Fog Island: A terrifying thriller set in a modern-day cult. Mariette Lindstein
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?’
She laughed so shrilly that the guests at the next table turned around.
Elsa looked at Ellen in alarm. Wilgot looked offended.
‘I think it’s up to each individual to change his own life. To keep making use of everything we learn here,’ he said.
Ellen turned to Sofia.
‘We’ll see how it goes. If it all goes to hell, we can always find some other nutso self-improvement group somewhere. There are plenty of them.’
Sofia laughed. She hoped she would get to talk to Ellen again.
*
After dinner she looked in on what would eventually become the library. The door was open, and the building was even more beautiful now that the sun was setting and casting an orange glow across the spacious room. She imagined what it would look like with books everywhere, large sofas, a modern computer system.
At last she went to the common room next to the dining room to use the shared computer. She wrote an email to her parents and promised to come home for a visit in a few weeks.
Her thoughts wandered to Ellis. He had completely flipped out when she broke up with him, throwing things and screaming like a madman. Then came the blog: posts and comments about her that popped up all over the internet. It had all culminated