The Twisted Tree

by Rachel Burge

  ‘She sounds like fun.’

  ‘She was.’

  A log shifts in the stove and our words die down with the flames.

  Stig’s voice is quiet. ‘I didn’t say before, but when I overheard the women at the harbour talking about this place being empty, I felt I had to come.’

  I wait for him to go on.

  ‘It was like my feet brought me here, without my knowing why. When I got to the cabin, I felt so bad about my Dad dying, and losing my money, I sat on the doorstep and cried.’

  I reach a hand to his, but he tucks his hair behind his ears before our fingers meet.

  ‘It was strange, but the door was open, like the cabin wanted me to come in.’

  It would have been just like Mormor to invite him inside. I take a trembling breath and Stig looks mortified.

  ‘Sorry, that was the wrong thing to say.’

  ‘No, it’s not that. So what made you run away?’

  He places his cup on the floor. ‘After Dad died, Mum let stupid Erik move in. He was always nagging me to get a haircut and wipe the mess off my face. He talked about Dad like he was some loser – like he was an angry drunk and we were lucky to be rid of him. We’d argue and Mum always took Erik’s side.’

  His face is shadowed in anger. ‘One day I found Dad’s coat in the dustbin. It was covered in herring and potato peelings. Mum knew what it meant to me, and she let Erik throw it away. I didn’t have a plan; I just left and found myself here.’

  ‘And then I showed up.’

  ‘Yeah!’ Stig laughs. ‘Then you showed up and it was terrifying!’

  I lean back and cross my arms. ‘I look that scary, do I?’

  He shakes his head and smiles. ‘The way you pointed your phone at me like it was a gun. And the way you yelled. Yes, you were scary!’

  His voice becomes serious. ‘I felt so bad telling you about your grandmother.’

  I hadn’t thought about it before, but it can’t have been easy for Stig either. I do my best to lighten the mood. ‘And then I threw you out and left you to freeze in the woodshed.’

  ‘I was lucky you let me stay!’

  I gesture to the journals. ‘Lucky? Are you sure about that?’

  ‘That … not so much. But being with you is nice.’

  I rest my head on his shoulder and gaze at the fire. His jumper holds fear and worry but there is contentment too. He enjoys my company and feels at home with me. A feeling of warmth spreads through my chest. I tug at the threads with my mind, wanting to find out more, but the harder I try, the more they evade me. It’s almost as if I want to know too badly. I give up with a sigh. If he does like me as more than just a friend, it is hidden deep.

  I snuggle closer to him and tell myself that everything will be OK. Mum will arrive in the morning. We just have to get through the night, like Stig says. I try not to think about the shadows in the corner of the room. Whatever’s there can’t be worse than what’s outside, and at least we have each other.

  Stig strokes my hair for a few minutes, and then his hand drops to his side. A yawn escapes me and I close my eyes.

  When I wake, the room is dark. The electric light in the living room must have packed up too. The flames in the stove have died to nothing; the only light is the red glow of the logs. Gandalf is growling softly in the back of his throat. I shiver and rub my arms, then lean over the back of the sofa to see what he’s looking at. He wags his tail and I shush him quiet.

  The wind has dropped and the cabin is eerily quiet, almost as if it’s holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. I glance at the door. With any luck, whatever was out there is miles away by now, but even so, the idea of a creature roaming the blackness … I don’t want to think about it.

  Gandalf growls again, louder this time. What’s got into him? I call his name softly, trying not to wake Stig, then reach out to pat him on the head. He backs away from me, his hackles raised. I follow his gaze and then I see it too – staring down at me from the ceiling.

  16

  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.

  17

  Don’t be afraid of the dark.

  I keep my eyes shut tight, too scared to move or speak.

  The voice whispers again. I know you’re afraid, but the darkness is your friend. I am your friend.

  The words are coming from inside my head. Only they’re not words; it’s a feeling, an impression, which I am putting into words. The voice belongs to me, but the thoughts do not. My brain throbs as I try to make sense of it all.

  Who are you?

  Karina. I’ve been trying to make you see me. I’ve come because you’re in danger.

  I nod, aware of the absurdity of answering my own thoughts.

  You must go to the tree. The Norns will help you put things right.

  I can’t go out there! Something inside me shrinks with fear. Where is Mormor? Why isn’t she speaking to me?

  Your grandmother is trapped at the tree, tormented by her regret. She died knowing she had failed to convince your mother to water it, and she feared that no one would.

  My stomach wrenches. What do you mean, trapped? Can’t you help her?

  You are the only one who can save her, Marta. You must go to the tree and get the dead back to the underworld.

  But how? I can’t! The draugr will rip me to shreds, just like Olav and Yrsa!

  Go to the tree. Don’t fear the Norns.

  For a while there is only silence and I wonder if she has gone. When she speaks again, her voice is urgent. Blow out the candles and keep quiet. Quick!

  Something touches my forehead and my eyes open. The room is on its side, the doll next to me, lifeless.

  ‘Martha? You fainted.’ Stig helps me to sit.

  ‘She wants me to blow out the candles.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My great-grandmother. She spoke to me through the doll.’

  ‘What? How?’ Stig nudges the doll with his foot and it flips onto its back. Seeing it move again makes me feel queasy, but I don’t think Karina meant to scare me.

  Mormor warned never to leave a candle burning because it might attract a draugr. A gasp escapes me. What have we done? I wanted to stop the faces forming, but we’ve lit a beacon for the creature – we’ve drawn it to us!

  I turn to Stig. ‘Quick, we have to blow out the candles.’

  He gives me an exasperated look. ‘But you said the darkness helps them to form.’

  ‘I know, but the light attracts the draugr!’

  The idea of being in the dark with the dead sends a chill through me, but what choice is there? At least I have Stig; I’m not on my own. Whatever’s in the cabin hasn’t hurt us, but if the draugr comes … My head sways as I get to my feet.

  I take a deep breath and blow out the nearest candle.

  Stig’s eyes widen in disbelief. I walk around, blowing out more candles. Instantly the shadows become darker. Something rises to my left: the vague outline of shoulders and a head. I turn and gasp as another figure looms up behind me.

  Stig catches my arm and spins me around. Fear and confusion flash across his face. ‘Martha, don’t.’

  ‘Just trust me, Stig. Please.’

  Gandalf snarls at the door. Bending down, I hold his head in my hands and peer into his eyes. ‘I know you’re afraid, but we have to be quiet. We can’t make a sound.’

  He licks my hand, and for a moment I’m convinced he actually understands. He jumps onto the sofa and curls up, and I pat his head. ‘Good boy. I love you, Gandalf.’

  I straighten and see Stig standing in the kitchen, surrounded by shadowy figures. My body tenses. For an awful moment he seems like one of them. One of the dead.

  Two lamps are flickering on the table. I point at them. ‘Please, Stig.’

  He shakes his head, refusing to move.

  I shut off their flames, plunging us further into darkness. Only one candle remains – on the shelf above the fire. I open the stove door and Stig grabs my shoulder. His jumper brushes me and I get a flash of his fear and powerlessness. Poor Stig can’t see what’s there; he can’t help or protect me. I have to be strong for us both.

  I squeeze his hand and he pleads at me with his eyes.

  ‘I know it seems crazy, but I know what I’m doing.’

  Stig moves back with a tiny nod. I throw ash over the embers, then take the last candle and step into the middle of the room. The air is icy and thick with shadows. A noise like rushing water fills my ears as shapes manifest in the darkness: a pair of bare feet with no legs; someone’s broad shoulders. The sound vibrates faster and a hand materialises in mid-air, just inches from my face. I jump back, terrified it will touch me. Shadows reach out from every side. I struggle to breathe.

  ‘What’s happening?’ cries Stig.

  I look at the wavering flame of the candle in my hand. Don’t fear the darkness, Martha. Don’t fear the darkness. Don’t fear the …

  The flame goes out, extinguished by an unseen force. I drop the candle and blackness devours the room. Stig pulls me onto the sofa and we sit huddled together, his arms around me. I can’t stop shivering; it’s like the cold is burrowing into my bones.

  I hide my face in Stig’s hair, then peep out and gasp. The air above our heads glows and pulsates. A group of women stand around us, shielding us in a bubble of light. I recognise Karina’s long wavy hair instantly. Next to her is the tiny lady I saw in the photo – Gerd with her feathered cloak, and Trine. I don’t know them all, but I know they are the women who went before me. My family.

  A dozen voices chant a hushed lullaby. I don’t understand what they mean, but the tone of their words is reassuring.

  ‘Ikke vær redd.’

  ‘Familien din er her.’

  ‘Vi er her for å hjelpe.’

 
‘What’s happening?’ Stig whispers. ‘Is there something here, in the room?’

  My mouth is too dry to speak. The light from the women starts to fade – I wish I could see his face, but all I can make out is the shape of his head and the glint of his eyes.

  Karina taps a finger to her lips.

  ‘Shh,’ I whisper to Stig.

  Everything is silent. The wind has died to nothing, as if the world no longer exists. Even the darkness holds its breath.

  Shuffling outside. Then a low, breathy snort.

  Stig’s arms tighten around me.

  Thump.

  The sound of laboured footsteps.

  Thump.

  It’s climbing the steps!

  The bubble of light around us shimmers and changes, partly obscuring the room.

  The ghostly women are still here, but their faces are blank. They have no features at all.

  A single, heavy blow at the door.

  I stiffle a sob.

  Pots and pans rattle as something slams against the outside of the kitchen wall.

  It’s moving, fast. Circling us. Trying to find a way in.

  Bang. Bang. Bang. Coming from above.

  I scream as deafening noise thunders above my head. The banging gets louder and faster, as if the creature is drumming its heels on the roof.

  The noise goes on and on. The terrible sound is more than I can bear. I press my hands to my ears. My heart feels like it will explode.

  Stig cries out, ‘Kjære Gud, få det til å stoppe!’

  And then it stops. Maybe the creature heard him.

  Gandalf whines and I lay a hand on him, every muscle in my body tense. My chest heaves and falls. There’s a sound of creaking wood and then the bottom chunk of the door is ripped away. I stare at the silvery moonlight that floods through the gap, the only light in the room.