The Mist

her what was happening, as it was all too obvious that Dimma wasn’t coming out to join them. She thought about the unopened Christmas presents lying under the prettily decorated tree and foresaw a miserable ending to what should have been a happy evening. How she wished her mother would take the hint and leave, but she knew that wasn’t going to happen, and they could hardly throw her out, today of all days.
It was her mother who broke the tense silence: ‘What’s the matter with the child? Shall I go and talk to her?’
Jón hesitated, then sat down at the table.
‘Thanks for offering, but it wouldn’t do any good.’ He poured some malt from the crystal jug into his glass. ‘She’s not coming out. She doesn’t want to.’
‘Why not?’ Again, it was Hulda’s mother who wouldn’t let it go.
‘I’ve no idea, I’m afraid. I wish I knew what we could do.’ He seemed uncharacteristically despondent. ‘It’s some kind of obstinacy, some kind of … well, teenage rebellion, but on a whole different level. I suppose it’s … it’s … the weight of tradition she’s rejecting, or something like that – Christmas and all the trappings. I can’t explain it.’
‘Then you need to shake that nonsense out of her,’ Hulda’s mother said, rapping the table for emphasis. ‘More discipline, that’s what’s needed.’
‘Mum!’ Hulda shouted. ‘Will you just shut up! This has nothing to do with you. Leave it to Jón and me.’
‘Well, then, I suppose you’d rather I went home? In the middle of Christmas dinner?’ her mother retorted. ‘I’ll go, if that’s what you want, Hulda – if you’d kindly call me a taxi.’
Hulda would have given anything to agree and ring for a cab, but she forced herself to say: ‘Of course not! Don’t be silly, Mum. Let’s just enjoy the food. Try to have a nice evening and open our presents as usual.’ She felt a tear running down her cheek. Turning her head away, she wiped it off with the back of her hand and tried to pull herself together.
‘Dimma will get over it,’ Jón said at last, helping himself to ham.
‘She won’t get over it, Jón,’ Hulda replied sharply, momentarily forgetting her mother’s presence. ‘She won’t get over it. The instant Christmas is over, we need to talk to a doctor or a psychologist or something. I won’t listen to any more excuses.’
Embarrassed, Jón glanced first at his mother-in-law, then at Hulda: ‘I don’t believe that will solve anything, but now’s not the moment. We’ll discuss it later, love.’

XXIII
Erla grabbed the door handle with both hands. Thank God, it was unlocked, as always, since there had never been anything to fear in this remote, peaceful spot …
Opening it, she almost threw herself inside, over the threshold, into the house.
Home and dry.
All she had to do now was lock the door. She could do that by clicking the latch before she closed it. She had to act quickly. But that meant turning round and facing the unseen terror behind her.
She snatched a glance over her shoulder, but Leó was nowhere to be seen.
It took all her willpower to force her numb, white fingers to obey, but after a moment the lock clicked. Then, just as she was about to slam the door shut, she caught sight of him.
He was coming all right – she could make out his shape through the driving sheets of snow – but he was further away than she had expected. This meant she had time to pause for a second look. It was odd, but there was no doubt about it: he was walking, not running. Although he was drawing inexorably closer, he didn’t seem to be in any hurry.
The realization overwhelmed her with dread. She slammed the door with all her might, testing it to check it was definitely locked, then heaved a deep sigh of relief, feeling safe at last.
Why the hell wasn’t he hurrying?
What did he know that she didn’t? That Einar wouldn’t be coming to her rescue?
Still panting, she shouted out Einar’s name, then caught her breath, trembling with reaction, trying to slow her frantically beating heart and think rationally.
The windows – they were all shut, weren’t they? Yes, they must be, in this weather. And anyway, she doubted Leó would be able to squeeze in through any of them, as they were all so small.
The back door?
She dashed through the sitting room and along the dark passage, her arms outstretched to avoid colliding with the walls.
It was locked.
Almost sobbing with relief, she leaned against the wall, briefly closing her eyes. Now that she was safe she became aware of how cold she was, her whole body racked with shivers.
She called out to her husband again. There was no answer.
She took stock of the situation: the phone wasn’t working, there was a power cut, and with every second Leó was drawing closer.
Why couldn’t he just disappear? Why couldn’t she wake up? Surely this nightmare had to end soon.
It was hard to see anything indoors now that the blizzard had blotted out the last remaining daylight, and she knew from experience that it could take days for the power to be restored. Was she seriously going to have to cower in here for all that time, until Leó had given up and gone? And where, oh, where was Einar?
‘Einar!’ she shouted again: ‘Einar!’ so loudly that she knew her call would carry through the whole house, breaking the sinister silence, piercing the darkness. She waited, straining her ears, for a reply.
‘Einar!’ she shrieked again.
She slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor at the end of the passage, where the darkness was absolute. There were no windows nearby; here she could sit in a corner, secure in the knowledge that no one could creep up behind her. She felt weak with fatigue.
There was no sound.
Her thoughts flew to Anna again. There was her old room, the door closed as usual. Unlike the attic room, it was never