Page 11 of Hallowed & Haunted
The fire grows, sending flickering light across the walls and driving back some of the oppressive darkness. It doesn’t do much for the cold yet, but it’s something. Niillas stands, wiping his hands on his jeans. He pulls a small pack from his camping bag that unfolds into a sleeping bag and spreads it out onto the area he cleaned in front of the oven.
Fucking Boy Scout.
“Here.”
Sitting down reluctantly, Sander can’t stop throwing nervous glances at the door and the windows. It’s like having the world’s creepiest picnic, and it’s impossible to relax. Also, it’s cold. Sander folds his legs awkwardly underneath himself to preserve some warmth. If Niillas hadn’t thought to bring the sleeping bag and light the fire, this whole night would’ve gone from uncomfortable to unbearable in no time.
Niillas rummages in his bag some more and comes up with a flannel shirt, thick and well-worn, in a pattern of dark red and black. He offers it to Sander, who only stares at the item for a long moment.
“You’re shivering.”
Sander wants to protest that he doesn’t need it, but he has to concentrate to keep his teeth from chattering. So what’s one more little scrap to his pride? He accepts the shirt, shrugging out of his leather jacket.
The shirt is warm and soft, and too large for him. A new experience. Usually, Sander is the one lending out his hoodies to grateful smaller folks, and it’s oddly nice to be the petite one for once. Also, the fabric smells good, and Sander has to resist the urge to bury his nose in it and drown out the rotten stench of the farm with the clean, woodsy scent of Niillas.
“Thanks,” Sander mumbles.
“Didn’t think to ask Jonas for a hoodie?” Niillas asks, settling down cross-legged beside him.
Sander bristles, although part of him recognizes Niillas’ tone for teasing.
“It’s October, not January,” he snaps. “And we’re indoors.”
“Indoors, in a house with broken windows and no heating.”
“Well, sorry I didn’t consult the Boy Scout handbook before accepting Henrik’s stupid dare.”
Niillas snorts in what may be amusement or may be mockery.
“You could have asked me what to bring.”
“Right, because you’re such a font of helpful information.Yes. No. Maybe.I’m amazed you managed three full sentences tonight.”
“You never ask the right questions.”
“Oh, so now it’s my fault for not being psychic?” Sander turns to face him fully, frustration bubbling up. “What kind of questions should I have asked? Hey Niillas, do you happen to know if this allegedly haunted farmhouse has central heating? Also, should I be worried about supernatural entities, or just regular old hypothermia?”
There’s an angry spark in Niillas’ dark eyes, but when he answers, his voice is carefully controlled.
“You don’t believe in Henrik’s story.”
“No. Do you?”
The question is meant as a joke, to rile Niillas up, but the way he hesitates—
A derisive smile spreads across Sander’s face.
“Youdobelieve in this bullshit, do you? Not Henrik’s story, but the trolls and spirits nonsense.”
“I think the veil is thin tonight, and I think civilized people underestimate what that means.”
Niillas’ voice is dripping acid.
“You think I’m a clueless city boy. Is that what you’re implying?”
“I think you’re reckless.”
“Same thing, in your opinion.”