The chalet was not so different to her own home. Three chairs attended a table standing in the centre of the room. An unlit lantern hung from a hook by the door, soot-black and rust-red. Leaves lay strewn about the flagstones, collected in drifts at the corners, the alcove beside the fire deep with them. Dead ferns and twigs added to the debris. Rustling sounded and Kjellrunn stared with widening eyes. A breeze gusted through the doorway, making her shiver. Wild thoughts summoned the spirit of a long-dead woodcutter, appearing to defend the home he had loved so much in life. The leaves in the alcove continued to shake. Kjellrunn lurched towards the door as a bleary-eyed winter fox appeared, snuffling about the cold flagstones.
Kjellrunn released a long sigh. ‘Sorry to wake you.’
The winter fox blinked at her, white fur spectral in the darkness.
‘It’s fine,’ said a voice from the back room, rusty with sleep.
Kjellrunn’s heart kicked in her chest and she was running before the thought had occurred. Her elbow glanced painfully off the doorway as she fled through it and she was under the grey sky again, panic gripping lungs that sought air to speed her on. Feet slipped and skidded on mud, tree branches reached for frantic eyes and all was blind panic. Only when she reached the opposite side of the clearing did she stop, listening to her ragged breathing, eyes fixed on the chalet door.
No one emerged, living or dead. Not the phantom woodcutter of her imagination or the slumbering winter fox. No one chased after her, nor did they peer from the doorway with a frown. The crows called out, mocking this foolish frightened girl, she imagined.
‘Shut your beaks,’ said Kjellrunn, not taking her eye from the lonely chalet. The occupant did not sate her curiosity by stepping outside.
‘I was more frightened than the fox was,’ she muttered. Still nothing. No sign of the voice in the darkness.
Kjellrunn gathered the scattered firewood as she departed. Perhaps I imagined the voice. A figment of a scared girl in the woods alone. She knew full well her imagination needed no provocation.
The chalet was almost lost from sight when she stole a glance over her shoulder. A curl of smoke drifted from the chimney, faint grey but unmistakable. Someone had lit a fire, but who?
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