There are dozens of books inside: ancient dusty tomes bound in dark brown leather, shiny hardback notebooks and rolls of mouldy-smelling paper – not to mention piles of canvas bags and folded linen. I don’t know where to begin.
The light flickers as I randomly select a notebook. Inside is tiny black handwriting, like an ant dipped in ink has crawled across its pages. I turn to the front: on the first page is written ‘Karina, 27 februar, 1918’. Beneath it is a black and white image of the same severe-looking woman I saw in the photo on the shelf. My great-grandmother. Her long wavy hair is parted in the centre and there are dark circles under her eyes. I search the pages, hungry for clues, but there are no more photos, and the Norwegian words mean nothing to me.
Placing the book down, I reach for a roll of paper. I slide off the red velvet ribbon, and the paper curls up on itself, not wanting to share its secrets. Written at the top is ‘Solveig, 6 oktober, 1886’. Different handwriting, this time written in verse – again in a language I don’t understand.
I pull some parchment aside and find a sheet of charcoal sketches. A huge hooded figure in a tattered robe sits on a throne. Where there should be a face is only blackness. The next sheet shows the tree with shadowy figures, all with shoulders slumped and heads bowed. Each of them looks in a different direction, seemingly unaware of the others. Something about it makes me feel terribly lonely. I put the drawing to one side, hoping that Solveig might have been inspired to draw something more cheerful.
No such luck. The next drawing shows a man hanging upside down from one of the tree’s branches. His feet are bound together, and one of his legs is bent outwards. In the distance, two ravens fly around him. His arms reach down to the ground, his finger touching a pool of water. In the ripples are symbols I don’t recognise.
I look at the next page and my stomach drops. It shows the tree and a hideous, grinning creature with a skull for a head. Bulging eyes stare out of its face and it has long, matted black hair. It crawls on all fours, looking out from the page. More disturbing is what lies beneath it. Dozens of human faces are piled together in the earth, as if they’re in a burial mound. My throat tightens. The picture reminds me of Mormor’s stories about draugr – walking corpses who come back to kill the living.
The light bulb fizzes and flickers. I am gathering up the papers, wanting nothing more to do with them, when the room goes dark. Heart racing, I rush to the door, Gandalf following at my heel.
In the lounge Stig is sprawled across the sofa, a roaring fire in the stove. His leather coat lies on the floor, its arms spread wide like it’s marking a crime scene. At first, I think he’s passed out, but his eyes are open. The brandy bottle at his feet is nearly empty. He has an annoying habit of helping himself.
‘You OK?’ I ask.
Stig startles. ‘You made me jump!’ He gives a nervous laugh. ‘The spinning wheel just now – that was a bit creepy.’
I shrug, not wanting to talk about it, and he sits up and moves to one side. For a moment I wonder if he’s expecting me to sit next to him. I rest a hand on the back of the sofa and glance at the kitchen. The washing-up has been done; the room is spotless.
‘I came to get a lamp. I think the electricity is on the blink.’
‘The blink?’
‘It means about to stop working.’
The light bulb overhead burns without a flicker, and Stig raises an eyebrow.
‘I couldn’t sleep either, after Dad died.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’
I feel my face flush. I guess he’s right; I don’t know anything about him.
Stig gestures for me to sit by him but I shake my head, not wanting to touch his clothes. He frowns and turns away with a shrug. Worried I’ve offended him, I perch on the edge of the sofa.
He stares at the fire. ‘People say grief gets easier with time, like you’ve got the flu. No one says it hurts like a punch to the stomach.’
Sadness stings my eyes. Losing Mormor does feel like someone has punched me. I feel so sore inside I don’t know if I’ll ever heal.
My voice is barely a whisper. ‘And does it get easier – with time?’
Stig shrugs. ‘The first few days were the worst. I had these nightmares, really weird stuff. Dad wasn’t the easiest person to live with, but after he went … I don’t know. I had so many things I wanted to say and suddenly it was too late. I was angry, I guess.’
He forces a smile. ‘Every day is different, but, yes, it does get easier. Now I only think about the good times we had together. That way, remembering doesn’t hurt so much.’
I want to believe him, but thinking about the happy holidays I had with Mormor makes me miss her even more. Not wanting to talk about myself, I ask a question instead.
‘Your dad – how long ago was it?’
‘Six months.’
He picks up the coat from the floor and holds it on his lap. ‘This was his. It was the only thing I took of his, after he died.’ I think back to when I touched the coat in the woodshed, and how it seemed to have a split personality. Of course, it makes sense. I was reading the emotions of two different people.
Stig points to the elbow of one sleeve. ‘That burnt patch is from when we went camping last year. A log from the fire rolled on it.’ He shows me the beige lining. ‘And there, that dark circle is a petrol stain. I know because it happened when I was helping him fix his motorbike.’
Stig bunches the worn black leather between his hands. His voice is thick with emotion. ‘He wore the coat every day. He was wearing it when …’
‘How did he die?’ I ask.
Stig’s face darkens.
‘Sorry, it’s none of my business.’
He swallows hard. ‘A car crash.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
Stig mutters, ‘It’s me who should be sorry,’ then takes a deep breath. ‘When I wear his coat, it’s like he hasn’t really gone. After it first happened, part of me thought that if I kept the coat, he might come back for it. Stupid, I know.’
Before I can say anything, he kneels in front of the stove. The door gives a tiny squeak as he opens it. He pokes at the logs, though the flames already burn brightly.
‘It doesn’t sound stupid,’ I say.
He smiles shyly. ‘Sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you this.’
A waterfall of words rushes through my head. I wrote to Mormor about my ability, but that’s not the same as having someone to actually talk to about it. My chest flushes with excitement. I glance at Stig, wondering how much I dare to tell him.
‘I think clothes can hold memories,’ I venture.
Stig nods. ‘You may be right. I like clothes with missing buttons and stray threads. It means they have a story to tell. The same with people.’
I shift my weight on the arm of the sofa. ‘You like people with missing buttons?’
Stig laughs. ‘No. I mean that people who aren’t perfect are always the most interesting.’ I remember the first time he saw me. Stig looked terrified, but not because of my eye. He hasn’t looked strangely at it or asked me about it once.
He pulls his phone from his pocket. ‘Look at this for crazy clothes.’ I take it and see goths in amazing outfits: a guy in a top hat with long feathers trailing down the back and a woman with lots of tattoos in a tight corset. I stop when I come to a girl with short black hair, balanced on a trapeze wire, and blowing a kiss to the camera. Stig’s acrobatic ex, I presume. She’s wearing bright red lipstick and is stunning. I hand back the phone. Maybe he was trying to make me feel better, but I feel worse. There’s no point pretending. Someone like Stig is never going to want to keep a photo of me – the circus freak – on his phone.
A distant howl sends a shiver down my spine. I glance at Stig and he looks back at me, his face pale. A loud bang makes us both jump.
Gandalf leaps from his bed and barks at the door, while Stig rushes to the window and pulls open the curtain. ‘Sounded like a gunshot.’ He cranes his neck. ‘Not far away.’
I go over, but there’s nothing to see – only darkness. ‘It came from near the forest. That’s where Yrsa and Olav live. Maybe it was Olav, shooting the wolf.’
Stig returns to the sofa and flops down, seemingly relieved. ‘There was only one shot, so he must have got it.’ I listen for a howl or a second gunshot, but the night returns to silence. I wish I shared Stig’s optimism. Maybe Olav got whatever’s out there – or maybe he missed and it got him. There’s no way to know.
I stand for a few moments longer, then reach for an oil lamp on the dresser and take down a box of matches. ‘Goodnight,’ I say, and head to Mormor’s room.
‘God natt,’ Stig calls. ‘Sleep well.’
I open the bedroom door and freeze. The chest is where I left it, but the books are not. They’re stacked in piles on the floor, as if waiting to be read. Fear lodges in my throat. I want to scream for Stig but I clasp a hand to my mouth. He was creeped out by the spinning wheel. What if he goes and leaves me here alone? Or worse, what if he thinks I’m seeing things or making it up? My jaw clenches as I carefully close the door.
I light the lamp with trembling fingers. Afraid to turn my back on the chest, I stand with it on my right side – where I can see it.
Nothing moves. The room is silent apart from the low moan of the wind.
I take the top book from the first pile and flick through words I don’t comprehend. Why would anyone want me to look at books I can’t understand? A twitch of movement in the chest catches my attention. I look inside to see a large roll of material and a single journal. On top of it is a canvas bag, embroidered with the letter K. Maybe I’m not meant to read the books; maybe I’m meant to find something else. The bag is still now. Perhaps it was just my imagination.
Afraid to go near it, I glance at the door. I wouldn’t be brave enough to touch it if I was alone. But I’m not. Stig is here. I can call him if I need to.
Swallowing my fear, I reach inside and lift out the bag. The material is stained and tatty and smells of mothballs. Opening the string, I find a rag doll. I tip it onto the floor and it lands against the chest, head slumped on its body. Strands of yellow wool have been sewn on as hair, but are faded from age. Its arms and legs are basic: white material stuffed into lumpy shapes, roughly stitched together with black thread.
I take the journal from the chest and look inside to see the name Karina – my great-grandmother. Not wanting to touch the doll, I reach out with the book, planning to scoop it up and drop it back inside. Before I can touch it, the doll slips to one side. For a sickening moment, it seems to jerk its arm.
The face that gazes up at me is innocent enough: a red line for lips and a delicate nose. It has black cross-stitches for one eye, but the other is missing. I sit back on my heels, my heart beating sideways in my chest. Someone has unpicked the eye on the left side of its face.