Her stomach was a ball of anxiety when she woke in the morning. She extricated herself from Benjamin, who was wound around her like a creeping vine. She suspected she might have had a nightmare, but the feeling only got worse as she rose from the bed. The anxiety was making her almost nauseated. She cursed her mother — she must have inherited some sort of worry gene. There was no reason for this sudden anguish.
Two weeks had passed since the party for Strid. Oswald had remained in an unusually good mood since, joking and sharing little anecdotes with the staff during evening assembly. He’d almost completely stopped touching her that way. He brushed against her sometimes, or placed a hand on her shoulder while he spoke to her. But it felt friendly, and she sensed that maybe it always had been. Midsummer was just around the corner, the weather was lovely, and they had more guests than ever.
There was absolutely no reason to worry.
After a long, hot shower she felt a little better. Magnus Strid had woken something within her during their talk by the pond. She had started thinking about the future and what she would do when her contract with ViaTerra ran out. Maybe she could work at a paper. Or write that book. But she kept it all to herself, because she was sure Oswald wouldn’t approve.
She sat on the edge of the bed to shake Benjamin awake before she left the room, and reminded him he had morning assembly in fifteen minutes. She didn’t attend anymore. Instead she prepared the office for Oswald’s arrival, and put everything in place: breakfast, the morning papers, and a list of his daily engagements.
Although it was summer, there was a thick fog covering the property that morning. When she stepped into the office, her nervousness returned. She opened the blinds to let in some natural light, but the office still looked dim and grey so she turned on some lamps. She picked up the morning papers, which appeared each day through a slot in the door.
She didn’t usually read the papers, but that morning she browsed through them. She would never quite know what prompted her to do so. Maybe because she thought her bad mood was a result of something that had happened in the world. She did experience that sort of premonition from time to time.
She flipped through the papers, reading the headlines, but didn’t find anything noteworthy at first. Fresh opinion polls for all the political parties, weather forecasts for Midsummer, and an elder-care scandal. Then she got to Dagens Nyheter.
The headline was impossible to miss.
New cult dawning on West Fog Island. Is ViaTerra the path to freedom or the path to terror?
It was the daily editorial. Her first thought was that it must have been written by someone else. Some imbecile of a journalist who didn’t know the first thing about them. She quickly found the rest of the piece and there it was — a little picture of him. Magnus Strid, his hands over his round belly, that delightful smile on his face.
She buried her face in her hands and tried to get control of her breathing — she was suddenly panting. She stared at the darkness of her palms for a moment before looking back at the paper. The headline was still there.
It was eight o’clock. No word from Oswald. She had plenty of time to read. And read she must, before he arrived at the office.
She searched the text, trying to find something positive. This wasn’t right. Strid was supposed to write nice things about them. He had praised the program; he’d always seemed happy, hanging out with Oswald. It was like this article had been written by someone else. A horrid, scandal-hungry journalist.
On a tiny, foggy island off the coast of Bohuslän, a peculiar New Age movement has taken root. They promise a better civilization and fresh hope for humanity. The name of the cult is ViaTerra, and their slogan is ‘We walk the way of the earth.’ Their leader, twenty-eight-year-old University of Lund dropout Franz Oswald, claims that their goal is to save humanity from toxins, stress, and other evils. Their doctrine — eat health foods, sleep, and exercise — is written down in philosophical terms, yet it seems to be just good common sense, nothing you can’t do in your own living room or at the gym. A growing band of adherents pays hundreds of thousands of kronor to take part in this program and a few courses in self-discipline and relaxation methods.
Yet the most disturbing aspect is that ViaTerra seems to be a magnet for powerful players in influential circles, including the entertainment branch.
This cult — because it must be said that the operation fits into every definition of the word — claims that there is nothing strange about what they’re doing, and yet their messages and methods bear frightening similarities to other groups who exploit their staff and members. The young, devoted workers live in a collective, sleep in dormitories, earn a few hundred kronor a week, and obey Oswald’s every whim. And the same seems to go for our country’s upper classes and celebrities, who always seem ready to hop on the next train to find meaning and satisfaction in their superficial lives.
This was a disaster. Worse than a disaster. A death-blow. Oswald would turn this place into a raging inferno.
The article went on in the same tone, revealing what they worked on and which guests took part in the program. And the ending wasn’t any better.
It remains to be seen where this group, ViaTerra, is headed. The American author P.T. Barnum once wrote that there’s a sucker born every minute. After speaking with Oswald and many of his underlings, one can only confirm that Barnum’s words are as true today as they were in the 19th century.
She read the article again. A number of feelings spread through her as she did. Contempt, hatred, doubt, and fear blended into one. The doubt was mostly because there might be some truth to what Strid had written, because she couldn’t spot any lies. Just a fresh point of view. A critical one that didn’t want to see any positives. Then she thought of the book he’d borrowed from the library and wondered if he was a bit of a pervert. Or maybe she was the problem, if she couldn’t see the path ViaTerra was on. But mostly she was afraid of what Oswald would do when he arrived at the office.
She toyed with the thought of hiding the paper, but that seemed absurd. Maybe she could go back to her room and pretend to have a fever. Oswald was a hypochondriac and didn’t want sick people anywhere near him. This seemed like a good idea until she realized that someone would likely make her take her temperature. And wouldn’t it just be putting off the inevitable? All hell would break loose when he read the article. It would be a mess, and she wouldn’t get away unscathed.
Her pager buzzed with the usual message. He was on his way. She called the kitchen to order his breakfast. Time seemed to crawl by until he finally opened the door. He took one look at her shamed face and posture and knew something was wrong.
‘What is it?’
‘The article by Magnus Strid. It came out today.’ She tentatively held out the paper to him .
‘And of course you had to read it before I got the chance.’
‘I thought I should —’
He snatched the paper from her hand, sat down, and began to read. She sat down at her desk and watched him in silence. Even when her bum began to hurt, she didn’t dare change positions.
His face was impassive as he read; his features blank. Yet she could tell something was happening inside him because his jaw seemed to tense slightly and his skin slowly paled. Most of all, she sensed a horrible, dismal mood radiating off him and poisoning the air in the room. She suddenly became aware that he was looking at her. He hadn’t moved a muscle, but his eyes were no longer on the paper — they were riveted on her own. For an instant she thought he would fly out of his chair and strike her. But he stood up slowly and put the newspaper on his desk, then left the office without closing the door behind him. His determined steps echoed down the corridor.
That was the last she saw of him for three days.
*
If it hadn’t been for the kitchen staff, she would have worried something had happened to Oswald. But on the first day, he called to order food delivered straight to his room. Lina from the kitchen popped into the office to tell Sofia that ‘Mr Oswald ate a good lunch.’ Sofia relaxed. At the same time, the rumours about the article spread like wildfire among the staff and guests. A heavy, angsty mood fell over the manor. Grumpy faces and sad eyes everywhere. Bosse tried to pep up the staff at assembly, saying that Oswald would certainly help them out of their funk.
But no one knew what he was up to in his room.
Sofia walked around the office restlessly, with no idea what she should do. When she came in the next morning she found that the light on Oswald’s answering machine had gone nuts: he had twenty-five missed calls. She played the first message, which was from a journalist with Aftonbladet who wanted a comment on Strid’s article. The next message was from someone at Expressen. She unplugged the phone from its jack, sure that Oswald wouldn’t want to give any comments.
She began to clean and sort papers and finally, when the office was spic and span, she began to read a novel on her computer. After each chapter, she took a turn around the office and looked down at the yard.
Around ten o’clock, she noticed a gathering outside the wall. All journalists and photographers with still and video cameras. They must have come on the morning ferry.
She checked the newspapers online and found that her fears were confirmed. Other newspapers had climbed on board with Strid’s article, several with terrible speculations about what went on at the island. Her first thought was that her parents would faint when they saw this. But just as she was about to head for the staff office to get her phone and text them, there was a knock on the door. It was Lina from the kitchen.
‘Mr Oswald says you’re supposed to be there to meet the security firm when they come tomorrow morning.’
‘The security firm?’
‘Yes, he said they’re going to install a barbed-wire fence on the wall so none of the idiots can get over. Those were his exact words.’
Sofia thanked Lina, hurried to get hold of Bosse, and told him about Oswald’s strange message.
‘It’s not all that strange,’ he said. ‘There are tons of journalists out there. They would have no trouble climbing over the wall if they really wanted to get at us.’
*
Sure enough, the security firm showed up the next morning. Five men worked all day, before the eyes of curious journalists outside the wall and dumbfounded staff members inside. Slowly but surely, the fence took shape on top of the wall.
Sofia stood in the yard with Bosse, watching the wire wind its way around the property like a giant, razor-sharp snake. She’d always liked standing in the courtyard — such a nice mix of open space and nature. But now she thought it looked like a prison yard.
When it was all finished, the men approached her and Bosse.
‘It’s all done, just like your boss wanted,’ one of them said. ‘Now I’ll show you how to turn on the current.’
‘The current?’
‘Yes, the wire is electrified, just as he ordered.’ When the man saw the alarm on Sofia’s face, he merely laughed. ‘Don’t worry. It’s not that many volts. No one’s going to get electrocuted. But it will deliver a decent shock.’
Bosse followed the men to the sentry box where the switch had been installed. She stayed behind, staring at the fence. It was like a dream, a dream so clear and sharp that it felt more real than real life.
*
That evening Oswald came to the office. He looked well-rested and energetic and not nearly as downtrodden as she’d expected. His eyes glittered with fervour; he almost looked a little crazy. Even that arrogant little tilt of his head was back.
‘I want a meeting with the entire staff after dinner tonight,’ he said. ‘And I mean everyone. Every single person must be there.’
There’s a tiny closet on the ferry. It’s at the stern, where the cars are parked for their journey over. A tiny cleaning closet, not even high enough to stand up straight. But it’s never in use while the ferry is traveling across the sound.
I was in there with Lily once. I locked her in to scare her, but that’s another story, not important right now.
It’s five o’clock and I can already see the coming light of dawn. The darkness has transformed into a thick, grey haze.
Three hours in a cubbyhole, then one more on the way over. But it can’t be helped. This is the best hiding spot.
The odour of the fire has followed me here.
It’s still draped over the island like a blanket.
But the sound of cars, sirens, boats, and voices is gone. So they gave up. I no longer exist.
I crawl into the closet and prepare for hours of darkness inside. I know all about darkness.
The darkness of the cellar in the manor house.
His horrible stench of sweat.
You can’t see the blows coming.
I close the door behind me and sit down on a bucket. The words come to me, a mantra that will follow me on my journey.
‘Eradicated, risen again, returned.’ Like the bird rising out of the ashes.
All at once, I find myself outside. I can see the whole island from above.
The first rays of sun brushing the landscape. The trees, the houses, the sea.
I realize I have left my body.
That I have greater powers than I ever expected. And that life has phenomenal plans for me.