Fog Island: A terrifying thriller set in a modern-day cult

‘Seriously? You’re joking, right?’ Wilma asked.

‘Nope, I’m certainly not. It’s haunted by the Countess. I’ve seen her with my own two eyes.’

‘Tell us.’

So he told them, with such feeling and conviction that Sofia began to shiver. The fog slipped in under her clothes and settled on her skin like a cold blanket. Images flickered through her mind as he spoke. Creepy images she couldn’t shake off.

‘The manor house was built in the early 1900s. You don’t often see estates like it out in the archipelago because the islands were home mostly to fishermen and boatbuilders. Count von Bärensten was determined to live here, though, so he had that wretched place built. But you see, his wife, the Countess, grew restless out here. She took frequent trips to the mainland, where she fell in love with a sea captain she met in secret. One night when the fog was thick, the captain’s ship ran aground and sank just off the island. It was winter; the water was cold and everyone on board perished. A great tragedy, it was.’

‘Is that true, or just a tall tale?’ Wilma interrupted.

‘Every word is the truth. But listen now, because we’re almost to the island and I’ll have to dock the ferry.’

Wilma fell silent and they listened breathlessly as Björk went on.

‘When the Countess realized what had happened to the captain, she went out to a cliff we call Devil’s Rock and threw herself to her death in the icy water.’

Björk straightened his cap and shook his head in reflection.

‘And when the Count found out . . . something in his mind must have snapped, because he set fire to the manor house and shot himself in the head. If not for the servants, the whole mess probably would have burned down. They managed to save the house and the children, but the Count was dead as a doornail.

‘After the tragedy with the ship, they installed a foghorn at the lighthouse. Whenever it sounded, the superstitious islanders said the Countess was standing on Devil’s Rock, calling for her lover. And then people began to spot the Countess on the cliff. Always in a fog. She continued to appear for many years.’

‘It must have been their imaginations,’ Sofia said.

‘Hardly,’ replied Björk. ‘She was real, believe me. Meanwhile, the Count’s children, who still lived there, fell ill and the barns burned down. The curse went on for years, until the Count’s son was fed up and moved abroad. The estate sat abandoned for several years.’

‘And then?’

‘The misery continued. A doctor bought the manor in the late 1990s. Lived there with his daughter. Big plans for the place — he wanted to turn it into some sort of rest home. But his daughter died in a fire, in one of the barns. An accident, they said, but I wasn’t fooled. The place is cursed.’ Björk held up one finger. ‘I’m not done yet — around the same time, a boy jumped from Devil’s Rock, hit his head, and drowned. The current took him. Since then, diving from the cliff has been forbidden.’

Sofia wondered if the old man was just making this up, but there wasn’t the slightest hint of teasing in his expression. Why would Oswald want to establish his centre in such a place? It seemed incredible.

‘So you can go look at all that, the lighthouse and the cliff?’ Wilma asked.

‘Yes, the lighthouse is still there, but the foghorn is no longer in use. Otherwise it’s all the same. And now the manor is being run by lunatics again, as you’ll soon discover.’ At last a booming laugh welled from his throat.

‘Do you know Oswald?’ Wilma asked.

‘Nah, he’s far too uppity to spend time with us islanders. He always stays in his car when he takes the ferry over.’

Sofia gazed into the fog. She thought she could see a faint outline where the horizon should be.

‘Here she is now!’ Björk cried.

Slowly, majestically, the island took shape. The contours of the firs on the hills, small boats at rest in the harbour, and shadows of houses here and there. The shrieking of the gulls reached the ferry. The fog was lifting. A pale sun, which couldn’t quite pierce the clouds, hung like a yellow blob in the grey sky.

‘See you on the evening ferry, then,’ Björk said as he guided the boat toward the pier. ‘There are two ferry departures each day. The morning ferry at eight and the evening ferry at five.’

When they stepped off, they immediately found themselves in the village, which was like a summer paradise. Small cottages with turrets and gingerbread; cobblestone streets and boutiques. Children were playing along the quay. Summer visitors drank coffee at an outdoor café. It was only early June, but vacation life was in full swing here.

Barely fifty metres from the ferry pier was a cobblestone square with a fountain in the middle. A woman in a grey uniform was waiting for them. She was thin and almost as short as Sofia. Her blonde hair was up in a bun and her face was pale, with delicate features. Her eyes were large and almost colourless; her eyebrows were white.

‘Sofia and Wilma? I’m Madeleine, Franz Oswald’s secretary. I’ll be showing you around today. First we’ll have a quick look around the island and then we’ll go up to the manor.’

She led them to a station wagon that was parked on one side of the square and opened the car door for them.

‘There are roads along the coast on both sides of the island,’ she explained. ‘Farther inland it’s mostly forest and heath, but I thought I would show you the landscape before we head to ViaTerra. There’s a lookout point on the northern tip of the island where you can look out over the Skagerrak Sound.’

‘Where’s the manor?’ Sofia asked.

‘On the north end. Just a short walk from the lookout.’

The western coast was flat, with sandy beaches and grass lawns full of picnic tables and grills. A couple of jetties extended like bridges into the hazy heat of the sea. Small boats were moored on the jetties and the shore was lined with boathouses. The eastern coast was barren and wild. The cliffs plunged to the sea just past the edge of the road.

They drove to the end of the island and parked the car, then walked across an expanse of heath to the lookout point, where the cliffs sloped to the water.

The fog had lifted and the sun was high in the sky. It was glittering blue as far as the eye could see, aside from the white flash of a lighthouse on an islet. Right away Sofia’s eyes were drawn to a rocky cliff that jutted out over the sea. It looked like a trampoline.

‘Is that the cliff you call Devil’s Rock?’

Madeleine gave a snort.

‘We don’t, but I guess the superstitious villagers do. As you can see, though, it’s only a cliff.’

‘We were given a warning on the way here. The ferry man, Björk, told us some creepy stories about the manor.’

Madeleine shook her head.

‘Oh, he’s not all there. He only does that to scare off our guests. The islanders have been so bloody suspicious since we moved here. They’re allergic to change. But we don’t care. Come on, let’s go see ViaTerra!’

They travelled back along the coast road for a bit and turned off at a wide gravel drive that was lined with huge oaks whose foliage loomed over them like a cupola. And suddenly they were at the manor house gate, which was at least three metres high, made of wrought iron, and adorned with winding curlicues, angels and devils, and an enormous keyhole.

‘Do you open it with a huge key?’ Wilma joked.

Madeleine just shook her head.

‘No, no; there’s a guard, of course.’

Only then did Sofia notice him. He was in a sentry box built into the wall. He waved them in, and the gate gave a creak and slowly swung open.

She didn’t know quite what she’d been expecting to find within the gate. Maybe an eerie, tumbledown mansion full of towers and crenellations. Instead, what spread before them was a palace. The property had to be half a kilometre square. The manor house in the centre looked like a castle and had three storeys. The façade must have been recently sandblasted; it was brilliantly white. There was a large pond in the middle of the lawn before the grand house, with ducks and a pair of swans swimming in it. There was a flagpole beside the motor court, but instead of a Swedish flag it was flying a green-and-white one.

Along the west side of the wall was a row of several long annexe buildings tucked into the edge of the woods. The roof of another long building was visible behind the manor house, and in the distance there was a pasture full of grazing sheep. Only a few people were visible: a couple drinking coffee in the yard outside the annexes and two people in uniform moving rapidly across the drive.

Sofia looked up at the manor again and discovered that something was carved into the upper part of the façade in large letters.

We walk the way of the earth, it read.

She stood there as if she had just fallen from the sky and took in all the splendour. She exchanged meaningful glances with Wilma and turned to Madeleine.

‘What a place!’

‘Yes, isn’t it fantastic? We’ve put a lot of work into it. Franz had a vision, and I think you could say we brought it to fruition.’

Sofia felt instinctively that there was something there. Something worth having. It wasn’t just beautiful; there was more to this estate, an unusual tranquillity. It felt as if they had been transported to a parallel universe where every television, cell phone, computer, and tablet had been simultaneously switched off. As if the endless buzz of the world had gone silent within these thick walls. At the same time, an inexplicable and vaguely forbidding atmosphere seemed to have settled there. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. This is so beautiful it takes my breath away, and yet it gives me the creeps, she thought.

But she pushed that feeling away, deciding it must be Björk’s ghost stories lingering in her mind.

‘First I’ll show you the manor house, where we work,’ said Madeleine. ‘Then I’ll show you the annexes, where our guests work through our program.’

Sofia wondered whether Oswald was there. She stared up at the many windows of the manor and it occurred to her that he might be looking down on them from up there. She found herself wishing she could meet him again.

The fire has almost gone out.

The last glowing coals tremble at the bottom of the charred wood.

We’re enveloped in darkness. I can barely make out her features.

She tosses on a little more wood, pokes it, and gets a nice fire going again.

In the glow of the flames she looks like a witch with her thick red hair and cat eyes.

‘What does he do to you?’ I ask.

‘You know what he does,’ she says, turning away.

‘I don’t want that bastard touching you.’

‘Oh, he’s just a dirty old man. He only gropes me. He gives me whatever I want as long as I let him. That’s the way it is, when you’re adopted. They think they own you. You know?’

‘He doesn’t go all the way?’

‘Jesus, no. He’s not like that.’

‘I thought he and my mom were messing around,’ I say.

‘That’s not a bad idea. They’d be a good pair.’

A sudden image appears in my mind: his head on the body of a mosquito. A stupid mosquito that flies into the fire and burns up.

‘You’ll long to go back to him once I’m finished with you,’ I say.

And she finally laughs.

3

The view from the large windows afforded a glimpse of the sea beyond the forest. The waves rolled in, crashing against the cliffs and tossing up foam.

They were on the third floor of the manor house, where the staff worked. Madeleine had herded them quickly up the stairs, explaining that the first and second floors were still being renovated into living areas for the staff. It smelled like wet concrete and sawdust down there. They could hear a table saw, and they had to climb over a large roll of insulation near the landing.

Nothing was in need of renovation up here. Everything — walls, ceilings, and furniture — was a glistening white or pale grey. There were no interior walls, just an open-plan office with desks and computers scattered here and there. The staff seemed to sit wherever they liked; everyone appeared to be in high spirits, offering smiles and friendly nods. There were two doors on the other side of the large room. Madeleine noticed that Sofia’s gaze was drawn to them.

‘Those are offices for Franz and the staff manager,’ she said. ‘Otherwise everyone works in this area. Aside from those who take care of the guests and the farm, of course.’

Sofia looked back at the doors, wondering if Oswald would emerge and whether he was even in his office, but she didn’t want to ask.

‘So it’s a working farm?’ Wilma asked.

‘Yes, we’re almost completely self-sufficient,’ Madeleine stated with pride. ‘We grow all our own vegetables and fruit here, and we make our own milk and butter. We’ve even got some sheep. And the manor house is heated with solar and geothermal energy. But those of us who work up here are actually Franz’s staff. We take care of personnel matters, mail, purchasing, and that sort of thing, so Franz can focus on his lectures and research.’

‘Could you tell us a little about Franz Oswald?’ Sofia said. ‘Where he’s from, things he’s done?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Madeleine said brusquely, sounding slightly annoyed. ‘Franz wants us to focus on the guests and the program, not on him. He is what he is. Our leader.’

Sofia considered Madeleine’s profile. She looked anxious and a bit distracted.

‘But you don’t pray to Oswald, or worship him?’

‘No, of course not! We’re not a bunch of fanatics, if that’s what you’re thinking.’ Madeleine’s voice had risen into a falsetto. Their conversation was about to go off the rails, but Wilma took over. She guided them back to the right track so skilfully that Madeleine probably wasn’t even aware of how her tense features smoothed out again. They went back to polite questions and mild flattery.

Fifty people on staff? Wow. What kind of work do they do? What a fantastic job you’ve done with this place! Wilma could butter anyone up.

Sofia listened with half an ear as she gazed out at the cubicles again. She wondered if the staff were as happy as they seemed and found herself thinking that if everything Madeleine had told them was true, this place would definitely count as an environmental organization.

A woman in a chef uniform suddenly popped up beside them.

‘Lunch is served in the guest dining room!’ she said.

‘Okay,’ said Madeleine. ‘Time for you two to get a little taste of what we grow around here.’

The dining room was large and bright, with tall, rectangular windows. The hardwood floor was highly polished and almost completely covered with sheepskin rugs. The chairs and tables were white. The room didn’t have the usual food smells; instead a faint whiff of seaweed and fish emanated from the kitchen. Muted classical music streamed from the walls. There were guests seated at most of the tables, yet it was surprisingly quiet. The mood was serene, like that of a temple or of a sleepy bar in the early morning hours. Sofia found herself whispering when they spoke.

Her gaze was repeatedly drawn to the other tables, to see if she recognized anyone. Madeleine had mentioned that many of the guests were celebrities. But the other tables weren’t very close by, and she didn’t want to stare.

Lunch was tomato soup and fish with vegetables and herbs. When she was finished eating, she felt a gentle clap on her shoulder. She turned around and there was Oswald, his hands on the back of her chair. He looked angry — even furious.

‘How long have you been here?’ He turned to Madeleine without waiting for a response. ‘I’m the one who invited them, and I wanted to show them around myself.’

His voice was restrained and calm, yet his displeasure settled over them like a heavy blanket. He had no uniform; instead he wore black jeans and a fitted white T-shirt that showed off his muscles and tan. They shook hands and he offered a smile, but its warmth quickly faded.

Madeleine’s cheeks went a deep red. Her head sank so low that her chin nearly rested on her chest.

‘I just thought you had so much to do, and I wanted to help. I figured you had more important things on your schedule,’ she said, nearly whispering.

‘You can go now. I’ll take over,’ he said, waving his hand at her as if she were a pesky fly.

Madeleine slowly slunk out of her chair and disappeared down the aisle with tiny, mincing steps.

Oswald turned to Sofia and smiled again, but irritation lingered in his eyes.

‘I did want to meet with you, but I didn’t know you were coming today and now, as you heard, my schedule is jam-packed. But we can have a look at the guest houses, at least. Did you find the ferry ride agreeable?’

‘Yes, we learned all about the ghosts at the manor,’ Sofia said before she could stop herself. She never could hold her tongue.

But Oswald only laughed.

‘Yes, that Björk is such good advert for us. People end up totally fascinated by the miserable history of the manor. Come meet the evil Countess! But surely you don’t believe all that stuff.’

‘Of course not,’ Wilma said quickly, pinching Sofia’s pinkie finger.

‘Good,’ Oswald said. ‘Then let’s get on with the tour!’

He held the dining room door for them and led them to the annexes. He walked close to Sofia, holding a gentle hand under her elbow as if to guide her. He was hardly touching her, but it was very purposeful and made her shiver with pleasure.

She wasn’t the sort of person who turned heads in the street, yet Oswald had chosen to be close to her — even though Wilma was right there, with her busty figure and confident gait.

Before they reached the buildings, his hand brushed the area between hip and back where all the nerves meet, and the contact almost took her breath away.

The guest-house annexes looked like barracks with a row of numbered doors on the front side, but the solid timber and massive iron door handles hinted at the good quality of the construction. An expensive renovation, just like the manor house.

‘Let’s see!’ Oswald said, taking a key from his pocket. ‘Number five should be empty right now. This is a typical room. They’re all nearly identical.’

The room was actually a suite, made up of a living room, bedroom, and bathroom. It still smelled new, like lumber and plastic.

They poked around, curious, but all Oswald was interested in was describing the lighting and ventilation, which he said was absolutely revolutionary.

‘The ceiling light emits ultraviolet rays, to counteract reactions to the lack of sunlight in the winter. The ventilation system constantly lets in fresh air, and if the air is cold it is automatically warmed. All the walls are completely soundproofed, so you’re never disturbed in your sleep. As you can see, there’s no TV or computer. The guests don’t use their phones while they’re here either. We have a computer in the common room, for emergencies. But tranquillity is the goal here. You have to dare to leave behind what you think is essential to discover what is truly essential.’

He paused to make sure they were still with him.

‘But the most important part is the bedroom. Come here, I’ll show you.’

He herded them into the room, closed the door, and pressed a button, and black curtains unfurled to cover the windows. It was pitch black.

‘Now there’s not a speck of light,’ he said. ‘You won’t even be able to see the outlines of the furniture. This is how you must sleep for the body to get true rest. Fascinating, isn’t it?’

Sofia shuddered and held tight to Wilma’s shirtsleeve. This reminded her of the first time she had slept out in the country when she was little. She had woken up in the middle of the night, in the dark, and thought she had gone blind. She had screamed her head off until her mother turned the lights on and off probably a hundred times to show her that she hadn’t lost her sight. Yet she had been incurably afraid of the dark ever since.

At last, Oswald put the lights back on and led them back into daylight. Then they headed for the recreational area, which had a sauna, saltwater pool, and gym. In one corner of the gym was a contraption three metres high; it looked like a metal egg.

‘What’s that?’ Sofia asked.

‘You can go in there and train your perception. Sound, light, colours, smells, temperatures — all the impressions that are thrown at you in a holy mess in your daily life. In “the egg”, as we call it, you can experience them all separately. It’s an important part of our program.’

They passed a large classroom full of people studying. Some were reading; others were sitting still on chairs, their eyes closed.

‘This is where we study the theses,’ Oswald said.

Sofia had comments and questions on the tip of her tongue, but Oswald looked at his watch and suddenly seemed to be in a rush.

‘You can see the farm and the greenhouse next time,’ he said. ‘But there is something I’d like to show you before you head home.’

He took them to a freestanding building alongside the guesthouses — a wooden structure with a porch; it might have originally been a servants’ quarters. Sofia was expecting more hypermodern design inside, but this house was completely empty: just floors, walls, and endless bookshelves. It smelled pleasantly of wood and polish, and the afternoon sun had just found its way through the windows to form a golden streak on the floor.

‘This is going to be our library,’ Oswald said, giving her a meaningful look.

‘I see . . .’ she said hesitantly.

‘I’ve heard you’re a whiz at literature, that you love books.’

‘Where’d you hear that?’

‘It said on the form you filled out after the lecture that you just received your bachelor’s degree in literature.’ He was giving her that significant look again. ‘I need someone who can create a real library here. With books that fit in with our philosophy. There are no limits, financially. All that matters is that it’s done right.’

‘So you need a librarian?’

‘No, what I don’t need is a librarian, with old-fashioned ideas about what should be in a library. I need someone who can think independently. So when I saw your form, I thought of you. And then I noticed that Wilma studied literature too, and I thought maybe I had found the right people for the job.’

Sofia was astounded. He had just offered them a job.

‘What’s the catch?’

‘You’d have to become part of the staff, of course. We work on contract. Two years at a time. And I’m not sure whether you two have boyfriends . . .’

‘We don’t have boyfriends, but I’m not signing any contract,’ Sofia said firmly. ‘No matter how interesting it sounds.’

Wilma cleared her throat. A small warning, to let Sofia know she was about to cross a line into rudeness again. But Oswald didn’t look defeated; if anything, he was amused.

‘I thought as much. But I have a suggestion. Come for two weeks and go through the program, like our guests do. No cost to you, no commitment. If you still don’t want to take over the library when you’re done, you can go right back home again.’

Sofia and Wilma looked at each other, speechless. Wilma was just about to open her mouth, and Sofia knew what would come out. The trip to Rhodes with her mother, the internship she’d arranged at a newspaper, blah blah blah. But Wilma closed her mouth again and smiled at Oswald.

‘Can we talk it over in private and let you know?’

‘Of course! It was nice to have you here. Let me know when you decide. I’ll tell Madde to meet you in the dining room for afternoon coffee before you leave.’

He was already walking off, but then he turned around and looked directly at Sofia.