She had beautiful eyes, my grandma. Light-gray and mottled, like polished granite. Until the cataracts came creeping over her corneas like misty white rot, taking her sight just as the dementia would take her mind.
“What did you say?” a voice behind me asks. I jump and whip around.
It’s Max. He’s wearing his retro knitted cardigan again, one hand massaging his neck.
“God, you scared me,” I say. He smirks.
“Did you think it was the ghosts of Silvertjärn coming to chase us away?”
“Haha,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “Very funny.”
“This place is kinda spooky, though,” he says, looking around as he steps toward me. He stops next to me and looks up at the school. “You can see why people think it’s haunted.”
“Apparently,” I agree, shoving my freezing hands into the front pouch of my sweater. “Emmy got woken up when Tone went to pee in the night. She saw her through the windshield and thought it was an evil spirit or something. I’m surprised you didn’t hear anything.”
“Woah, shit,” says Max, looking surprised. “No, I slept like a log.”
I roll my eyes.
“Typical.”
Max grins and then looks around at the fallen-in roofs.
“Weird no one’s done this before,” he says. “I mean, the story has it all, and you couldn’t ask for a better setting. Don’t you ever wonder why none of those ghost-hunter programs that were so popular a few years ago did a special out here?”
“Too far,” I say. “There are plenty of supposedly haunted manors around Stockholm and Malmö.”
“I guess,” says Max.
Seeing me huddle up slightly, he puts his arms around me and gives me a rub to warm me up.
“Shall I try and rustle up some breakfast for us?” he asks. “Not meaning to boast, but my scout group voted me best campfire chef four years running.”
I snigger, gently twisting out of his arms.
“Bullshit. Like you were ever a Boy Scout.”
He grins.
“Maybe not,” he says, “but I can probably put something together. I’m not just here to be your dead weight of a backer—I can help out, too.”
“As camp chef?” I ask, and he gives a cheeky grin.
“Chef, eye candy, mother’s dream,” he says. “Whatever you need.”
* * *
As Max gets a flickering little fire going and toasts us some bread, the others emerge one by one. Emmy’s in a new T-shirt that’s almost as shabby as yesterday’s, under the same jacket Robert was wearing. I assume they’re a couple.
I’m expecting a nod, some sort of lighthearted reference to last night to clear the air, but nothing comes. Emmy hardly even looks at me. I feel a twinge of disappointment, but then again this is nothing new. She was always pretty sluggish after those wild, late-night dorm parties. She would lie in late, while I would be there cleaning, doing the laundry, and making huge breakfasts that she would hardly touch, just to keep my restlessness at bay.
But at the time it never bothered me. We were in tune. In those days even our breathing seemed to find a shared rhythm.
When the memories come, I want to resist them. I’ve been trying my best to keep Emmy out of my thoughts for seven years now, and I’ve gotten pretty good at it, but it’s harder to do that with her actually here.
Once we’ve eaten, and drank our thick, black instant coffee served in cheap white polystyrene cups, I clear my throat to get everyone’s attention. By now the sun has crept up into the sky, and dawn has turned into morning. I do my best to calm my nerves, and sit up a little straighter on my camping mat.
“Are we all nice and full?” I ask, then immediately regret it; I sound like a perky kindergarten teacher. Emmy’s raised eyebrow and the others’ puzzled looks don’t help, but Max nods and smiles, at least.
“I was thinking we could run through the schedule. Then we can assign tasks and get going. Sound OK?”
Emmy shrugs.
“Fine,” she says.
“OK,” I say, looking down at my papers.
The schedule I’ve drawn up looks so amateurish now that I see it again. Times New Roman, size 12, cheap A4 paper. I should probably have had it laminated.
I’ll have to just try and own it.
“Today and tomorrow are all about trying to get a feel for this place. In your packs you’ll find a list of eight key locations: the school, the ironworks, the church, the train station, Elsa and Aina’s house, Birgitta’s house, the parsonage, and the lake. These are the locations that we feel are the most relevant to the investigation, and the most important to scout. We’ll take the lake on the final day, in case we want to give it a bit more time. As far as we know, no one has explored it before, so we’ve brought some diving equipment with us.”
Robert sticks up his hand, and I lose my train of thought.
“Uh, yes?”
He puts his hand down and scratches his neck self-consciously. It makes me forgive him the interruption. Despite being Emmy’s friend—boyfriend, fuck-buddy, partner, whatever—he comes across as a pretty nice guy; shy and polite, in an almost old-school way.
“How have you chosen which locations are relevant?” he asks.
I throw a quick glance at Tone, who looks unlikely to jump in and help me out any time soon.
“These are the places where we think we might be able to find something—any new information, leads as to what might have happened,” I say.
Emmy raises her eyebrows.
“Actually, I’ve been wanting to ask you about that,” she says. “In the pitch you say we’re going to investigate what really happened to the people of Silvertjärn, but what are the chances of us actually finding anything? It feels pretty risky to promise something like that. I mean, the police investigated the disappearance, right? Seems unlikely we’ll just stumble over evidence they didn’t find. This isn’t Midsomer Murders—it’s not like we’re about to suddenly discover Pastor Mattias’s secret diary or something.”
I can feel my cheeks burning, but it’s because she’s right—both about the situation, and about the secret hopes I’ve entertained, which she’s now describing in her deliberate, mocking tone. Of course I’m hoping for a breakthrough, to find something no one knew about, to crack the Silvertjärn mystery. And of course I know that it’s unlikely to the point of impossible. But it doesn’t mean a girl can’t dream.
“We aren’t promising anything,” I snap. “And the police investigation mainly focused on the forests. It’s quite possible that they missed something.”
Emmy says nothing, just looks me in the eye without blinking.
“In any case, the places we’ve selected are also the most relevant thematically,” I round off, trying to sound like I haven’t just lost my temper. “I think we should focus on the school, the ironworks, and the train station today. You should all have copies of the maps from the mining company report in your packs. I’ve marked the locations on each map. There are a couple we aren’t completely sure about—the parsonage and my great-grandmother’s house are educated guesses, based on information from the letters and my grandmother’s descriptions, so we’ll do them last.”
I’ve barely finished my sentence when Emmy jumps in again. Her pack is lying open in her lap, and she speaks without looking at me. Her eyes are on the maps, and there’s a frown on her face.
“Why isn’t the mine on the list?” she asks. “Or, if it is, it isn’t marked on the maps. We should try to get some shots in there. It should be pretty atmospheric, especially if we want to give some context as to how the community changed after it shut.”
“It’s not safe,” I say. “The ground’s too unstable, especially near the shaft. Apparently the ores in this area were very close to the surface, so the mine was shallow, and no one’s maintained the passages since. There’s a serious risk of collapse. That’s partly why the surveyors who came here in the nineties didn’t recommend reopening the mine.”
&
nbsp; I can’t help adding:
“It’s all in the report.”
Emmy flicks through her pack. I swallow and continue:
“Apparently that’s also why there’s no signal out here, either.”
Emmy looks up.
“Because the ground’s been excavated?” she asks, her eyebrows raised.
“No,” I say, “because the ores are so close to the surface. Something about … magnetic fields.”
“Ah,” Emmy scoffs, smirking. “Magnetic fields. Very scientific. Of course.”
“Yes,” I say.
I feel thrown, but I give my head a quick shake and look back down at my schedule.
“Yes,” I repeat. “So let’s see…”
Tone rescues me.
“Take a lot of pictures. We have three really nice system cameras to share.”
Robert raises his hand again.
“Yes?” I ask.
“It would be good if we could get as many pictures as possible of the places we want to film in,” he says cautiously. “Just so I can see how the light is and all that, what time of day would be best for filming where. I don’t know if you have a more detailed schedule for the shoot, but if not then that could be good to have.”
“He’s right,” I say to the others. “Tone, too. Take a lot of pictures. Both artistic, and anything that can help us with the logistics.”
“Are we going to start shooting straightaway, or do you want to wait and have a day just for scouting?” Emmy asks. “And could we get a preliminary script and long-term production plan, too? They aren’t in the packs.”
I look at Tone. Our preliminary script and production plan are both very sketchy, essentially just rambling thoughts in a Word document—definitely nothing I have any desire to show Emmy. But Tone’s eyes give nothing away: either she doesn’t see my concern, or she’s putting up a front so as not to show the others.
I look back at Emmy and say:
“We … don’t have everything here with us. But you’re more than welcome to take a look at what we do have.”
“Great,” says Emmy.
I tuck my hair behind my ear. Despite having washed it just before we left, it already feels flat and greasy.
“We’ll pair up,” I say. “I don’t want anyone going into any buildings alone. They’ve been abandoned for almost sixty years, which means they could be extremely unstable. Be really careful with steps and basements; avoid them if you have even the slightest concern.” I continue: “We have some basic safety equipment for everyone. The protective masks aren’t particularly attractive, but it’s important to wear them when you go inside any buildings. There’s a pretty high chance there’ll be asbestos in some of the houses, especially those built when the mine expanded during the war. We don’t know what there might be in terms of mold and all that, either, so wear the masks, even if they’re uncomfortable.” I pause and think for a moment, but I’m pretty sure I’ve covered everything. I don’t really know how wind up, so I say: “And, last but not least, have fun.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth I realize how wrong they sound.
“How will we communicate with each other?” Emmy asks. “My phone’s a brick, and I haven’t had signal since we left the highway.”
“Oh! Yes,” I say. “Walkie-talkies. We have some walkie-talkies.”
“How come they work when the phones are dead?” Emmy asks.
I throw a look Tone’s way, and she gives a faint smile.
“Well, we don’t actually know that they work here,” she says. “But the guy we spoke to said they should. I didn’t completely understand his explanation, but with them the connection is more local, so apparently the signal doesn’t cut out in the same way.”
“He said we can expect some interference, but they should work,” I say. “And if all goes according to plan then we won’t even need them,” I add. “They’re like the masks—we have them just in case.”
Emmy nods.
“OK,” she says. “Great. So can we choose our own partners?”
“There aren’t so many to choose from,” Tone remarks dryly. “Alice and I thought we’d start with the school. It’d be good if the other pair could take the ironworks and then work their way back here.”
I turn to Max.
“Do you mind staying here with the vans and equipment?” I ask. “It would be good if someone could do that every day, I think. Just in case. We can take it in turns.”
Max salutes.
“Your wish is my command,” he says. “You’re the producer.”
I smile gratefully.
I look at the others, feel my smile grow, and let that tingling feeling spread across my whole body.
“OK,” I say. “Then let’s get our equipment on and get going.”
NOW
I wish we had recordings of Silvertjärn as it looked in its heyday, before the mine shut. All we have are a few dim, shaky images in black-and-white and sepia. I plan to post them all on Instagram later, and to use them in any pitches to possible sponsors and grant applications, but it’ll be hard to incorporate them into the documentary itself in a slick way. We’ll have to hope that the material we get on this trip is strong enough to speak for itself. It should be.
The school’s rough plasterwork has acquired a sickly, grimy, grayish hue, and the window frames are chipped and splintered, most of them gaping empty. It’s hot and stuffy under my respirator mask, and the band chafes over my ears. I feel claustrophobic wearing it, but when we stop at the top of the crumbling front steps into the school I’m glad I have it.
Light floods into the hallway through the giant windows, revealing whirling specks of dust. Even through the air filter I can tell it smells of mold and old paper in here. We step cautiously into the little lobby, which, with its cream walls and sturdy wooden floor, is anonymous enough to belong to any Swedish institution. Were it not for the clumps of peeling paint and the bulging, warped floorboards, this could just as well be a dentist’s waiting room.
I hear a jittery laugh and turn toward Tone. She’s looking straight up at the imposing staircase leading up to the second floor.
“What are you laughing at?” I ask.
“Huh?” Tone asks, peeling her eyes away from the staircase to look at me.
“What are you laughing at?”
“I didn’t laugh,” she says. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Oh. I thought I heard something,” I say, and her eyes narrow from the smile under her mask.
“Ghosts,” she says, and I roll my eyes.
“Max was going on about ghosts earlier, too,” I say. “Maybe we should forget about the documentary and make a horror film instead.”
“You do look like you could be in a slasher film in that mask,” she says, her teasing tone of voice audible even through her mask. “Michael Myers meets Darth Vader.”
“That can be plan B,” I say, taking in the staircase in front of us. “If we don’t find anything interesting enough for a documentary.”
“I doubt you’ll have to worry about that,” she mutters.
In the stillness of the abandoned building I can almost hear Grandma’s voice again.
It was only a village, but it had everything you could need. There was a church that held services every Sunday—which was where my parents got married—a little grocery store, and a pharmacy. Twice a month a doctor passed through town to tend to any scratches or scrapes, but for anything more serious you would have to drive to the general hospital down in Sundsvall. And there was a school, of course.
The staircase before us is made of wood, not stone, which is a bad sign. On the other hand, it does look in better shape than the rest of the building. The steps are lined with what must once have been a thick, burgundy carpet, but which years of sun and rain and snow have faded and thinned to the extent that only a few ruffled patches remain, like the pelt of a mangy animal.
“Let’s start down here,” I say to Tone.
In prepa
ration for this trip, I’ve spent many a long night on a forum for urban explorers. Most of them seem to be based in the United States and Germany, and they spend their nights and weekends exploring abandoned houses and buildings on the outskirts of cities. It’s their tips I’ve used on which respirator masks to wear, what equipment we need to carry, and the safety rules to live by, namely: never take a staircase without checking how stable it is; always tread carefully; and keep an eye out for patches of damp or mold that could have weakened weight-bearing beams and walls.
The lobby gives out onto two corridors, one to the left and one to the right. I gesture to the corridor on the right with a quick jerk of the head, and Tone nods.
The first door we come to leads to a bathroom with four compact cubicles. Tone has the camera in her hand and takes a few quick snaps, but there’s nothing too noteworthy here: tiles with dirty grouting; old-fashioned sinks in cracked porcelain; cubicle doors hanging off their hinges. I touch one of them but the hinge is more rust than metal, and the wood disintegrates beneath my fingers.
We move swiftly on into the first classroom. There are rows of desks with tiny Windsor chairs. For some reason the size of the chairs make the whole sight even more disconcerting. Some of the desks have lost their legs and collapsed, but most of them seem to be more or less intact. There’s a large slate chalkboard on the far wall, but nothing is written on it.
The next two doors lead to an identical classroom and a small broom closet. Then the corridor ends. Tone takes a shot of the dead end without a word, and then we wander back along the row of shattered windows.
The corridor on the other side is exactly the same. In one of the classrooms the chalkboard has fallen from the wall and shattered into large black chunks on the floor. Tone lifts the camera to her eyes, but then lowers it again.
“Isn’t it kinda weird?” she asks, without turning around. She takes a few steps into the room, toward the windows.
“What?” I ask from the doorway.
The Lost Village Page 6