Fauna. Christiane Vadnais

      Even just a few kilometres from Shivering Heights there was no foretaste of apocalyptic weather, just a grey gloom and puffs of fog lapping at the car’s headlights. As far as Agnes can see, vaporous white patches lie skulking on the ground. They look almost hungry, she thinks, checking her rear-view mirror. The car chugs along at a steady pace, piercing a wall of cloud that closes behind it like a curtain.

      For a few moments now she’s been so engrossed by these clouds she almost missed the sign for the Nordic spa. Yet they had clearly told her it would be hidden by the forest, scarcely visible from the road. She yanks the wheel, fearing she’ll veer into a clump of trees, but her nails dig into the leather steering wheel and she comes to a stop in the middle of a clearing of gravel interspersed with yellow weeds.

      There’s only one other car in the lot. Bales of fog roll over its chassis and along the ground to the welcome centre, before tumbling down the steep slope to the foot of the mountain.

      The dense fog engulfs Agnes’s hands while she pulls her bag from the trunk. She came here straight from work, and regrets not putting on something more comfortable. Her high heels sink into the ground, where the leaves that have amassed lie rotting under steady rains. The surrounding forest is a tapestry of pine needles and soaked wood. A muffled roar hints at the steady, truculent flow of the river below.

      Tendrils of cold creep under Agnes’s clothing and skin and seem to burrow down to her skull.

      In her raincoat pocket, her phone vibrates. The office can’t live without her any more than she can without it. She’ll have to turn off her phone. Gripping her bag tight to stay her shivering hand, she takes a deep breath like her therapist taught her, imagining a great wind of freedom blowing through her, from the inside out.

      In the welcome centre, two women are in a heated argument. Behind them, massive windows like the walls of an aquarium magnify the forest below. Breaks in the cloud cover afford glimpses of small cabins and pools of a paranormal blue. Shrouded in shadow and mist, this landscape has a lugubrious charm. The arguing women ignore it. The taller one claims there’s nothing to be done: the spa is closed, weather warning, torrential rains. In a raspy voice, the other, whose back is turned to Agnes, asserts her right to stay. Her shaking hands have a curious gleam in the chiaroscuro, as if wrapped in a watery film, or skin so thin and pale it lets a sliver of light shine through. At the sight of the newcomer, the women fall silent. Then the guest’s face lights up.

      ‘See! No one got your message!’

      The owner doesn’t back down. Every guest was informed of the closure the night before.

      ‘But we’re here now. You don’t really expect us to postpone our vacations?’ asks the young woman. She turns and winks at her new ally.

      Taken aback, Agnes stares into the face of the stranger before her. Her features are youthful, symmetrical, and clean, except the pointed, chalky teeth set in her crooked smile. Her round eyes bulge. Her freckled skin seems to conceal nothing of what lies beneath, and on its surface beads of water shine, as if the vapours outside had condensed on her.

      ‘I’m too tired to get back on the road,’ Agnes concurs.

      ‘See? We’ll leave if the river overflows. Promise.’

      The woman yanks the keys from the owner’s hand and takes her new accomplice by the arm, like an old friend. Agnes notices her eyes: at once splendid and shallow, two small pools shimmering like tiny fireworks.

      In