Eighteen Below

by Stefan Ahnhem

  She also laid out blankets on the floor and strung clotheslines from which to hang cloth, creating what Esmaralda called a “spirit room.” For the final touch, she gathered up all the tea lights she could find and placed them in a ring as protection from evil powers.

  No one else was home, so they could have their séance without being disturbed, which Esmaralda said was incredibly important. If you didn’t end it the right way, the spirit might hang around for a long time afterward.

  Matilda had heard quite a bit about playing “spirit of the glass” from her classmates. Someone knew someone who had learned the winning lottery numbers, but hadn’t believed it, only to realize later that they had been correct. Someone else had peed their pants in the middle of the séance, and she had seen online how one boy became possessed and his whole body started shaking.

  But according to Esmaralda, there was nothing to be afraid of as long as you were aware of what you were doing and showed respect for the spirit world. For example, you were not supposed to play “spirit of the glass” but use the real thing, a Ouija board. Because it wasn’t a game at all; it was a tool to contact the other side.

  At five o’clock on the dot, the doorbell rang and Matilda jumped up to answer it.

  “Hi, I did exactly what you said.” Matilda closed the door behind Esmaralda, who nodded and looked around without saying anything.

  Although she was only Matilda’s age, thirteen, Esmaralda possessed a calm that was normally seen in much older people. “I’m glad we’re the only ones here,” she said, starting down the basement stairs.

  Matilda followed her in through the curtains that enclosed the spirit room as she tried to figure out how Esmaralda could possibly know they were alone.

  “It looks really nice.” Esmaralda turned to Matilda with a smile. “You light the candles and I’ll get out the Ouija board.”

  Matilda took out the lighter she’d found at the bottom of a box of cigarettes up in her mom’s studio, and lit the circle. Meanwhile, Esmaralda took off her shabby leather shoulder bag, sat on the floor, and pulled out a chipped wooden box covered in carvings that had once been sharp and clear but had been worn down with time.

  “My dad found this up in the attic of a dead person’s house almost forty years ago,” she said, as she gently unlatched the box and took out the planchette — the heart-shaped pointer with a hole at its tip. Then she unfolded the box completely and placed it carving-side up.

  Only then could Matilda see that the worn carvings were in fact letters — the entire alphabet, except for the Swedish letters å, ä, and ö, curved across the board in two lines. Under the arched letters was a row of numbers, starting with one and ending with zero on the far right. The word yes was way up in the left-hand corner, next to a sun, and across from it, next to a half-moon, was the word no.

  But it was the words at the very bottom that made Matilda realize this was serious.

  GOOD BYE

  “Put one of your fingers here.” Esmaralda placed her own index finger on the planchette, and Matilda sat down next to her and did the same.

  “Are there any friendly spirits in the room?” Esmaralda said. They spent a few minutes waiting in silence, but nothing happened. “I asked, are there any friendly spirits in the room?” she repeated, without taking her finger from the planchette.

  Still nothing happened, and after a while Esmaralda asked again. How long were they going to keep doing this? Matilda honestly didn’t know what to think. She’d looked forward to this moment so much. She’d imagined it so many times. All that expectation. The butterflies in her stomach that had been there since this morning. And now it suddenly felt like all of that had just vanished, and all she could think of was how hard the floor was and how her arm was getting tired from holding it out.

  When something finally did happen, Matilda thought at first that she had accidentally pushed the planchette, causing it to move. But it wasn’t her. It was moving on its own. Slowly at first, but then faster and faster across the arches of letters and the row of numbers. “Are you doing that, or is it someone else?” she asked. She could hear the discomfort in her own voice. What had she gotten herself into?

  Esmaralda didn’t answer. Instead she sat with her eyes closed and didn’t appear to be having any trouble following the sometimes-sudden movements of the planchette. Only when it slowed down and eventually stopped did she open her eyes and look at Matilda. “It just wanted to control the board. They always do, at first.”

  Matilda was about to say something, but she fell silent as Esmaralda put a finger to her lips. “Do we have any friendly spirits in the room?”

  After a few seconds, the pointer began to move up toward the sun, and it stopped at yes.

  It had to be Esmaralda moving it. Who else could it be? Not Matilda, anyway.

  “What’s your name?” asked Esmaralda, who didn’t seem frightened at all.

  The planchette moved almost immediately. As if it knew exactly where it was going. It stopped in the middle of the top arch of letters, and Matilda could clearly see the letter G through the hole. Then it moved down and to the left, stopping at R. The next stop was straight up, to the letter E, and then down to the right to T, ending on the far left-hand side of the top row.

  “Greta. The spirit’s name is Greta.”

  Esmaralda nodded. “Now you ask her something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  Matilda shook her head. She couldn’t think of anything. Although she had been looking forward to this at least a thousand times more than Christmas Eve, ever since Esmaralda confided in her that she’d had contact with the other side, she felt totally drained right now and couldn’t come up with a single question. It suddenly felt completely banal to ask about winning lottery numbers. The same went for whether she would fall in love with any of the guys in her class.

  What she really wanted was to drag the planchette down to GOOD BYE, bring this to a close, and run up to her room. But she couldn’t. They had decided to do this, and Esmaralda had taken the time to come over with the Ouija board even though her dad would be mad as hell if he found out. Plus, what if Greta, if she really did exist, was waiting for her to ask a question? Maybe that was exactly what she should do, if only to make it stop. And there was something she had been wondering about for a long time. Ever since before they’d moved away from Stockholm.

  “Okay, here’s a question.”

  “Just ask it, as clearly as you can.”

  “My dad. Has he been, like, unfaithful?”

  The pointer didn’t move. It was suddenly as though it had grown roots into the board, and she found herself hoping it wouldn’t answer. Hoping there were no spirits, just like Dad said. But then it did start to move; it wasn’t very fast, but it clearly moved to the left-hand corner.

  No.

  Something inside her relaxed. But the pointer didn’t stop there; it slid down to the letters. Apparently it wasn’t finished yet.

  “Is that you?” she asked Esmaralda, but the only response was a short, barely visible head shake.

  First a B, and then fast, across the board, to a U, and then right next door, to T. It was moving quickly now. Almost too quickly to follow. Maybe that was a Y and then an O, followed by U and R. She wasn’t quite sure. At least, she hoped she wasn’t. But she had seen it, although she didn’t want to, and despite the fact that she closed her eyes for the last three letters she knew exactly what they were.

  “I don’t want to do this anymore. You have to leave.” Matilda took her hand from the planchette.

  BUT…

  “I can’t.” Esmaralda tried to put Matilda’s hand back on the pointer. “If we don’t say thank you and ask it to return to the other side, there’s a chance —”

  “I said I don’t want to!”

  YOUR…

  Matilda p
ushed the Ouija board away and stood up. “I want you to leave! Do you hear me? I want you to get out of here!”

  MOM.

  28

  Chris Dawn had only been trapped for a few hours, but his body was already shaking uncontrollably from the cold. He guessed that the freezer was already well below freezing. And judging by the sound of the compressor and the ticking of the cooling element, the temperature was still falling.

  About an hour ago he had given up his fruitless attempts to get out by force, and instead began to think about ways to retain as much of his body heat as possible. Most of it was lost through the head; he knew that much. So he had taken off one sock, squeezed it onto his head like a hat, and stuck both feet in the other. That was it for ideas, aside from tucking his shirt into his pants and curling into a ball to make himself as small as possible.

  There was a bottle of vodka in one corner, and he would readily admit that he was tempted. But thus far he had managed to keep from opening it, well aware that the warmth that came from alcohol was perilous. His body would start to think it was actually warm and dilate his blood vessels, which would only make him cool down faster.

  Chris wasn’t prepared to die just yet. Not before he discovered what this was all about. Who was the man in the coveralls, and what was he after? If it was just money, there were much easier ways to get it. Chris kept almost no cash in the house. It was all in the bank, secured in various funds. Aside from Jeanette’s jewellery and the vintage wines in the basement, only the cars and the studio equipment were worth anything. Sure, there was quite a bit of art on the walls, but as soon as it was reported stolen it would be nearly impossible to sell on the open market.

  At least Chris had been able to answer one pressing question: yesterday’s mysterious incidents. The shadow sweeping by in the surveillance video from the garage, the door in the laundry room standing ajar, and the remote on the passenger seat of the Camaro. Obviously the man in the coveralls had been there to copy the activation signal for the gate. Chris had heard of equipment that was capable of such a thing. How else could the man have brought the truck onto the property without Chris noticing sooner?

  But that still didn’t explain why. What was the point of all this, aside from making him suffer? Because he was suffering. Anyone who claimed that freezing to death was painless didn’t know what they were talking about. The cold was biting. Like millions of tiny, invisible teeth whose sharp points dug into him wherever they could reach.

  His thoughts were interrupted and Chris’s ears perked up. The man was coming down the hall again. He could hear those heavy boots against the floor. His floor, in his house. The thought of a stranger wandering around his house made him absolutely furious. The first few times, he had yelled and banged on the sides of the freezer as hard as he could to attract the man’s attention. He’d shouted at him to let him out and explain what was going on. He had even promised him money, millions of kronor. He’d offered to go to the bank as soon as it opened on Monday. But the man just kept walking.

  This time, though, Chris wasn’t going to shout. He planned to do the opposite — lie still and see what happened. Listen and play dead. This was the best plan he could come up with. A last resort. Play dead and hope that the man noticed and came over to check. And then — watch out. He would fly up like a jack-in-the-box and throw himself on top of the man.

  The hum of the compressor suddenly ceased. This was the first time that had happened, and it meant either that the man had pulled the plug or the temperature had reached its set point. Probably the latter. The good news was Chris had a much easier time hearing what was going on outside.

  The man had definitely stopped nearby, and a little melody started playing. Chris recognized it — “Ordinary World” by Duran Duran. Jeanette’s favourite song. Hold on, it was coming from his phone, which meant Jeanette was calling. No one else was assigned that ringtone.

  The song stopped, and Chris could almost hear the man putting the phone in his pocket. But instead of moving on, he stayed put. He must have noticed the silence. Chris’s body wanted to shake, but he couldn’t let it. Not now. He had to hold perfectly still, ready to pop up. He would only get one chance.

  The man approached. Chris could hear his steps and a hand running over the lid, stroking it as if it were a pet. The sound of keys. Soon he would hear one of them sliding into the lock and turning. No shaking. For God’s sake, no shaking. Just stay perfectly still and hold your breath.

  The sound of the compressor starting up again was totally unexpected, and Chris couldn’t keep himself from startling and knocking one elbow into the side with a heavy thud. Shit. Shit, shit, shit…He couldn’t hear, the compressor was far too loud, but the keys were almost definitely back in the man’s pocket. There was no way he hadn’t heard that. Chris was about to break down. But what was the point? He was screwed either way. He had given himself away, and he wouldn’t get another chance.

  He didn’t even know if that was the reason.

  All he knew was that he could no longer resist.

  His shaking hand was so stiff that it took all his strength to wrap it around the lid. He held the bottle in both hands as he brought it to his lips, to keep from dropping it. The liquid burned in his mouth, and as he swallowed, it left a warm trail on its way down his throat.

  He took a few more sips, truly enjoying the warmth that spread through his stomach and out into his body. Why hadn’t he done this earlier? Now he could take that stupid sock off his head and relax. After another few sips, his body even stopped shaking.

  29

  Dunja’s shift was long over, yet she was still in Helsingør, trying to pass the time until Søren Ussing and Bettina Jensen went home. Dunja knew she should just let it go, but she couldn’t. Especially once she heard how far the two detectives had gone off track. Ib Sveistrup could say whatever he wanted. Dunja wasn’t going to go around being visible in her uniform. She was going to investigate, and this was her investigation.

  Dunja had managed to kill two hours at the Helsingør pool, a few minutes’ walk from the station. She had done almost fifty laps there, and she could have done fifty more if it hadn’t been for the guy who kept crowding into her lane with his breaststroke.

  She had assumed it was an accident the first time, but when Dunja swam past him a second time and felt his hand slide along her body, she got fed up and went to sit in the sauna for half an hour. After that she wasted another hour or so by wandering aimlessly around the shops across the street from the station. They ranged from extremely exciting places like the Kvickly grocery store and Maxi Zoo pet food chain to the Jysk home store, where she tested out an inflatable mattress until a salesperson came over and woke her up.

  Now she was back outside the front entrance of the station, where she confirmed that the receptionist had gone home. The lobby was open to staff for another hour and twenty minutes. But she didn’t want to swipe her card and be registered in the system. So instead she waited for one of the patrol cars to come in at shift change, and she followed it in through the garage.

  After that, all she had to do was walk by the sea of cubicles, the many desks empty and deserted until Monday, nod at the cleaner, and keep walking, looking natural and confident. Ussing and Jensen’s office was across the room, flanked by a conference room on one side and Sveistrup’s office on the other.

  Dunja closed the door behind her and pulled the curtains, then started to look through the investigation files. The picture of the bloody woman, the one she’d given to Sveistrup, was on the whiteboard. Next to it was the name Sannie Lemke, written in red marker; the notes said she was the sister of the victim, Jens Lemke. So they had identified both of them, which was more than she’d expected. They’d also found traces of blood in the abandoned building on Stengade and had sent a sample for analysis.

  Beyond this, the whiteboard was empty. Just as she’d feared, at the focus of their investi
gation was Sannie. Dunja saw no sign of an idea or theory that pointed in any other direction. They had already made up their minds.

  The autopsy report lay open on one of the desks. Oscar Pedersen, the medical examiner from Copenhagen, had performed it, and although Dunja found Pedersen off-putting in every way, he was still one of the best pathologists in the country.

  Every single one of Jens Lemke’s twenty-four ribs had been broken. Many in multiple locations. He had suffered a total of fifty-nine fractures. From this information, Pedersen had drawn the conclusion — just as she had — that the perpetrator had jumped full-force on the victim’s chest, repeatedly and with both feet. Rib after rib had cracked until both heart and lungs were unprotected and, a few jumps later, crushed. It was impossible to say whether the cause of death was due to the destroyed lungs or to cardiac arrest, because the organs were so damaged that they couldn’t be examined.

  Furthermore, the toxicology report showed traces of both opiates and alcohol, and an analysis of the stomach contents determined that the alcohol had come from whiskey. Pedersen had marked this last fact with two question marks and an exclamation point in a parenthetical addition.

  From what Dunja could see, there was nothing remarkable to be found in the report itself. But it did give her something to think about. Like the stomach contents. It was no surprise that there were traces of narcotics and alcohol. The homeless often abused a variety of substances and took whatever they could get. Whiskey, though, was not the sort of thing they would usually spend money on. It was both expensive and difficult to consume in large amounts. In other words, he’d either come across it during a break-in, or someone had given it to him.