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

Outside it was cloudy and calm, and the property was quiet aside from some bleating sheep. She decided to walk to the lookout point and gaze out at the sea for a while. A path led there from the manor, but this time she walked through the forest. She wanted to test her ability to navigate the terrain.

Most of the trees were pine or birch, lined up in tight, symmetrical patterns. Here and there an oak or spruce competed for sunlight, but they remained short and straggly in the shadow of the majestic pines. It had rained during the night and the forest smelled like wet moss and earth. The trees were heavy with raindrops that clung to the leaves.

She got lost straight away, but then she heard water burbling in a small brook between the trees. The water was rushing so fast that it had to be coming from somewhere higher up.

She followed the brook and found herself in a clearing. She stopped, inhaling the moist air, enjoying the sensation. Suddenly she felt observed. When she looked up, she spotted a bird sitting before her, perched on a pine branch and staring with keen eyes. A buzzard or sea eagle. It wouldn’t look away. She cursed ViaTerra’s ban on phones, which had just cost her an incredible photo op. But then something creaked in the woods and the spell was broken. The bird flapped its wings and soared up to the grey sky with a mewing, plaintive call. She kept walking, and soon she could see the lookout point through the trees.

Beyond the large heath and just before the cliffs plunged to the sea, there was a bench. She sat down and looked out at the water. The sky was clearing. Behind the wall of cloud on the horizon rose more clouds, fat and fluffy, like giants on their way to the island. She focused her gaze on them and began to daydream. She sat just like that, perfectly still, for a long time.

Her rumbling stomach finally brought her back down to earth.

She jogged back to the manor, and by the time she stepped into the dining room it was half past noon. As she waited to be served, she noticed a new guest: Ellen Vingås, the opera star, was sitting alone in front of a large portion of food. Just as Sofia’s plate arrived at the table she was interrupted by an ‘ahem.’ An unnaturally thin guy was standing before her, smiling. She immediately recognized him from Oswald’s lecture in Lund. It was the guy who had insisted that she and Wilma fill out forms.

‘Sofia, my name is Olof Hurtig and I’ll be your personal advisor. Enjoy your lunch, and then I want to see you in my office. We’ll plan your program.’

His small goatee bobbed as he spoke.

‘Sure, is your office in the main building?’

Sofia had hoped to run into Oswald there. She hadn’t seen him yet.

‘No, all guest service takes place here in the annexes. The offices are right next to the gym. There’s a small room there, and that’s where I’ll be waiting for you.’

She ate up her food, ravenous.

Hurtig was waiting at a desk in a little room just behind the gym. The visitor’s chair was so low to the floor that whoever sat behind the desk was transformed into a lofty god.

‘Let’s see now, Sofia. I’ve got your file here.’

He opened the folder before him.

‘A file? I didn’t know I had a file here.’

‘Don’t worry. Everything you say here is confidential. We are bound by professional secrecy.’

‘But I only got here three days ago. How could I have a file?’

‘It’s just your form and a few notes from the interview when you first came to the island.’

The folder contained a whole stack of paper, not just a few sheets, but he went on before she could point this out.

‘I see a pattern here,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Someone who has caused you pain and anxiety. A great betrayal. Maybe a failed relationship, could that be right?’

Her head was spinning. Had he Googled her? How could he know about all of that?

‘Maybe, I guess, but how did you know . . .’

Hurtig shifted in his chair. He seemed incapable of sitting still: he leaned across the desk, clearly delighted at her reaction.

‘Don’t look so surprised. It’s our job to read people. Let’s talk about your program instead, how we’re going to help you take control of your life.’

He scribbled furiously, nodding now and again. He held up the paper when he was finished.

8:00–10:00: workout and breathing exercises

10:00–12:00: altruistic work . . .

The schedule went on, noting mealtimes, time in the egg, thesis study in the evening. She wondered how this could possibly be different from everyone else’s programs, but before she could ask, Hurtig stood up and put out his hand.

‘Sofia, it’s been a pleasure. Good luck with the program!’

The only time he had taken his eyes from her was when he was writing her schedule. He was still staring at her, confident that she would turn around and leave. And so she did. Her legs just stood up, and her body followed. Then she felt the urge to go back and demand to see everything in her file. But did it really matter? The things he’d said could be true of anyone. Were there any women who weren’t carrying the baggage of a failed relationship or two?

A few days later, she made a discovery in the woods. Her schedule was stricter, but there was still time for morning walks. Sure, they were expected to be brisk walks, to stimulate the circulation, but Sofia was only out for a stroll that day.

She had returned to the clearing. Her iPhone was in her pocket, in case the eagle showed up again. Naturally, the tree it had been in was empty, but then she caught a glimpse of something red through the foliage. Just twenty metres from the clearing was a summer cottage, in the middle of the forest. It was small, and the overgrown lot it sat on was only a few hundred metres square.

Out front was a wind-torn hammock and some shabby outdoor furniture. Inside, the blinds were down.

She walked into the yard. Someone must have been there recently, because at one end of the house stood a rusty wheelbarrow half full of last year’s leaves. Behind the cottage she found a watering can, empty pots, and a bag of potting soil. She returned to the front and tried the door handle. The door swung open. I’m really intruding now, she thought, but she stepped inside anyway. The front room was both kitchen and living room, with a gas stove, a table, and a kitchen bench. The curtains were crocheted in white lace that had yellowed with cooking fumes and become dotted with fly droppings. It smelled a little musty, thanks to the raw, damp air, but it didn’t seem mouldy. And there was a fireplace with newspapers in a neat pile next to a stack of wood.

She picked up one paper and looked at the date. It was almost a year old.

There was one more room, a bedroom with a single bed and a dresser. The wallpaper was white and patterned with beach balls and snails. The bedspread was crocheted in the same white lace as the kitchen curtains.

She searched for the bathroom. There was only a toilet and a sink, no shower. She wondered if the water was on and tried the faucet, which sputtered and released a thin stream of water. Incredible, out here in the middle of the forest, she thought. She knew she had to leave now to get back before the program started, but she couldn’t tear herself away.

There was a dusty bureau in the living room. The top drawer was full of newspaper clippings. She picked up a scrap of paper on the rag rug before the bureau; it was a ferry ticket bearing yesterday’s date. She suddenly felt like someone was watching her and whirled around. The front door banged in the breeze, creaking on its hinges, but the cottage was empty. She let the ticket flutter to the floor and went outside. The sun had found a crack between the trees and was shining on the lawn in front of the house.

There was no one there.

*

That evening she ate dinner with a man and woman in their fifties. The man introduced himself as Wilgot Östling, chief of the county police; his wife, Elsa, was an accountant. Ellen Vingås joined them as well. She was a large woman with lively brown eyes and dark skin. Her laugh was burbling and infectious, and she kept the conversation going with stories about life in the opera world. It was impossible not to enjoy her company. The Östlings talked about how wonderful the program was, dropping words like down-to-earth, peacefulness, and vitality.

‘How are things going for you, Sofia?’ Ellen asked.

‘Oh, fine — I just got my program.’

‘Me too. The guy who planned it for me must be a mind-reader. That, or he Googled all my online biographies. Oh well, a little relaxation can’t hurt.’

‘It’s a lot more than that for me,’ said Elsa Östling. ‘It feels like I’ve finally come down from the stress of my job. I feel as cool as a cucumber, in fact.’

Her husband nodded in agreement.

‘I’ve known Franz since he started ViaTerra. If there’s anyone that can put a dent in the level of stress we have in this damn country, it’s Franz. He’s created a real oasis here.’

‘But what happens when you go back to real life?’ Ellen asked. ‘How can you be sure you won’t go right back to eating McDonald’s and sneaking alcohol?’