The Mist

him. Then there was the incident that wouldn’t stop preying on her mind, although it had happened back in the autumn: the young woman who had vanished in Selfoss. It was a strange business. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to look at the files again tomorrow.
There was another sound from the hallway. Hulda stood up automatically, ignoring Jón’s protest.
She went out into the hall and saw Dimma standing by the door to her room, about to go inside. She paused, her eyes on her mother’s, her face as blank as if she were in a world of her own.
‘Dimma, darling, are you awake? Is everything all right?’ Hulda asked, hearing a note of desperation entering her voice in spite of herself.
She jumped when Jón suddenly put an arm round her shoulders, holding them firmly. Dimma looked at them both in turn, without saying a word, then vanished back into her room.

III
Erla sat facing Einar across the kitchen table. In the background, the voice of the announcer reading the midday news competed with the hiss of static on the old long-wave radio. Reception had always been bad out here and they had been told that they were lucky they could pick up any broadcasts at all. Still, although the quality was up and down, they could usually make out what was being said, even when the interference was at its worst. To Erla, the radio was a lifeline, almost a condition for their continued existence out here. Despite being an avid reader, she couldn’t imagine enduring the cold, dark winter months without a radio. Her favourite programmes were plays and serials – anything, really, that would help take her mind off things. She usually served up lunch while listening to the last piece of music before the news, then they would sit down and eat during the midday bulletin, which didn’t allow for much conversation. Lunch varied little from day to day: rye bread, sour whey to drink, and heated-up leftovers from the night before, this time in the form of a meat stew. The kitchen was filled with its delicious, hearty smell.
Erla studied her husband. He looked tired. There were shadows under his eyes and deep furrows in his forehead, though he was only in his early fifties. He had worked hard all his life, but there was no end in sight for his labours. They had gradually got out of the habit of seeing old friends and acquaintances from their district and, besides, they were more or less cut off by the state of the roads for several months every year. Einar always used to be fiercely political but now he made do with just buying the party newspaper and casting his vote in every election. He no longer got worked up over current affairs and had given up arguing about politics. Then again, since he and Erla mostly agreed with each other, there was no one for him to argue with, except perhaps the radio.
Despite endless promises, they still couldn’t receive television broadcasts. Every year it was a source of friction with those responsible, but, so far, no transmitter covered their area. Then again, maybe it was a good thing not to fall under its spell quite yet. It allowed them to live in the past a little while longer, or so she tried to convince herself. Secretly, though, Erla would have liked a chance to sit down in the evenings in front of the news and those drama series she was always reading about in the papers. There was even a second TV channel these days, but the idea that they would ever be able to receive its broadcasts in this remote valley was nothing but a pipe dream.
‘Temperature’s dropping, he says,’ Einar mumbled after the forecast. Their mealtime conversations far too often revolved around the weather. Of course, it was important, but Erla sometimes missed not being able to move their talk on to a slightly higher plane.
‘Mm,’ she said, not really listening.
‘And yet another damned storm on the way. We’re not getting any let-up this winter, just snow, snow and more bloody snow. If it goes on like this, I don’t know how our hay stocks are going to last until spring.’
‘That’s just the way it is, Einar. It’s only to be expected. I mean, it’s like this every year. We’re always trapped here.’
‘Well, “trapped” is putting it a bit strongly. Of course it’s difficult at the height of winter,’ he said, returning his attention to the stew and avoiding Erla’s eye.
An unexpected noise made her jump.
It had sounded like someone knocking at the door.
She glanced at her husband. He was sitting frozen into stillness, his spoon halfway to his mouth, his expression astonished. So he had heard it too.
‘Anna?’ Erla asked. ‘Is it Anna?’
Einar didn’t answer.
‘That was someone knocking at the door, wasn’t it, Einar?’
He nodded and got to his feet. Erla copied him and followed as he walked slowly through the sitting room to the hall. Perhaps he thought they’d misheard and it had just been a trick of the wind.
But Erla knew it wasn’t.
There was somebody at the door.


IV
Hulda sat in the work canteen, forcing down mouthfuls of skate. She couldn’t bear the smell, with its tang of the urinal, and although it didn’t taste nearly as bad as you’d expect, it was still far from being her favourite dish. Once a year, on St Thorlákur’s Mass, they served up the traditional kæst skata, or fermented skate, at the police station, and those who couldn’t stand it had to either make do with eating toast amidst the pungent stench, or flee the building and grab something at the local corner shop instead.
That morning she and Jón had asked Dimma if she’d like to go for a burger after they finished work. The suggestion would have been greeted with joy in the old days but this time Dimma had been unenthusiastic. She’d complained of feeling ill and had certainly looked