Page 9 of Hallowed & Haunted
Good.
He closes the trunk before Sander can get a look at his camping equipment. They get into the car in silence, and Niillas drives back down to the fjord road, turning north. In the passenger seat, Sander is quiet, staring out at the dark water.
“You know the way?” Sander asks when Niillas leaves the main road and follows a winding track through dense forest that leads away from the fjord and up into the mountains.
“I’ve hiked here in the summer. My grandma’s land is only a little further north. I know the property Henrik talked about, though I’ve never been inside.”
Sander snorts.
“Don’t say you think it’s cursed too.”
“Not cursed exactly. Though these mountains can be dangerous.”
“You can just drop me off there and tell Jonas to pick me up again tomorrow morning if you’re scared.”
There’s a defensive edge to Sander’s tone, but he seems determined to see this through with or without Niillas.
Sander Eriksen has clearly no idea what he’s gotten himself into.
Chapter 3
Sander
The forest road narrows until it’s barely more than two tire tracks carved through the undergrowth. Branches scrape against the Defender’s sides, mountain birch or rowan, Sander can’t tell in the darkness, but he finds himself gripping the door handle as they lurch over another pothole.
“You sure this is the right way?” he asks.
How is Niillas even able to stay on the road under these conditions?
“Henrik wasn’t exaggerating when he said the farmhouse was lying deep in the forest,” Niillas says, downshifting as they climb a particularly steep slope. The engine growls in protest.
The pleasant buzz of being slightly tipsy is wearing off, leaving Sander with a dull headache and the uncomfortable realization that he may have made a mistake. In the warm safety of Jonas’ living room, this seemed like a good idea. Henrik is a good player, but difficult to get along with. Even Sander’s trademark charm often falls flat when it comes to him. ProvingHenrik wrong and showing the team that Sander isn’t afraid of some stupid ghost story has the potential to solve all training problems for the rest of the semester. No more arguments and endless bargaining, and Sander’s image as the unshakeable hockey captain would’ve gotten a nice boost, too. It sounded like a great idea.
Now, surrounded by towering trees that block out the starlight as well as the ghostly shapes of the aurora, it feels like stupidity.
The trees thin slightly, and suddenly a dark lake glitters among the branches. The water reflects the dancing northern lights, ribbons of green and silver that should be beautiful but instead feel ominous. Sander shivers, though the Defender’s heater is working fine.
“There,” Niillas says, nodding ahead.
The farmhouse hunches at the other end of the lake like a lurking animal. Even in the darkness, Sander can see that Henrik’s description was generous. The traditional timber building leans slightly to one side, and its color, once surely bright red, looks like dried blood in the darkness. Several small windows on the upper floor are boarded up, while others gape black and empty where the glass has long since shattered, reminding Sander uncomfortably of empty eye sockets. The steep roof, designed for heavy snowfall, is missing entire sections of wooden shingles, leaving dark wounds that promise a miserable night should it rain.
“Damn,” Sander mutters. “This place looks like it needs to be torn down, not sold to unassuming families.”
Niillas parks near a rusted gate that hangs open on broken hinges. He cuts the engine, and the sudden silence is deafening. No traffic, no neighbors, no civilization for kilometers in anydirection. Just the soft lapping of water against the shore and the whisper of wind through the trees.
“Still want to see this through?” Niillas asks, and Sander can’t tell whether he’s mocking or concerned. “We could wait out the night in the car.”
Sander’s pride wars with his common sense. The smart thing would be to tell Niillas to turn around, drive back to the party, and deal with Henrik’s smug satisfaction tomorrow. But the thought of facing his teammates, of admitting he chickened out, makes his stomach turn. And if they camp in Niillas’ car, Sander is going to feel like a fraud. He hates cheating, and it doesn’t help that he’s a spectacularly bad liar.
“We’re here. And the terms of the bet were clear. I don’t cheat.” He forces a confidence that he doesn’t feel into his voice. “Besides, how bad can it be? It’s just one night.”
Niillas shrugs as if it’s all the same to him, and they grab their things from the car. Sander picks up Jonas’ hastily packed provisions, and Niillas shoulders his suspiciously well-organized camping gear. Does the man always drive around with a perfectly equipped backpack in his car? Sander makes a mental note to ask about that later, but right now, he has more pressing things to worry about.
As soon as they step through the gate, a wind whistles up from the lake. It’s cold and brings with it an eerie sound like whispering or singing in a language Sander doesn’t understand.
Niillas pauses and looks out at the lake, his dark eyes alert and reflecting the light of the aurora like a predator’s. Sander stops short. Was it a trick of the light, or is Niillas wearing contacts?
“Something wrong?”