by John Ajvide Lindqvist

St. Martin’s Press, 2004, 472 pages

“Let Me In,” the new American remake of 2008 Swedish film “Let the Right One In,” has drawn some early criticism for being overly faithful to the original. The subject is open to debate. What’s clear, however, is that both adaptations bear some striking differences from the book upon which they were based.

Swedish author John Ajvide Lindqvist’s 2004 novel was an instant horror classic, bringing him attention as Europe’s equivalent to Stephen King or, perhaps more appropriately, Anne Rice. Like Rice’s 1976 classic “Interview with the Vampire,” Lindqvist’s book presents a seemingly innocent little girl as a bloodsucking monster, capable of raw tenderness and unspeakable violence.

The notion of a sweet, doll-faced child sprouting fangs and crunching through the carotid arteries of unsuspecting strangers seems to carry special gothic appeal for a good chunk of horror fans. The nostalgic “forever young” ideal is grotesquely blemished by the scar of insatiable bloodlust. It’s the ultimate human sacrilege, to present a holy waif of a girl as an unholy incarnation of evil.

Only, this child is not a girl, at all. While both movies hint at some gross abnormality in the creature’s anatomy, the book eventually comes right out and explains what’s wrong, and it’s almost guaranteed to make you squirm in your bed sheets.

The story revolves around a disturbed 12-year-old boy named Oskar. His parents are painfully separated, he lives in a rather squalid tenement in a dreary suburb of Stockholm, and sadistic bullies beat and ridicule him at school. His only reprieve from this misery is to fantasize about gutting his tormenters with a pocket knife.

Oskar’s life takes a turn for the better when a mysterious man named Hakan moves into a neighboring apartment with an equally mysterious 12-year-old girl named Eli. Oskar and Eli, both friendless and reclusive, take solace in one another’s company, and a harmless pre-teen romance begins to blossom.

There’s just one problem: Eli is a vampire. She feeds on blood to survive, and Hakan must continually slaughter the townsfolk to provide her meals. When Hakan gets caught in the act, he deliberately melts his own face off with concentrated acid to shield his identity and prevent the authorities from tracing him to Eli.

Up to this point, the films pretty much mirror the text of the book. But here the novel adopts some plot threads almost too ghastly and taboo to commit to the big screen. Without spoiling too much of the surprise, we’ll simply note that Hakan doesn’t die. His lasting role in the book—after his character expires in the films—provides some of its most grisly and stomach-turning scares.

Also, as mentioned previously, Lindqvist offers some back story, however shadowy, to explain how this 12-year-old cherub became a nocturnal abomination. Her repeated claims that she is “not a girl” take on new meaning in the book. The reveal also sheds some light on her relationships with Oskar and Hakan, and on the historical depth of the vampire cult of which she is an alienated member.

Linqvist’s prose—at least in this English translation by Ebba Segerberg—is not remarkable, but his ability to manufacture chilling imagery is impressive. He’s succeeded in creating characters for whom the reader can find some degree of sympathy, even as they commit unimaginable atrocities. Perhaps poor Oskar, after all his schoolyard whippings, can be forgiven for aiding and abetting a serial killer, and perhaps Eli can redeem her sins by teaching Oskar to defend himself.

In any case, fans of the movies (whether one or both of them), ought to check out the novel for some enhanced insight. It’s not Bram Stoker’s take on the genre, but it’s got much sharper fangs than Stephanie Meyer’s.