A forlorn face with dark eyes and long wavy hair peers down from the shadows. My breath stops in my chest and goose pimples prick my arms. I cry out and Stig wakes with a start. I point and he looks upward. The shadows gather into the shape of a woman’s torso. Below that they trail into threads of nothing, like a rag doll that’s been ripped apart.
Stig shakes his head and looks confused. He doesn’t see it. I press my palm to my left eye and the ceiling looks normal. When I take my hand away, the shadows congeal. The head twists and two dark eyes lock onto mine. I gasp and grab Stig’s arm.
‘Martha, what is it? What’s there?’
‘A face in the shadows,’ I whisper.
‘Faen.’
‘It’s watching us,’ I hiss.
Stig jumps up from the sofa and tries the light switch – nothing. None of the lights are working. He grabs the torch from the dresser. ‘Where is it now?’ he asks, aiming the beam at the ceiling. The woman glares at me and opens her mouth in a silent scream. Stig shines the torch on her and the shadows scatter like cockroaches.
My shoulders drop with relief. ‘It’s gone.’
‘Are you sure?’
I glance around the room, my heart thudding, but there’s nothing. No weird movements and no scary face. ‘The light must have chased it away.’
A low growl makes us both startle. Gandalf is staring fixedly at the wood stove, the fur on his back bristling. My voice sounds small and forced. ‘Hey, what is it, boy?’ Gandalf gives a slight twitch of his tail but doesn’t turn to face me.
There’s another face, in the stove door. As if someone’s trapped inside, looking out. It starts to disappear slowly, then vanishes all at once, like the imprint of a hand on glass. Gandalf whimpers as a new image appears: this one is an angry face, its mouth twisted in rage.
‘What is it? What’s there?’ Stig’s voice is urgent.
I stare at the stove, my mind racing. The faces appear in dark corners; the movement I saw before was in the deepest shadows. ‘Quick, we need more light! I think the darkness makes it easier for them to form.’
Stig rushes to the kitchen and lights several lamps. He returns and hands me one. ‘Why can’t I see them?’
‘I don’t know. I can only see them with my left eye. The one that’s blind.’
Stig frowns at me, unsure.
I glance into the dark corner of the kitchen and shiver. Yesterday the cabin felt empty without Mormor here. Now it’s thick with ghosts. How many faces are waiting to form in the shadows? Thoughts crowd my mind, making me feel dizzy. What do the ghosts want from us …? Can they touch us, or hurt us?
Stig tries the light switch again – nothing – then stares about like a trapped animal. He reaches for the curtain, even though it must be pitch black outside, and tugs it open. A horde of desperate faces stares in. Sad eyes widen in fear; mouths open and close. I scream and Gandalf barks frantically.
Stig drops the curtain. ‘What’s there?’
I cover my mouth with my hand. So many of them and so pitiful! They must have formed in the condensation, the same as the face in the mirror. I try to speak but the words are like stones in my mouth.
‘Martha, please. You’re scaring me.’
I push my fear to the pit of my belly. ‘Faces – dozens of them. They were piled up on one another, like, like a burial mound. Like in the drawing.’
Stig takes a box of candles from a drawer of the dresser. He hastily lights them and puts them all around the room. Before long, dozens of candles flicker around us. It looks like something from the set of a witchcraft movie.
He stops and catches his breath. ‘Are they gone now?’
I look around me, but everything seems normal. ‘Yes, I think so.’
A distant howl.
My fingernails dig into my palms.
Stig rushes to the door and checks the bolt, which is still drawn from last night. ‘I’ll check all the windows are locked!’ He dashes from the room and I follow him. Standing between the lounge and bedrooms, I watch as he runs into Mormor’s room and rattles the window. He does the same in the spare room and the bathroom.
He darts past me. ‘You check the kitchen.’
I step into the lounge, then stop. There’s something in the middle of the floor.
The rag doll from the chest.
Its yellow hair is fanned out around its face, making it look even more grotesque than before.
‘But how?’ I mutter.
I watched Stig run in and out of Mormor’s room just now. He didn’t have time to go into the chest, even if he could have opened it and taken the doll without me seeing.
I step forward and a smell of mildew and rot fills my nose. When I found the books stacked by themselves, the doll was the only thing left in the chest. That, and Karina’s journal. A shiver runs through me. Somebody wants me to find the doll, but why?
Stig opens a kitchen cupboard and grabs a bottle of brandy. I watch as he takes a swig, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
The doll stares at the ceiling with its missing eye. It wears a stained dress, grey with age. The skirt is torn and frayed and one of the sleeves is ripped, exposing a lumpy mottled arm. It doesn’t have hands; the arms end in crude stubs. Gandalf sniffs at it suspiciously, then slinks away.
I kneel down and Stig mutters a warning. He drops the bottle of brandy and it rolls under the sofa. I reach out my hand, then sit back on my heels, a bitter taste in my mouth. Surrounded by flickering candles, the doll looks like some kind of sacrificial offering.
Another distant howl.
The image of Yrsa’s frozen face flashes into my mind.
Taking a deep breath, I hover my hand over the doll.
‘No, Martha! Don’t!’
I grasp the valknut charm around my neck and it instantly calms me. Without knowing or understanding what I’m doing, I focus my thoughts on the doll, until my consciousness becomes a single dot of intention. At the same time, part of my mind rushes away, expanding …
I touch the material and my eyes snap open.
The doll twitches its head. I hold my breath as it rolls over and slumps onto its front, then crawls towards me.
The floor slams into my cheek. Everything goes black.