‘I’m sure they’ll be back any minute now, Putti.’ Her voice sounded silly to her in the silence and emptiness. Yet it was better listening to herself than to no one. ‘Don’t you think so?’ The dog didn’t make a sound in response, and judging by his breathing he hadn’t even woken. Katrín considered stretching out her uninjured foot and wiggling it a bit, but stopped for fear that the movement would somehow jar the injured one. Still, she desperately wanted to wake Putti; she found it a bit unfair that he was lost in his dreams. She might just as well be alone. Besides, he was a good monitor of the environment; his senses were better adjusted and more powerful than hers. If he were on guard and didn’t utter so much as a growl she could relax in the knowledge that everything was all right. Now it would take an entire boys’ choir to burst in and start singing to disturb him, since he was unused to long treks through heavy snow. Katrín hadn’t even finished this thought before Putti’s breathing changed and he gave a curt bark. What had she been thinking? It was much worse to have the dog awake and imagine terrible things at each noise that emerged from his throat. The bark seemed to hang in the air long after the dog had fallen silent again, and Katrín fought the temptation to cover her ears. When it came down to it, she wanted to hear it if there was anything to hear, not wait unknowingly for something bad to happen. Although she wasn’t in a fit state to be any kind of action hero, she was fairly sure she could defend herself if necessary.
A soft rustling noise reached her ears, followed by a vague creak. Katrín was startled when she realized it seemed to come from inside the house. Putti growled softly and then barked, now at full force. ‘Hush!’ If the dog continued, she wouldn’t be able to hear anything but his noise, nor would she be able to determine where the sound came from when and if it came again. The dog barked again, now much more quietly, before falling silent. Katrín listened carefully and then wrinkled her nose when she smelled an unpleasant odour, like rotting fish. Suddenly she felt as if someone were standing behind her. Again she heard a creak and the noise repeated itself almost immediately, as if someone were shuffling his feet on the rotten floorboards. Katrín swivelled very slowly towards the sound, certain that out of the corner of her eye she would see the expected figure standing behind her chair. But there was nothing to be seen in the darkness. She focused on the place she felt most likely, prepared for any movement. But when the creak came again she wasn’t aware of any and realized she’d miscalculated where it had come from. It hadn’t originated inside, but rather outside on the porch, and she turned her head slightly to the right to look out of the window.
Katrín’s heart stopped, only to start again so violently that her chest heaved. Although the darkness was black and thick as soot, her eyes had grown sufficiently accustomed to it for her to see a pale hand up against the glass, its fingers spread as if expecting a pen to draw the hand’s outline on the pane. The short, skinny fingers suggested it was the hand of a child, and although it was difficult to distinguish colours, the fingertips were clearly darkened. The colour was unpleasant in some indefinable way that didn’t seem related to simple dirt; she felt it was something different, and worse. Putti also appeared to have spotted the hand on the glass and he whined piteously. Katrín tried to breathe normally but her breaths felt too deep, and the air wouldn’t leave her lungs when she tried to expel it. The disgusting smell of fish offal had intensified and she felt sick, then sicker still when she heard the owner of the hand start to mutter something outside. She wanted to cover her ears, shut her eyes and start counting down the seconds again until one of two things happened: either Garðar and Líf returned, or a cold little hand tore her back to full consciousness. But then she thought she could distinguish the words:
‘Run, Kata, run.’ She gave in, clapped her hands over her ears and shut her eyes. She didn’t want to know what awaited her.
Chapter 24
The moon peeked briefly through the bank of dark grey cloud that would soon fill the night sky. As it did so, the leafless shrubs in the hospital grounds appeared once more – but even they wouldn’t be visible for long. Snow was falling, covering everything, which for Freyr meant that there was little to see after staring for nearly an hour through his office window. He’d dragged his chair there and sat with his phone in his lap without knowing who he imagined he could call if he decided he wanted to get things off his chest. He was little nearer to figuring anything out after his conversation with Úrsúla, who’d withdrawn into her shell after opening up to him and hinting at things that might possibly explain what was going on and free him from his psychological torment. But instead of telling him more of what she knew – or thought she knew – she was now lying sedated in a hospital bed. Considering her condition when he left her room, it was unlikely that he would be able to get much out of her the next day; even worse, in the light of her medical history, she could quite easily not say a word for several years to come. What did she mean by saying that Bernódus, who disappeared half a century ago, wanted him to find Benni?
To make matters worse, he’d called Halla’s husband to ask about the scars on her back and hadn’t received the answer he was hoping for. Everywhere he looked there seemed to be dead ends. The man had been flabbergasted, though Freyr had only got as far as mentioning the word ‘scars’, and was angry at being called so late in the evening with what he seemed to consider a trivial question. Freyr had managed to apologize humbly enough for the man to calm down and answer his questions, though his replies hadn’t been particularly informative. The only thing that was clear from the phone call was that Halla had kept her injuries secret from her husband, telling him that it was eczema when he asked about a little spot of blood on her nightdress or the bed. He said the skin condition had first appeared a few years ago, though he couldn’t be any more specific than that. Freyr said nothing, but reckoned that it had been three years ago; it must have been at least that, given everything else he knew. Freyr didn’t want to arouse the man’s suspicions too much so was cautious with his questions. But he did find out for certain that Halla hadn’t suffered from eczema until after her back had been injured, and that it was worst in the mornings, after restless nights. The man hadn’t known how bad it had been; she’d always hidden her back from him, which he’d found very vain. Freyr said goodbye to him without mentioning anything about crosses or the doomed group of friends, feeling that the widower should be allowed to bury his wife in peace, but he did ask him how he was doing and was told that he felt awful, but was getting better. His daughter was looking after him and his sons were prepared to help as well.
After hanging up, Freyr could do little but scratch his head. So it seemed Halla must have inflicted the wounds on herself during the night, according to her husband’s description. This pretty much ruled out the idea of anyone else having been involved; the man would have been aware of any nocturnal activity. But Freyr also felt certain that the husband hadn’t had anything to do with it. He had been so convincing that anything else was unthinkable. The low voice of insanity that crept up and muttered in his ear when he let his guard down whispered that neither the woman herself nor any other living person had caused the wounds. They had been caused by other powers, worse ones. As Freyr agonised over these confused thoughts, another idea formed in his head: could Halla have made the wounds on her back without realizing it? They would have had to be caused either by her scratching in the night or without any external contact whatsoever, subconsciously; Freyr had heard of such things but had never really believed them. Stories about wounds of this sort mainly concerned people who claimed to have received so-called stigmata, wounds in their palms and on their soles as if from a crucifixion. No one had ever proved that people could make such wounds appear through the power of thought alone, although theories did exist for the phenomenon. It was a crazy idea, yet not as strange as that of some entity from beyond having inflicted the wounds on Halla’s back.