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

‘No, I’ll be fine.’

Her voice already felt steadier.

Bosse had arrived with a few other staff members in tow.

‘Jesus, Sofia, you should have listened to me!’

‘But I didn’t, and that’s why most of the animals are still alive,’ she said, sitting up.

The yard was full of people. Staff and guests, all mixed up. Some were fighting the fire; others were herding the animals into an empty barn nearby. They seemed so strangely organized: everyone was in motion; everyone had something to do.

At that moment, the rain came, a heavy downpour that joined the cascades of the fire hoses and put out the fire until all that was left was the smoke and the acrid smell. The back of the barn was destroyed, and thick, grey smoke billowed from its charred skeleton. A few animals were still running around in the yard. It was freezing cold, but it didn’t matter. They kept working.

When they were all done and the fire hoses were rolled up, they just stood there looking at each other in the rain. The relief on their faces was beautiful. It was a sight she thought she’d never forget.

She searched for Oswald but realized he wasn’t there. There were guests in soaked clothing, even some in pyjamas and nightgowns, but no Oswald. She looked up at the manor house and saw a figure standing on the balcony: the silhouette of a man gazing down at them with his arms crossed over his chest. It looked as if he was nodding.

An onlooker on the outside, peering in.

*

She couldn’t stop whining about Oswald to Benjamin in the days after the fire.

‘What the hell was he doing on the balcony?’

‘I don’t know, Sofia. He probably wanted to see how we would manage.’

‘The whole barn was burning down, animals and all.’

‘Quit complaining. Franz likes to keep a little distance.’

‘Even the guests were out there, in their pyjamas.’

‘Listen, if I didn’t know better I’d say you were a little fixated on Franz.’

‘Fixated? Everyone is, around here.’

‘No, not me. He’s really just a regular guy — it’s best to take everything he says with a pinch of salt. Instead of expecting him to be some sort of god.’

They went on like that for a few days until Oswald came to an assembly and rewarded Sofia with a bonus and two days off for her actions during the fire. He said that the county police chief, Wilgot Östling, had been on the island that day and had seen her rescue the animals.

*

She swallowed her annoyance and accepted her time off and bonus, using it to travel home to Lund for a few days to see her parents and spend some time with Wilma.

Her mother was more anxious than ever. It took almost a whole day of repeated assurances that Sofia was happy on the island, and felt just fine, to calm her down. Sofia didn’t mention the fire.

It felt strange to be back home again. She found herself going back and forth between several different moods: at times she felt so melancholy that she wanted to remain in Lund, but other times she felt restless and wanted to get her visit over with so she could go back to the island.

There was something strained about Wilma’s mannerisms, as if she were trying to keep from mentioning something.

‘What’s wrong, Wilma?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Oh for god’s sake, I can tell something’s up.’

‘I don’t want to worry you.’

‘Out with it.’

‘Ellis emailed me. I don’t even know how that creep got my address, I’ve changed it so many times. He asked where you were.’

‘What did you say? You didn’t tell him, did you?’

‘Are you nuts? I told him you got a job in France.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He wrote back: “you’re such a lying bitch”.’

‘Was that all?’

‘That was all.’

‘What a fucking jerk.’ Tears welled up in Sofia’s eyes, and then came that familiar feeling of discomfort and panic that Ellis always brought on. ‘What am I supposed to do? He’s going to haunt me forever.’

‘Oh, you’ve got guards and a wall and all of that on the island. What can he do? He’ll just keep writing about you online, and he’ll get sick of it eventually, once he doesn’t hear anything back from you.’

*

The same day she returned to the island, the first snow fell. Thick flakes drifted down, forming a speckled curtain of fog in front of the ferry. The pines on the highest point of the island were already white; the harbour looked like it was made of spun cotton.

It felt like she was coming home.

Something goes wrong.

Something totally unexpected, inexplicable, and so goddamn wrong.

But she’s the one who messes up.

The rules of our game are clear and plain. She doesn’t follow them.

So what happens happens.

We have planned the evening down to the tiniest detail.

She lies in the straw, on the cloak. Her hands are up over her head, her hair spread out like burning fire. And the candles are in front of her, their flames flickering.