Fog Island: A terrifying thriller set in a modern-day cult. Mariette Lindstein

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      Stretched out on the bedspread, deep in sleep with his mouth open, lay a young man in a grey suit. At first she wanted to wake him up, but that would be embarrassing for both of them. Just as she was about to sneak back out, he opened his eyes.

      ‘Busted,’ he mumbled, sitting up in the bed and rubbing his eyes.

      He had bright, lively eyes. His chin jutted out a bit and his whole face, aside from the very top of his forehead, was covered in freckles. His hair was red, shaggy, and uncombed. Despite his large mane, his head seemed too small for his torso, which was broad and muscular. When he stood up she realized how tall he was — he had to be six foot three, a giant compared to her five-two.

      ‘Benjamin Frisk,’ he said, putting out his hand. His shirtsleeve slid up, revealing an arm covered in red fuzz. He tried in vain to smooth his wrinkled blazer with the other hand.

      She had a few cutting remarks on the tip of her tongue, but she refrained since she didn’t want to contribute to his embarrassment.

      ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked instead.

      He smiled, showing a big gap between his front teeth.

      ‘Shit! I can’t believe you found me like this. Well, maybe you’ve heard that we’re renovating the staff quarters. I’m in charge of shipping and purchasing and stuff, so I’m really busy. I hardly get any sleep.’

      ‘So you steal a nap here and there?’

      ‘Yes, that’s about it.’

      ‘My name is Sofia.’

      ‘I know who you are. I’ve been spying on you; I’ve seen you come to the cottage and I noticed you in the guest dining room. I was hoping we would run into each other. But not like this.’

      ‘So how come I’ve never seen you?’

      ‘I guess I’ve kept my distance. Until now. But have a seat, by all means.’

      He pointed at the kitchen table as if he owned the place.

      ‘I want to know more about this cottage,’ she said once they had sat down. ‘Do you know who owns it, and why it’s always empty?’

      ‘An old lady owns it. She comes in the summer. That’s all I know.’

      ‘There’s something special about it. Like, I was drawn here.’

      ‘It’s in a funny spot. In the middle of the woods.’

      They didn’t speak for a moment as they looked at each other. A lone ray of sunlight cut through the gap in the curtains and set fire to the dust, which whirled up to the ceiling like a tiny tornado. There was so much life in his eyes. When she gazed into them she felt a pleasant sort of rush, a stream of warmth trickling through her body.

      ‘Don’t they miss you when you disappear?’

      ‘Nah, an hour here and there doesn’t matter. It’s so chaotic down on the first floor.’

      ‘I have to run to catch the ferry.’

      ‘When are you coming back?’

      ‘I have no idea, but it will be soon — I’m going to work in the library.’

      ‘I know that too. Rumours spread fast in our little group. Can’t you take the morning ferry instead? I know every nook and cranny of this island; I can show you around and —’

      ‘Not today. But maybe when I come back.’

      She glanced at her watch. It was almost four-thirty.

      ‘Shit! I have to hurry!’ she said, dashing through the front door.

      She ran into the woods and toward the heath, but she turned around one last time before she disappeared into the trees.

      He was standing on the lawn and gazing after her.

      Benjamin Frisk, she thought. Another reason to come back.

      She pedalled frantically all the way to the village.

      The sun glittered off everything: the asphalt, the bike, the sea, and the cliffs.

      We search for the book and find the cape instead.

      We sit in the hot, stuffy attic, poring through books that smell like sun-warmed dust and mothballs. Sometimes they fall apart when we pick them up.

      ‘What are we looking for?’ she asks.

       ‘A book of family history. It’s supposed to be bound in leather and I’m sure it’s handwritten.’

       ‘How do you know it’s here?’

       ‘Mom saw it once. When she was cleaning. She put it up here with the other books.’

      She is impatient. She gets up and starts snooping through the attic, getting farther and farther away from me.

      Then I hear her voice, far off in the darkness.

       ‘Fredrik, look at this!’

      At first I can’t see her, so I have to stop looking through the books to get up. The interruption infuriates me, but then I see what she’s holding up. A hanger with a big, black velvet cape, hood and all. I recognize it immediately.

      ‘That belonged to the Countess! The one who killed herself,’ I say.

       ‘How do you know that?’

       ‘I saw it in a picture. She’s on a horse, wearing it.’

      ‘Oh my god, it’s beautiful!’ she says.

      ‘Put it on!’ I order her.

       ‘What?’

       ‘I said, put it on. But take off your clothes first. You have to be naked underneath.’

       ‘No way. Why?’

       ‘Just do as I say!’

      She obeys, pulling off her skirt and sweater. I shoot a meaningful look at her panties, so she takes those off too. She stands there naked on the attic floor, grinning. Then she sweeps the cape around herself with a dramatic flourish.

      Her hair falls across the black velvet like gold.

      ‘Open the cape and show yourself,’ I say.

      She does as I order. The effect is magnificent.

      ‘Awesome! You have СКАЧАТЬ