The Ice People 39 - Silent Voices. Margit Sandemo

tourists in town already?”

      “No, I work at the inn. I’ll be there for the summer.”

      “I see. Serving, I suppose?”

      “No, I’m going to be on reception. But I don’t know how that’s going to work out. It’s much harder than I thought.”

      The lady leaned her bosom on the counter. “So you live in the village?”

      For the third time Ellen had to give a negative response to the lady’s guesses. “No, I am staying in the inn itself. I must admit it feels rather lonely there.”

      The shop lady slapped her hand down on the counter. “What in the world? Is that crazy woman allowing a young girl like you to stay all alone in that haunted house? That’s the most terrible thing I’ve heard yet.”

      Ellen’s mouth quivered a little, partially from amusement and partially in bewilderment. “Haunted house?”

      “Oh, but it’s all right: thankfully they shut down the old part ...”

      “You mean the part nearest the forest?” Ellen asked, turning pale. “But that’s where I am staying!”

      “What?” shouted the woman. “Are you sleeping there? But that’s crazy! Nicolaysen would never have allowed that! Never in his life!”

      “Now I’m getting scared,” said Ellen impatiently and reproachfully. “Is it really haunted, or isn’t it?”

      Finally the woman realized that she had gone too far. “Well, there’s haunted and haunted ... no one’s ever actually seen anything. But strange things have happened there.”

      “What kind of strange things?”

      As though the woman were afraid that someone might overhear her, she looked over her shoulder and lowered her voice. “All I’m saying is: don’t touch that door!”

      “The one at the end of the hallway?” Ellen asked somewhat uneasily. “What is it? Where does it lead?”

      The woman leaned closer and said in confidence: “No one knows for certain what it leads to. No one alive now, that is. But they’ve figured out that there must be another room on the other side of it.”

      Ellen recalled the structure of the inn from memory. “As far as I remember there was no window in that gable. Only the French roof that slopes down. But why don’t they look inside it?”

      It was clear that the climax of the story was about to come, because the woman’s voice grew raspy with excitement. “No one has attempted to open that door since the start of the forties. And the one who tried back then died. Fell over stone dead just as he was about to break in. And everyone else who tried before him died, too. Either from the plague, or in an accident, or that sort of thing.”

      When Ellen had discounted the rather dubious reference to the plague, she tried to get a little clarity on all the mystery. “So the door wasn’t properly opened in 1940 either?”

      “It’s never been opened. No one’s ever been able to manage it. When the Germans couldn’t even manage it during the War, how can ordinary decent citizens be expected to?”

      “So it was a German who tried?”

      “Yes. A captain who bawled and screamed and called his men cowards, and just when he took out his gun and was about to shoot his way in through the door, he collapsed on the spot and died from a heart attack.”

      “He probably bawled too much,” said Ellen, who found it hard to believe that there was some evil force behind the door. “So no one’s been able to come up with an explanation as to why the door won’t open?”

      The woman gave a crooked, sly smile. “Oh, yes, they most certainly have! They say that a nobleman committed suicide in the late eighteenth century. Locked himself in one of the rooms and lay there without eating or drinking until he just sort of shrivelled up. He was nothing but a mummy the last time they saw him.”

      “The last time they saw him? You mean when they carried him out of the room ... out of the house?”

      “No one knows,” the woman whispered secretively. “No one knows. The only thing that is ever said is, the last time anyone saw him, he was dry as a mummy. They say he suffered from a broken heart. And even though it was never talked about, it’s not hard to imagine which room he locked himself in.”

      “But he doesn’t haunt the place?” asked Ellen, trying to conceal a little smile.

      “How can one ever be entirely sure about that? It’s been ages since that part of the house was occupied by anyone. But there’s no denying that there’s something very strange about that door. And now that woman has apparently fixed up the other rooms. She’s mad. Does she really think anyone’s going to want to stay in them?”

      But as the summer day was so golden yellow and light green, Ellen had a good laugh over that mad ghost story on her way back to the inn. When she got back she mentioned the conversation she had had to Mrs Sinclair.

      “Oh yes, I’ve heard that story before,” the manager said curtly. “Village gossip! Nicolaysen, the former owner, took the story terribly seriously, but Director Steen, who has now purchased this place, seems much more sensible. In any case, the idea of restoring the old part of the inn came from me. And I hope that you also have a realistic view of the matter.”

      “I didn’t notice anything last night. And I’ve never been impressed by ghost stories.”

      At this point a chilling memory swept through Ellen’s mind. What she had experienced ...

      No, she quickly pushed it aside.

      Mrs Sinclair continued undisturbed: “Of course, I wanted to have the door opened, but the carpenters warned me against it. And since there was no key for it, I just let it be. It’s not worth breaking it down. I’m not strong enough to do it alone and no one will help me. I couldn’t even get anyone to paint it, so I’ll have to do that myself – when I have the time. Anyway, I think it lends a certain atmosphere to the place.”

      That’s easy for you to say, thought Ellen slightly bitterly. You don’t have to sleep all alone in that big building. Yes, the door lent some atmosphere all right. A little too much atmosphere for Ellen’s taste.

      Again, the evil memory swept through her mind, the one for which she had never managed to find a proper explanation.

      Blast! Why did it have to surface at this very moment? Just when she least needed it!

      Then came the second night.

      Her mind filled with room reservations, service prices and bills, Ellen crawled into bed wearing her new nightgown, which may have been rather a rash purchase considering the lonely environment she was in, but she just hadn’t been able to resist it. “A bridal nightgown,” the shop lady had said, and Ellen had tried to look as though that was exactly what she had been looking for. The truth was she didn’t even have a boyfriend, much less a groom. But she just had to have that nightgown. It was the kind that you only come across once in a lifetime. White with transparent lace, and so romantic that it took one’s breath away.

      But it cheered her up in this miserable, deserted wilderness, as she so bitterly thought of the area.

      It was starting to get stormy outside, and the silence wasn’t quite as penetrating as before. Furthermore, there were still a few painters working overtime in the main building, so she didn’t feel lonely. Instead she fell asleep in the satisfied knowledge that she had done a good day’s work. She was getting a better grip on it all. She even felt she was on good, friendly terms with Mrs Sinclair.

      The carpenters left, but Ellen was asleep by then.

      At some time during the night she was half woken by a sound, but she was too deep in her dreams to take any interest in it. She just thought irritably that her father ought to oil the door to the office because it was squeaking so much that it was practically