, no one’s posting anything. Every once in a while she glances through the windows into the common room where sunlight is pouring in through the skylight. Just a bit longer, then she can leave. She regrets applying for this summer job. She hates the night shifts; she hates when Petrus in D2 or Dagmar in D8 wake up and she has to take care of them by herself. But the worst thing about working nights is her fear that one of the old coots might croak when she’s alone on the ward.

Johanna jumps when she hears a door opening further down the corridor. She gets to her feet and pops her head out the door. Finally. It’s Nina, coming to relieve her. She’s early as usual. Nina, who stays longer than she has to, who always picks up extra shifts, who bakes with the old people when she runs out of chores. Nina, who never talks about her life outside Pineshade. Does she even have a life? It’s hard to imagine her in normal clothes, in anything other than the light-blue smock and baggy trousers. She’s clean and proper, with trimmed nails and cropped hair. She smells of nothing.

‘Has it been okay?’ Nina asks, and Johanna shrugs, says ‘The usual’, and hands over the binder with her reports about the night before. ‘I’m off, then,’ she adds.

Nina watches Johanna leave, her ponytail swinging back and forth as she walks. Then she goes into the staffroom, turns the coffee machine on and wipes down the countertop and the table.

Sucdi, who’s working the morning shift with Nina, bumps into her husband, Faisal, on the front steps. He has just come off the night shift in the B Ward. He’s tired and stressed. Their oldest daughter looks after her younger siblings when their shifts overlap, and he wants to get home as quickly as possible. Sucdi gives him a quick peck on the cheek before heading into D Ward. She declines the coffee Nina offers her, but they go over the reports together while Nina drains her cup. Then they start the morning routine.

They go into each suite along D corridor, one after the other. There they gently stroke foreheads and change nappies. They wash the old bodies with cloths, soap and lukewarm water; apply cortisone cream; administer medications orally, anally and vaginally: sedatives and laxatives, painkillers and blood thinners. They help the old people get dressed and put their teeth in. Comb their hair.

In D1, Wiborg moans in her sleep when they enter. She’s hugging a stuffed animal tightly, a dementia cat with built-in heating under its long polyester fur. When she wakes, she doesn’t recognise either of them.

‘Why isn’t Mummy waking me up?’ she says, eyeing Sucdi nervously. ‘Did she buy you from Africa?’

Wiborg continues to stare at Sucdi while they remove her nappy. The iron supplements she takes have made her stool jet-black. They meticulously wash her clean before pulling mesh underwear up over a clean nappy.

‘Where’s Mummy?’ Wiborg whimpers. ‘I want to call Mummy.’

She reaches for the phone and manages to grab the receiver before they can persuade her to wait. The number Wiborg wants to call has long since been disconnected, and it never fails to upset her when no one picks up.

Sucdi helps Petrus in D2 to shave. She uses a trimmer instead of a razor so there’s no risk of injury if he suddenly attacks her. Nina is careful to stay out of reach of his strong, quick hands when she empties his catheter bag. Then she checks his blood sugar.

In D3, Edit opens her eyes as soon as Nina and Sucdi enter.

‘Good day,’ she says drowsily. ‘My name is Edit Andersson and I am Director Palm’s secretary.’

They nod as usual. Edit blinks.

‘Good day. My name is Edit Andersson and I am Director Palm’s secretary.’

They pull on fresh gloves and help Edit, while she continues to inform them of who she is.

Bodil in D4 peers mischievously at them when they lift up her nightgown to change her nappy. ‘Guess how old I am?’

And even though Nina knows the answer – Bodil is well past ninety – she says, ‘Seventy, maybe?’

Bodil grins contentedly. ‘That’s what everyone says, no one can believe I’m as old as I am. I’m still so beautiful, they tell me.’

Nina and Sucdi assure her they agree.

It is Lillemor’s turn to have a shower today. They help her into the bathroom in D5. Undress her. The mesh underwear Pineshade has left a chequered imprint on her bulging stomach. The wellies and plastic aprons and gloves make it sweaty work, but at least Lillemor is biddable. They carefully lower her bottom onto the shower seat. Shower her gently once she has had a chance to approve the temperature. Nina lifts up Lillemor’s heavy breasts to wash properly underneath.

Lillemor looks up at her and says, ‘I long to return to the Lord but I’ve decided to live a while longer,’ and Nina replies, ‘That’s good to hear, Lillemor.’

There are angel stickers on the tiles, smiling mildly at them.

They walk past the closed door to D6 and go in to Anna in D7.

‘I think the apple has popped out,’ Anna informs them as they enter.

Her bright red intestine is, indeed, poking out of her anus. It’s a rectal prolapse surgery has been unable to correct. Anna happily prattles on about her plans for the day while they wipe her clean with washcloths, carefully push her bowels back in and pack her bum with cotton wool.

‘I’m going to France – I’ve always wanted to,’ she says.

When Nina asks her what she is planning to do there, Anna tells her she’s going to see the Eiffel Tower and eat lots of patisseries.

‘I hear it’s lovely in the spring, so that’s when I’ll go. God willing, and if my shoes hold up.’ She laughs happily and gazes dreamily out the window.

D8 is the only suite housing two residents. Dagmar is already awake when they enter. Sucdi wakes Vera, who is asleep in the other bed.

‘Good morning, Dagmar,’ Nina says. ‘Did you sleep well?’

Dagmar stares at her with her red, watery eyes. The wall next to her bed is covered with watercolours and pencil sketches of the young woman Dagmar once was. She starts to grin expectantly when Nina approaches. A hand appears from under the cover, smeared with poo. Dagmar waves at them and laughs.

‘Dagmar!’ Vera scolds from her bed. Then she turns to Sucdi, her eyes wide with shame. ‘Don’t be angry with her. She doesn’t mean anything by it.’

A little while later, in the kitchen, Nina makes porridge while Sucdi prepares sandwiches. They put coffee mugs and spouted drinking cups on trays, alongside wide-rimmed bowls and easy-grip spoons.

After breakfast, some of the old people head for the telly in the lounge. Nina grabs an old black and white film from the DVD shelf and pops it in the player. Dagmar is already nodding off in her wheelchair, but Petrus is studying the ditsy maid on the screen with intense interest. ‘You fucking cunt!’ he bellows. ‘You fucking whore!’

Vera shushes him impatiently. Dagmar begins to snore.

Joel’s mother is sitting stock still in one of the green plastic chairs in the front garden, chewing the sandwich Joel made for her. It’s the only thing she wants to eat these days. She has no appetite and can’t taste her food anymore. Joel, for his part, is utterly unable to eat at all today.

His mother’s hair is damp and Joel has used clips on either side to pull it back. The grey roots are still there. His mother had been so furious at being made to shower that he didn’t dare to try to use the dye, which would probably have gone in her face and on the walls and furniture – everywhere but her hair. And then, to top it off, he would have had to get her back into the shower to rinse the dye out. His mother’s surprisingly strong when she is angry.

But right now, her shoulders are drooping. Her eyes are vacant.

Joel takes a sip of his instant coffee, leans the back of his head against the grey fibre cement wall and shuts his eyes. The day is already hot, but a faint breeze rustles through the overgrown bushes that his mum and dad planted to shelter the terrace from view. Hardly anyone ever drives past here now. Several of the houses further up the road are empty – the neighbours who lived around them when Joel was growing up have passed away, one after the other. Soon, this house will be abandoned too. There are four days until his meeting with the real estate agent.

Does anyone he knows still live in the area? Has he been spotted by old school friends at the supermarket in Ytterby or at the petrol station down in Skredsby? Are there rumours swirling about his return? That Joel bloke, the one who was so full of himself. He opens his eyes again and empties his cup. Puts it down on the rickety table. The chequered vinyl tablecloth is full of old coffee stains and rings.

His mother has stopped chewing and the remains of her sandwich sits on its plate, the cheese sweating in the sun.

‘Not hungry?’ he says.

His mum shakes her head.

Joel can’t be bothered to wheedle with her. He points at the pills next to her plate.

‘Get those down you,’ he says.

‘No. I don’t know what you’re giving me.’

‘They’re for your heart,’ Joel says.

‘There’s nothing wrong with my heart,’ his mother retorts and presses her lips shut.

Stubborn old bat. Just take the bloody pills. Can’t you see I’m trying to help you?

But he can’t say that. So he lights a cigarette and tries to ignore the tightening knot in his stomach.

Towards the end of the morning meeting, Elisabeth, the ward director, tells them a little about the new client moving into D6 today.

‘Monika Edlund,’ she says, consulting her binder. ‘Seventy-two years old. From Lyckered.’

Nina looks up. The name sent a jolt of electricity through her, but no one around the table seems to have noticed.

‘Fluctuating confusion after a heart attack,’ Elisabeth reads. ‘Collapsed in the Kungälv pharmacy, well, at least she chose a good place for it …’

Nina looks back down at the tabletop. She feels a droplet of sweat trickle out of her armpit and is suddenly very aware of the sun beating down through the glass ceiling in the Pineshade common room. It’s like being in a greenhouse.

‘Heart failure. She died, but was resuscitated in the ambulance …’

The droplet of sweat turns cold as it makes its way down Nina’s side.

‘Angiographic intervention using a stent … Following rehabilitation, she has lived at home for nearly six months with in-home care and visits by a registered nurse. The police have picked her up a few times when she’s gone wandering about, so we’re going to go straight to motion sensor. She has also fallen out of bed more than once, so I have already obtained a bed-guard permit.’

Elisabeth’s sentences are succinct, effective. Devoid of inflection. Of emotion. And why wouldn’t they be? Monika Edlund is just another name to her. After this meeting she won’t even be that; she will simply be D6.

‘Nothing out of the ordinary, in terms of medications,’ Elisabeth continues. ‘Aspirin, Lipitor, Metoprolol, Ramipril and Brilique. Haloperidol as needed and Zopiclone at night.’

Haloperidol. If Monika is on antipsychotics, she’s in a bad way. It means her dementia is a dark place and she is scared. Possibly violent.

‘Who’s bringing her in?’ Nina asks.

‘Her son, Joel, who has been living with her recently.’

Joel. He’s back?

More sweat escapes her armpit when Nina tries to imagine Joel today. She has scoured the internet for pictures a few times, but he’s not on social media. She has only found a handful of photographs. Joel has dark hair in them and is too thin, his features too angular. He never smiles. The most recent picture is more than seven years old.

It’s hard to imagine Joel as an adult. That he kept on existing, after that morning when he left Skredsby in the used car he’d just bought.

‘Do you know when they’ll be here?’ Nina asks, managing to make her voice sound normal.

‘After lunch,’ Elisabeth says. ‘Do you know the son? He must be roughly your age, no?’

Does she know Joel? How is she supposed to answer that? How would someone like Elisabeth ever understand? And who would believe that she, Nina, was once the person she was with Joel? She can’t even believe it herself.

‘We went to school together,’ she replies.

Elisabeth has no further questions, having already lost interest and moved on. She closes her binder and stands up.

‘All right then, that’s it for today,’ she says. ‘And remember to make sure all our clients drink plenty of fluids. Apparently, this heatwave is here to stay.’

Chairs scrape softly against the vinyl when the others get to their feet. The four wards need to start setting up for lunch, which will soon be delivered from an institutional caterer in Kungälv. But Nina stays seated and looks over at the D corridor, where Wiborg is pacing around with her dementia cat pressed against her chest.

‘Are you okay?’ Sucdi asks.

Nina looks up.

‘I’m just a bit tired,’ she says, trying to smile.

She’s not tired. Not in the least. Her whole body is crackling with nervous energy.

‘Is that Joel bloke an old boyfriend or something?’

‘No,’ Nina replies. Her smile feels like a spasmodic twitch of the lips.

Sucdi walks off with their coffee cups; Nina watches her go, watches her open the dishwasher in the D Ward staffroom through the glass window, and then gets up herself.

Edit enters the common room, stooped over her rollator. Advanced osteoporosis has left her spine curved at a nearly ninety-degree angle.

‘Good day,’ she says. ‘My name is Edit Andersson and I am Director Palm’s secretary.’

Her milky eyes stare urgently at Nina.

‘Hello,’ Nina replies absently.

Edit shakes her head disapprovingly, possibly upset by Nina’s failure to introduce herself. Then she blinks. Her perpetual mental loop resets.

‘Good day. My name is Edit Andersson and I am Director Palm’s secretary.’

‘Good day to you, too,’ Sucdi, who has come back from the staffroom, says. ‘I think it’s time to change you.’

The alarm goes off and Nina glances down the corridor. The light outside D2 is flashing. Petrus.

‘I’ll do it,’ she says.

Sucdi gives her a surprised look.

‘I’m sure Edit can wait.’

‘Good day,’ Edit. . .