The Mist

No one had dreamt that anyone would ever move back here, but Anna had wanted to renovate the house and land to prevent it from falling into decay. The house had been a favourite haunt when she was a child and she’d made up her mind that this was where she wanted to live. She would worry about finding a husband and starting a family later. ‘It’ll happen when it happens,’ she had said.
Erla remembered that conversation so well. It was the first time she had ever truly lost her temper with her daughter. She had berated her for her decision to move back home, and been furious with herself for never having said anything to Einar, never having suggested in all seriousness that they should move. Anna’s response had left her stunned. It had come home to her then that her daughter really wanted to live there, that she genuinely loved the district, the moors, the sheep, the weather, all of it. Just like Einar. A chip off the old block … Whereas she herself couldn’t be more different from her daughter. She had never raised the subject with Anna again.
Erla snapped out of her thoughts to find herself still standing there in the kitchen, her eyes dwelling on the flickering flame. Leó had started banging on the door again. He obviously wasn’t going to give up, but it seemed he wasn’t about to break in – not yet, anyway. And she had no intention of ever letting him in herself.
At least she could see her surroundings now. She held up the candle, looking around the kitchen, then went into the sitting room. There was nobody there. Of course there wasn’t; she would have noticed if there had been. And nothing appeared to have been disturbed either; everything was in its place, where it ought to be … But no, that wasn’t true. They should have been sitting at the dinner table, the family, eating smoked lamb. That’s how it should have been.
Where on earth was Einar? Could he be up in the attic? Could he be lying there injured from a fight with Leó? She went cold at the thought.
She was aware of the relentless hammering on the door in the background, but ignored it. All she could think about was going upstairs and finding out if Einar was there. But her legs felt heavy and her fear was growing with every minute.
One step at a time, with a terrible, dragging reluctance, she climbed the stairs; the racket Leó was making reached her like an echo from another world.
She was more conscious now of her own heartbeat booming in her ears than of any external noises.
As soon as she made it up on to the landing, she saw that the door to the guestroom was open. Immediately, instinct warned her that something dreadful had happened there and her first impulse was to run away, downstairs, out of the house – anything to avoid having to face up to the truth.
She stood stock still, aware that time was running out. If Leó had hurt Einar in some way, she had to know. She needed time to react and work out an escape plan.
She took the last few steps to the doorway, keeping her head down, not daring to look into the room, not quite yet. Then she held the candle aloft so it would illuminate the whole space, closed her eyes, feeling herself break out in a sweat, and opened them again.
The shock was so horrible that for a moment she couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Then, from deep within her subconscious, a thought broke through to the surface: freedom.
She was free at last.
At long last she could leave this place, throw off the crushing weight of her loneliness, move to a larger community, meet people, make friends, see more of her family; no longer be a prisoner in her own home for months on end …
Then the sickness and the shame took over and she was appalled by her involuntary reaction.
There on the floor lay her husband, the love of her life, deathly still, surrounded by a dark, spreading stain.

XXIV
Erla tried to scream, but her throat wouldn’t produce any sound. Afraid she was going to throw up, she crouched down and drew a deep, shuddering breath, closing her eyes, trying to steady herself. Maybe she was seeing things; maybe there was nothing there: no body, no blood. She forced herself to look up, only to start retching again at the sight.
Next moment the fear took over as the reality sank in that she was alone, alone, and that Leó must have murdered Einar – there could be no other explanation.
The man who was standing outside the house, demanding to be let in, was a cold-blooded killer.
Her life was in danger. It must be. She had a sudden mad impulse to break out through the dormer window but knew it wouldn’t work. The window was small, the roof steep, and she was bound to be swept off by the wind. Besides, he was out there. She had to think fast if she was going to get out of this alive. Feeling a wet splash on her hand, she realized she was crying.
There was no time to mourn Einar now – that would have to wait. She had to save her own life first. But the flow of tears wouldn’t be stemmed.
She pressed her fingers to the neck of the motionless body to make quite sure that Einar was no longer breathing. No, there was no question: he was dead. The blood had told her as much, but it had been her last hope. Of course, it was futile anyway, because even if he had still been showing faint signs of life, help was impossibly far away and they were completely cut off from the outside world.
Erla straightened up and hurried out of the room and down the stairs, clutching the candlestick, not wanting to risk being plunged into darkness again. It