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

been transported to a parallel universe where every television, cell phone, computer, and tablet had been simultaneously switched off. As if the endless buzz of the world had gone silent within these thick walls. At the same time, an inexplicable and vaguely forbidding atmosphere seemed to have settled there. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. This is so beautiful it takes my breath away, and yet it gives me the creeps, she thought.

      But she pushed that feeling away, deciding it must be Björk’s ghost stories lingering in her mind.

      ‘First I’ll show you the manor house, where we work,’ said Madeleine. ‘Then I’ll show you the annexes, where our guests work through our program.’

      Sofia wondered whether Oswald was there. She stared up at the many windows of the manor and it occurred to her that he might be looking down on them from up there. She found herself wishing she could meet him again.

      The fire has almost gone out.

      The last glowing coals tremble at the bottom of the charred wood.

      We’re enveloped in darkness. I can barely make out her features.

      She tosses on a little more wood, pokes it, and gets a nice fire going again.

      In the glow of the flames she looks like a witch with her thick red hair and cat eyes.

      ‘What does he do to you?’ I ask.

      ‘You know what he does,’ she says, turning away.

       ‘I don’t want that bastard touching you.’

       ‘Oh, he’s just a dirty old man. He only gropes me. He gives me whatever I want as long as I let him. That’s the way it is, when you’re adopted. They think they own you. You know?’

       ‘He doesn’t go all the way?’

       ‘Jesus, no. He’s not like that.’

      ‘I thought he and my mom were messing around,’ I say.

       ‘That’s not a bad idea. They’d be a good pair.’

      A sudden image appears in my mind: his head on the body of a mosquito. A stupid mosquito that flies into the fire and burns up.

      ‘You’ll long to go back to him once I’m finished with you,’ I say.

      And she finally laughs.

3

      The view from the large windows afforded a glimpse of the sea beyond the forest. The waves rolled in, crashing against the cliffs and tossing up foam.

      They were on the third floor of the manor house, where the staff worked. Madeleine had herded them quickly up the stairs, explaining that the first and second floors were still being renovated into living areas for the staff. It smelled like wet concrete and sawdust down there. They could hear a table saw, and they had to climb over a large roll of insulation near the landing.

      Nothing was in need of renovation up here. Everything — walls, ceilings, and furniture — was a glistening white or pale grey. There were no interior walls, just an open-plan office with desks and computers scattered here and there. The staff seemed to sit wherever they liked; everyone appeared to be in high spirits, offering smiles and friendly nods. There were two doors on the other side of the large room. Madeleine noticed that Sofia’s gaze was drawn to them.

      ‘Those are offices for Franz and the staff manager,’ she said. ‘Otherwise everyone works in this area. Aside from those who take care of the guests and the farm, of course.’

      Sofia looked back at the doors, wondering if Oswald would emerge and whether he was even in his office, but she didn’t want to ask.

      ‘So it’s a working farm?’ Wilma asked.

      ‘Yes, we’re almost completely self-sufficient,’ Madeleine stated with pride. ‘We grow all our own vegetables and fruit here, and we make our own milk and butter. We’ve even got some sheep. And the manor house is heated with solar and geothermal energy. But those of us who work up here are actually Franz’s staff. We take care of personnel matters, mail, purchasing, and that sort of thing, so Franz can focus on his lectures and research.’

      ‘Could you tell us a little about Franz Oswald?’ Sofia said. ‘Where he’s from, things he’s done?’

      ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Madeleine said brusquely, sounding slightly annoyed. ‘Franz wants us to focus on the guests and the program, not on him. He is what he is. Our leader.’

      Sofia considered Madeleine’s profile. She looked anxious and a bit distracted.

      ‘But you don’t pray to Oswald, or worship him?’

      ‘No, of course not! We’re not a bunch of fanatics, if that’s what you’re thinking.’ Madeleine’s voice had risen into a falsetto. Their conversation was about to go off the rails, but Wilma took over. She guided them back to the right track so skilfully that Madeleine probably wasn’t even aware of how her tense features smoothed out again. They went back to polite questions and mild flattery.

      Fifty people on staff? Wow. What kind of work do they do? What a fantastic job you’ve done with this place! Wilma could butter anyone up.

      Sofia listened with half an ear as she gazed out at the cubicles again. She wondered if the staff were as happy as they seemed and found herself thinking that if everything Madeleine had told them was true, this place would definitely count as an environmental organization.

      A woman in a chef uniform suddenly popped up beside them.

      ‘Lunch is served in the guest dining room!’ she said.

      ‘Okay,’ said Madeleine. ‘Time for you two to get a little taste of what we grow around here.’

      The dining room was large and bright, with tall, rectangular windows. The hardwood floor was highly polished and almost completely covered with sheepskin rugs. The chairs and tables were white. The room didn’t have the usual food smells; instead a faint whiff of seaweed and fish emanated from the kitchen. Muted classical music streamed from the walls. There were guests seated at most of the tables, yet it was surprisingly quiet. The mood was serene, like that of a temple or of a sleepy bar in the early morning hours. Sofia found herself whispering when they spoke.

      Her gaze was repeatedly drawn to the other tables, to see if she recognized anyone. Madeleine had mentioned that many of the guests were celebrities. But the other tables weren’t very close by, and she didn’t want to stare.

      Lunch was tomato soup and fish with vegetables and herbs. When she was finished eating, she felt a gentle clap on her shoulder. She turned around and there was Oswald, his hands on the back of her chair. He looked angry — even furious.

      ‘How long have you been here?’ He turned to Madeleine without waiting for a response. ‘I’m the one who invited them, and I wanted to show them around myself.’

      His voice was restrained and calm, yet his displeasure settled over them like a heavy blanket. He had no uniform; instead he wore black jeans and a fitted white T-shirt that showed off his muscles and tan. They shook hands and he offered a smile, but its warmth quickly faded.

      Madeleine’s cheeks went a deep red. Her head sank so low that her chin nearly rested on her chest.

      ‘I just thought you had so much to do, and I wanted to help. I figured you had more important things on your schedule,’ she said, nearly whispering.

      ‘You can go now. I’ll take over,’ he said, waving his hand at her as if she were a pesky fly.

      Madeleine slowly slunk out of her chair and disappeared down the aisle with tiny, mincing steps.

      Oswald turned to Sofia and smiled again, but irritation