Fog Island: A terrifying thriller set in a modern-day cult. Mariette Lindstein
nature around her. Those migratory birds that were left seemed restless, as if they knew what awaited in their long journey south. The trees bent in the wind, full of nervous creaks and rustles. She was struck by the fact that she would be spending the entire winter on this island. The trees would lose their leaves. The whole island would become bare and bleak. The autumn fog everyone talked about would move in from the sea.
Shivering, she slipped through the library door, hoping to find a bit of warmth, but the cold wind had found the cracks in the draughty old building. She turned on the radiator, then decided to check her email, even though it was against the rules. She was one of the few staff with computer access; it was strictly for research purposes. But she had written a long email to her parents and had been waiting for a response for several days.
An answer was waiting, but it wasn’t from her parents. Instead, a message in large type had appeared at the top of her own email. A rejection of sorts.
INFORMATION ABOUT THE INTERNAL PLANS OF THE ORGANIZATION IS CONFIDENTIAL AND MAY NOT BE SHARED WITH OUTSIDERS.
Someone had censored her email. She had no idea that anyone had been reading what she wrote to her family. She hadn’t even known it was possible to censor email. An uncontrollable wave of fury welled up inside her. She immediately knew who was behind this.
In a rage, she put on her jacket and shoes and headed back into the wind. She found Bosse bent over a folder in the staff office.
The door was open, so she stepped in and stood before him, her hands on her hips.
‘Have you been reading my email?’
‘Sure! I read everything the staff sends out.’
‘What’s wrong with you? Those are private; you have no right to read them.’ Her voice had risen into a shrill falsetto.
‘Sofia, it’s okay. I don’t care what you say in them. I only care about the security of the group.’
‘The security of the group? I was writing to my family.’
‘You were writing about your plans for the library, down to the tiniest detail. That doesn’t concern them.’
She was just about to start shouting, but it was obvious that he wouldn’t give in. He’d done this before — gone along with some idiotic rule he probably hadn’t even come up with himself. Besides, Sofia’s emphatic tone had brought all the work in the big room outside to a grinding halt, and many watchful eyes were on them now. A few colleagues had stood up and were aiming looks of disapproval at her.
She stormed out of the room, determined to declare war as soon as she had gathered her thoughts.
It was impossible to concentrate on her job once she returned to the library. The wind was even stronger now; it whistled in the eaves. The windows were even rattling.
She turned on her computer and decided to surf the net, mostly just to defy Bosse. She Googled her name. It had been a long time, but her rage made her feel brave and she wanted to make sure that Ellis had stopped blogging about her.
Up popped a new page called ‘Sofia Bauman’s Blog,’ and she clicked on it right away.
At first she thought it must be a mistake, that the face staring back at her belonged to someone else. Or that it was an old entry. But then she began to read the text and realized at once that Ellis hadn’t vanished from her life after all.
Save Sofia Bauman from the cult! the headline read, and the text underneath continued along the same lines. There was even a picture of Franz Oswald in the corner, horns drawn onto his forehead.
She sat perfectly still for a long time, trying to calm herself as a burning chill spread along her nerves.
She didn’t even want to know how many people had read the blog; she only wanted it to go away. She wanted something to happen to Ellis, a terrible accident, anything, as long as it would put a stop to him from here on out. It was inconceivable that he could still make her feel so awful even when she was on an island out in the archipelago.
How can he even get at me out here? she thought, then decided that in fact, he couldn’t.
But then she thought about the blog again and wondered what would happen if Oswald got wind of it.
We’ve spent a whole day looking for the diary, the family history — whatever the hell it is.
Lily is tired and whiny, and I feel like I might smack her at any moment.
‘I don’t want to be here, Fredrik. It’s too warm and icky and it smells nasty. Can’t we do something fun instead? Please?’
‘We have to find the book,’ I say, gritting my teeth.
‘But why is it so important to find some old book?’
‘There’s stuff in it I’m going to use.’
‘For what?’
‘To prove who I am.’
‘Oh, come on. Hey, can’t we go now? Take a swim or something?’
I stand up, take her by the arms, and give her a firm shake.
‘Who is in charge here, huh? Stop nagging me, or else . . .’
She is frightened and recoils. And at that moment I figure out what happened and I let go of her.
‘She hid it, of course,’ I say. ‘That bitch hid it away.’
‘What bitch?’
‘Mom. She doesn’t want me to find it.’ I decide to switch tactics on Lily. ‘Listen, if you find the book I’ll take you down to the village and buy you some ice cream, and then we can go for a swim at the cliff.’
Her whole face lights up.
‘Promise?’
‘I said it, didn’t I?’
She’s suddenly full of energy. She darts around until the dust swirls up, pulling out drawers, yanking things off the shelves. And then the unthinkable happens. Suddenly she’s standing there with a book in her hands, wrinkling her nose as she tries to make out what it says inside.
‘Give it here!’ I shout. Because I know, I just know, that she’s found it.
I yank it from her hands and sink to the floor, flipping pages and looking for the part that just has to be there. And when I find it, it’s like the doors of heaven open, revealing angels, strings, harps, the whole nine yards. Adrenaline surges through my body like a rising flood.
That’s when I see a little corner poking out from the back cover of the diary — something is hidden there.
I pull the envelope out and open it. Photographs fall into the book.
I moan when I see what they are.
The girl in the picture can’t be more than twelve or thirteen. She’s standing against a wall, naked, her hands bound high over her head. She’s in profile, but I recognize the man pressed up against her body, a whip in his hand. He’s younger in the picture, but it’s definitely him.
This is so huge, so timely, that I almost forget to breathe.
I just stand there, listening to Lily’s gasping breaths behind me.
Whoever left the pictures there was careless, idiotic.
But they’re a windfall for me.
There was a hard rap on the door. The room