1
I once read about a man who had been injured while working with deforestation. The contents of the abdomen had fallen out on the moss but the man calmly collected his own entrails and instructed the rescue personnel about what had happened. He was completely recovered but afterwards he remembered nothing of the incident. The brain had erased everything. The only confirmation that the experience had really taken place was the stitches on his stomach. What happened to me on the other hand, I remember everything.
My story begins one late summer when my father had to move to a nursing home due to a severe stroke. He had been found on a gravel road in the woods a few kilometers from his summer cottage. His ability to speak had almost vanished and he had become so apathetic that he was later judged to be in need of a guardian. Since I am the only relative I took a leave of absence, left the big city and let the train take me far up to the northern part of the country. There lies the small town where I grew up.
I left the planned sale of dad’s apartment in the hands of the real estate agent but the summer cottage had an affectionate value. The croft is called Myrbacken. This was originally the name of the small farm that existed on the site but which had been abandoned in the late 18th century. My father whose great passion had always been hunting had in his autumn age instead become interested in genealogy and local history. In old archives he had discovered maps that showed where the farm had stood. He became so interested in the site’s past that he bought the lone plot from the forest owner who was not even aware that there were remains from a desolate farm on the site. Dad undertook to restore the house as authentic as possible. I was there a couple of times during the restoration process but then moved abroad for a few years. As a guardian I now had to decide whether we would keep or sell the property. With my dad’s now empty apartment as a base I decided to go there for a few days to be able to make a better decision.
On a sunny afternoon I packed everything necessary in a large backpack. Since I do not have a driver’s license I contacted the only taxi company in town. The road to the cottage goes via crooked gravel roads far into thick coniferous forest. If it weren’t for the old mile stone that stands by the roadside one would easily miss the small path that disappears into the spruces. This is where the berry pickers had found dad early in the morning, scared and confused. After the taxi took me all the way to the stone the driver looked at me in amazement as he dropped me off in the middle of the wilderness. I shouldered the backpack, turned away from the large spruce branches and walked the last kilometers towards the cottage.
The small tarred facade appeared between the trees at the end of the path. I had never seen the cottage fully completed before. The reed roof looked slightly collapsed but still in fairly good shape. The garden was neglected but not without rescue. The big ash had however lost the battle against the ash dieback and the bark had come loose in great chunks. At the edge of the plot the remains of the foundation of the drying house were visible. Here the peat that had once been the farm of Myrbacken’s livelihood used to be stored. The peat was mined on a large bog that spread to the east and which had given the place its name. Everything was embraced by deep spruce forest. The place was desolate but at the same time peaceful and undisturbed.
But when I walked towards the front door something happened that changed the mood. Suddenly I slipped on something right in front of the entrance. I bent down and saw damp skin in the grass that seemed to be bleeding. There was a fetus. A small hairless deer fetus. It was fresh. The female must have pushed it away not long before I came here. I reluctantly picked up the lifeless little body with two sticks and hauled it into the woods.
In the foyer hung a faint smell of mold and tar. The floorboards in the living room were softly worn. They were the same planks that had lain there for hundreds of years since the original dwelling house was built. Dad had restored the facade and ceiling but the floor was original. A spotting scope balancing on its three legs was aimed at the window facing the bog. The old coffin where I knew my father kept his genealogy material was standing next to the wood basket. It will be exciting reading in the evenings I thought. On the kitchen wall hung motif plates and on the table stood an extinguished oil lamp next to a cup of evaporated coffee. Everything looked homely. The only thing that stood out was the weapon cabinet. I knew this was where dad kept his old shotgun but now it was strangely unlocked and gaped empty.
After I’ve made myself at home I went out and started cleaning the garden. The work went well during the day but when it started to get dark and the mosquitoes came I went back inside the cottage. After lighting the fireplace and making myself a cup of tea I sat down on the kitchen sofa and lifted the lid on the coffin. Inside were copies of church records, land surveys, summonses for military service and documents from old local hometown associations. On the edges were sloppy notes in dad’s handwriting that circled distant relatives. Farmers and soldiers lined up. Fast, Ferm, Storck and Back. I dug deeper until I noticed particularly hectic notes on a copy of an old interrogation record. Dated winter 18th January 1797. I tried to decipher the aged language.
In the middle of the night workers had been woken up by screams from the privy. The maid Lisa Heljesdotter had delivered her own child herself. The pain of childbirth mixed with the fear and shame of having given birth to an illegitimate child had driven her mad. When the door of the privy was pulled open the workers saw Lisa trying to push her offspring back the same way it came out. A commotion had arisen and the maid then took her crying infant and ran away with it out on a bog. When she then returned without the child and with the maid dress blackened from the swamp the workers had become so angry and shocked that they had beaten her to death. A ground search was performed on the bog but the child was never found and could therefore never be baptized or buried in consecrated ground. Nor was the maid’s body found according to the protocol. The frozen soil would have made burial more difficult and required a mortuary but during the interrogations with the Fjardingsman the workers refused to tell where Lisa’s body had been hidden.
The fire inside the wood stove crackled. The place where the incident had occurred was only described as Axel Tokke’s farm but dad’s hectic notes referred to a page from one of the church books. After reading the church’s population register there was no doubt. It was stated that Lisa Helfrid Heljesdotter worked at the peat farm Myrbacken just before she was pronounced dead. Lisa’s newborn child who disappeared on the bog was also included in the register even though it was never included in the congregation. The older workers on the farm had expressed fear that the unbaptized child risked becoming something they called a myrding. The term was an old word for murdered and described a kind of aggressive ghost from ancient folk lore. For safety, a hedge with juniper bushes was planted between the yard and the bog to protect against any evil forces. The work of mining peat had continued for a few more months but the accounts testified that the business had then suddenly ceased. The length of ownership also ended abruptly. Something had caused Axel together with all the workers to leave the farm without selling or donating it. Myrbacken was left desolate and was eventually completely forgotten until dad found all these old documents in the city archives. I closed the coffin and stared dejectedly out into the darkness through the kitchen window.
2
The next day was overcast and a light wind chilled the surroundings. I did not touch the coffin but instead started working with the garden. After yesterday’s reading I had decided to sell the cottage. By evening I had completely cleared the arbor of weeds and even had time to mow most of the lawn. The sun slowly crept down behind the spruce tops and the colors of the surroundings went from orange-red to dim blue and green. As the sky darkened a narrow streak of northern lights appeared that stretched east. I followed the glow and my gaze finally landed on a grove that separated the lawn from the bog on the other side. The end of the grove consisted of carefully planted juniper bushes. The bushes stood there like a wall against the bog. I thought of the awful thing that had once taken place on the site and walked away towards the bog to try to imagine what it would have looked like when the ground search went there almost two centuries ago.
Despite the twilight I could glimpse the components of the swampland between the juniper bushes. Shiny bottomless puddles lay scattered in the coarse moss that stretched as far as you could see through the evening mist. Small meter-high twisted conifers had tried to penetrate but were suffocated by the bog’s low-oxygen peat. Their bare gloomy remains stood there as lonely silhouettes. Dad had told me that bogs are so poor in oxygen that animals and plants are not broken down but instead accumulated and preserved. In addition, acids in the peat can cause the decomposition process to stop almost completely. I looked out over the barren surface. My eyes got stuck on a long narrow object lying a bit out on the bog. It was dad’s shotgun. I could only guess why it was out there. Dad had probably hunted grouse when the stroke hit him. In any case the weapon was a family heirloom and belonged inside the weapon cabinet. I knew that it was dangerous to go out on the bog by yourself if you were not used to it since you could get stuck. But now it was only a matter of a few meters. I went out into the swamp.
On the other side of the juniper bushes it was strangely cold in the air even though it was now completely windless. It darkened unnaturally fast and a thin layer of mist had begun to spread. The northern lights were no longer visible. The length of the boots was just enough to keep me dry but the mud created a sucking vacuum for every step. When I finally got to the rifle I bent down and lifted it up. A used sleeve sat in each of the two gun barrels. Grouse are hunted with hail but these were sleeves from slugs - large lead bullets used for wild boar or fallow deer further south in the country.
As I stood there and pondered deeply as to what might have caused the situation a low-pitched sound was heard that at first sounded like an injured animal. When the sound then became clearer I noticed that it was reminiscent of sobs. The rhythm and fragility were the same as the one of an infant but the voice itself sounded dry and worn as coming from an old man. Everything else was completely silent. My mind flipped through possible explanations. I knew that red foxes could make sounds eerily similar to humans but the unpleasant thing about this particular sound was that I could not determine from which direction it came. It seemed to come through the fog from all directions at once but apparently had only one source.
I looked around. The silhouettes from the small trees became more and more diffuse as the fog seemed to thicken. I felt increasingly disoriented and turned around to take myself back the way I came. The mist was now so compact that I no longer saw either the cottage or even the grove with the juniper bushes. Just as I was about to take the first steps the faint sobs turned to clear crying but still with the same macabre mix between child and old. Now suddenly I also heard the sound coming straight from behind. I slowly looked over my shoulder. The figure that appeared through the haze made me drop the rifle and my body began to vibrate from the adrenaline.
It has a child’s body but elongated enough to resemble one of an adult. It’s too dark for me to see its face. I try to take a confused step but become aware that I have been in the same spot for too long. The boots have sunk deep into the ground and I fall straight into the dark wet peat. The clothes soak up the cold water. Squelching steps are heard. The figure is on its way towards me. The morbid crying increases in strength and seems to become more desperate and aggressive. I try to grab some roots to pull myself out of the mud but they break and I instead sink deeper with my face down. It’s like the bog is holding me down. Waves from heavy footsteps propagate through the moisture-saturated surface. It’s right behind me. It should be here by now. But then the crying ends abruptly. I manage to turn my head to the side. A leg. The thing is standing right next to me.
I stop breathing. A few minutes seem to pass by. Suddenly I feel the footsteps through the swamp again. They become weaker. Like they’re going away from me. Once they are completely silent I gently lift my head and try to look around. Barren swampland. Nothing except the small trees. I manage to pull my feet out of the boots that have sunk so far into the peat that they are out of rescue. Slowly I stand up and start walking with tense careful steps back towards the cottage. I try to walk as quietly as possible but every single step seem louder than if I had run. At the same time the clouds covering the black night sky slowly begin to thin out and the moonlight finds its way down to the bog. Just when I arrive at the edge of the grove with the juniper bushes, I froze.
In the corner of my eye. There it is. I did not discover it until I was next to it. Without the moonlight I might not have seen it at all but now the figure is standing right next to me. Completely still. It stares at me. I dare not turn to look at it directly. Afraid to lose my mind, that I would go crazy or become traumatized by its appearance. Then I feel a hand in mine. As cold as ice cubes. The fog slowly dissipates and wanders back out onto the flat dead landscape behind us. The silhouette of the cottage can now be seen again on the other side of the juniper bushes. The hand slowly pinches harder as if it wants me to do something. I take a step. The figure next to me does the same. I take another. It follows. We take more steps towards the cottage and I lead us past the densely growing juniper bushes that formed the barrier between the bog and the peat farm since they were planted there by the workers so many years ago.
When we have passed the grove and reached the lawn the thing suddenly releases my hand and walks purposefully on towards the cottage. After a few steps it collapses and begins to crawl like a newborn unfinished animal. A disgusting stench fills the air. Like something has suddenly started to rot. The smell reminds me of when I as a child opened a sealed plastic bucket with forgotten waste from a moose hunt. The carcass had been kept separate from insects and worms and turned into a dark batter with bones.
A silent wind slowly begins to rock the spruce tops and lets the moonlight dance around on the lawn as it cuts through the darkness. The silhouette of the crawling figure seems to shrink at the same time as it rots. When it reaches the foundation of the house only a small decayed body of a human infant remains. Then it pushes itself down through an almost non-existent small hole where the foundation meets the soil and disappears down under the croft.
I’m standing alone on the grass. Everything is suddenly completely still again. No wind in the trees. No noise from the forest. No insects. Complete silence. After having managed to gather enough of my senses I start running away towards the mile stone with my clothes covered in mud. When dawn comes I am found by a timber truck that almost hits me where I am standing in the middle of one of the crooked gravel roads.
3
I slept for almost two days and started to feel the hunger ache in my stomach. Dad’s apartment was emptied of all furniture except the bed. A puzzled neighbor saw me when I came stumbling into the stairwell wrapped in a garbage bag given to me by the timber truck driver. The neighbor had received an equally messy and improvised explanation for my sorry state. A lie about a stray hunting dog in a tangled swamp.
During the days that followed I made sure to visit my father at the nursing home. I tried to talk about the documents I had found and what had once happened at Myrbacken but the strokes’ complications seemed to have taken a firm hold over his mind. Now he was just sitting there inside his mental prison with a sad expression while staring at the floor. As if he was trying to understand something he had been through. With a few incoherent sentences he still managed to convey that he had sometimes seen something on the bog at night. I sensed that he really had more to tell but that he was afraid of not being taken seriously. When I mentioned what I myself had encountered out in the wet peat the old man quickly turned his gaze to me. The furrowed face shrank and I saw that he understood exactly what I was talking about.
The decision to sell the cottage was not very difficult to make. The value of affection was no longer there after what I had experienced. But before I contacted the real estate agent I first wanted to get back to pick up my things that I left inside the cottage. The idea of going back all by myself was not very attractive but my entire circle of acquaintances was in the big city further south and dad was not in a position to leave the nursing home. I thought of the forest worker who had his memory erased and what traumatic experiences could do to the mind. A kind of horror-mixed curiosity made me want to find out if everything I had experienced had really taken place.
On a mild morning the following week I took courage. I called the taxi company and let myself be driven back out into the woods. It was the same driver as last time. He bothered with small talk but gave up when he noticed how short answers I gave back. The spruces stood there as usual trying to hide the small forest path that led to the cottage. I gave the driver plenty of tips and said he could leave the taximeter on and that I would be back in a maximum of two hours.
The morning dew hung in the uncut lawn. Two deer foals played and chased each other on the other side of the plot. Their mother watched me intently. Otherwise everything looked as usual except that several tree shoots had suddenly risen through the lawn. When I thought about it the area around the croft had always been characterized by older vegetation. As if some circumstance made it difficult for the trees and shrubs to rejuvenate on our plot. But now suddenly new generations had taken root and come to life for the first time despite the fact that autumn was soon approaching.
I reluctantly went into the cottage and quickly began to gather all the things I brought with me during my previous visit. When I was done and was about to leave the living room I stepped one last time on the softly worn floorboards that had been lying there since the original croft was built. I thought again of what I had seen squeezing itself down under the foundation of the house. A nausea came creeping but at the same time also that horror-mixed curiosity. I need to know if that thing was real. I have to look under the floor.
At the stove hung a fire fork which I used to untie one of the planks. The plank was heavy and full of small holes from woodworm. I lit the oil lamp and gently stuck my head into the ground of the croft. Some stones and dry roots but mostly colorless flat dust. I stretched the lamp further to be able to illuminate the edges of the foundation. Then I saw small tracks in the dust. One end disappeared at the wall but the other led to something further away that looked like brighter roots. I got up and went to the plank that should be straight above the spot and loosened it with the fire fork. I turned my gaze slowly downwards to see what the light of the oil lamp was landing on. The flame gasped.
There were two skeletons. One lay in a twisted uncomfortable position. As if it had been thrown there. It was also dressed in fragments from an old maid dress. So it was here that the peat workers had hidden Lisa Helfridsdotter’s body after they killed her. Right underneath the dwelling house. The other corpse must be the individual I met on the bog. The fresh tracks revealed its journey from the eastern end of the house foundation where I saw it crawl down. The small body had then continued up into Lisa’s arms. There lay now a curled up infant skeleton. I sat quietly for a while. There was a calmness over the situation. An intimacy. But what I really saw were the remains of a family tragedy. A child’s unconditional trust in its murderer. A newborn who had been seeking love for two hundred years.
The end