The North Bay E-Book

Reto Koller

• Herausgeber: BoD - Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 439

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

In a remote bay in northern Norway stands an old boarding school, lonely and abandoned, where mysterious deaths have been occurring for years. When the schools new teacher, Sondre Iversen, begins to familiarise himself with the institution, he immediately senses that something within these walls is not as it should be. Many of the residents seem strange and withdrawn, as if they are guarding an old secret. And then - another student disappears! To Sondre, it is clear that someone in the house is playing a dangerous game. But his investigations do not go unnoticed, and soon he realises that his own life is in danger.

Leseprobe

All characters in this book are fictitious and a product of the author's imagination.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Tåkevik, 80 kilometers outside of Tromsø, Norway, 1988

Chapter 2

Tromsø, 2016

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Mikkel Hansen 1945 – 1994

Chapter 1

Tåkevik, 80 kilometers outside of Tromsø, Norway, 1988

With growing dread, she watched as the heavy oak door swung open before her, revealing a pitch-dark night. Snowflakes whirled against her face, and the wind tugged at her thin pajamas, making her realise that this venture would not end well.

She stepped out into the night, feeling the cold wrap around her body like a wet cloth. Within seconds, she was shivering from head to toe. Everything appeared to her through a misty veil—blurry, unclear, terrifying. And yet, she could hear him; his wheezing breaths blending with the sounds of the wind. She could feel his presence, the force emanating from him, his skin against hers. She was more disgusted by him than by spiders. She hated his stench, the sounds he made as he breathed, the greasy hair, the scars. She hated the way he looked at her; a gaze that was both caring and creepy.

She tried to turn around, wanting to plead with him to finally let her go, but he didn’t even acknowledge her. Gently, yet firmly, he nudged her forward. He kept urging her on, away from the house, although where they were going, she could only guess. She couldn’t scream—he had taped her mouth shut. He gripped her hands tightly behind her back.

She stumbled through the deep snow, hearing the distant roar of the waves, which grew louder the further they walked. She realised he was leading her to the water, where it was even colder, where there was no escape.

Suddenly, the pressure of his hold eased, and her hands were almost free. In a swift move, she yanked her arms forward, surprising herself by breaking free. She wanted to run back to the house, but only managed a single step before he grabbed her by the forearm again. She twisted like an eel, kicking his shins, but only managed to hurt herself in the process.

“Come on, keep going,” he muttered calmly, giving her a push.

The roar of the waves grew louder, the pain in her arms intensified. Desperately, she searched the surroundings for anyone else, but it was too dark to see beyond twenty metres.

Suddenly, even the snow vanished from under her feet. There was no path anymore, no bushes—just darkness, wind, and the sound of the sea. The fog lifted, revealing a thin crescent moon. Below, she could see the gleaming white foam on the waves.

A faint sobbing reached her ears, and she turned around. To her surprise, she saw tears in his eyes, his sad gaze haunting like a shadow. He murmured something unintelligible, but the words were carried away by the wind. Gently, he removed the tape from her mouth, and she screamed into the night as loudly as she could. She heard her own echo, bouncing off the surrounding cliffs, and hoped someone back at the house would respond.

Instead of stopping her from screaming, he now looked at her with a fatherly gaze, kissed her forehead, and in the next moment, she felt a gentle push, followed by a wave of nausea. The moonlight faded, and the shining white crests on the waves disappeared like plankton at dawn.

Chapter 2

Tromsø, 2016

My name is Sondre Iversen. I am forty-five years old.

Funny—just a year ago, I would have sworn that I wouldn’t live to see my forty-sixth birthday. As it stands, however, it seems I’ll be able to celebrate it after all. When I look at myself in the mirror today, I find a few gray hairs among the brown, and I’m certain they weren’t there a year ago. The hairline has also receded a bit, but at least I don’t have to comb my longer hair forward to cover it up.

Since I can no longer work as a police officer, I’ve grown a beard. My once chiseled six-pack has been replaced by a soft layer of fat, and although my biceps are still toned, they have lost some firmness. Yet, I don’t worry too much. I’ve resolved to exercise more, though so far, that has been defeated by my lack of willpower. I also find myself out of breath more quickly than when I was on duty, which makes sense. My son always tells me it’s because of the smoking.

Perhaps he’s right, and I really should quit. At least I’ve managed to cut down from a pack a day to just four cigarettes, with the goal of quitting entirely by the end of the year.

I have lived in Tromsø since I was a year old. I attended all my schooling here, held boring summer jobs as a teenager, eventually became a police officer, and, after four years, left that job with a heavy heart to train as a teacher. A skiing accident in the Lyngen Alps almost rendered my left hand useless. I had to go through numerous therapies, and even now, I can’t use my left hand fully. I was no longer suitable for police work; I could no longer restrain suspects, much less handcuff them, though such actions were rarely needed in our area. The personnel department offered me a desk job, but I would have preferred scraping bird droppings off park benches than to sit at a desk eight hours a day. So, I had to look for something else. I had always been interested in teaching, even before I joined the police, so I decided to follow in my father’s footsteps. He had been a teacher for years and fulfilled it with passion. He’s now enjoying retirement, unfortunately without my mother, who died a decade ago from a heart attack.

I can say that I enjoy teaching. Regular hours, no night shifts, no drunken people puking in my car. But I can’t deny that I miss the uncertainty at the beginning of each shift, the tension before starting work, the adrenaline rush during assignments. That’s all missing in teaching a bunch of pimply teenagers. The daily routine is more or less predictable, with little variation and no intense adrenaline rushes. Deep down, I feel something is missing. A void that needs filling. In the summer of 1999, I married Marit, who is now my ex-wife.

Why did we divorce? I wish I didn’t have to ask myself that question, and even more, I wish that my deceased son didn’t play a role in it. Raik died of leukemia at the age of five. Such a loss is almost unbearable for any couple. Either you drift apart, like ice floes in the North Sea, or you find a way to face such a fate together. For us, unfortunately, it was the former. At the time of Raik’s death, I could never have imagined that this tragedy could ever drive Marit and me apart. From the start, we had been two peas in a pod, doing everything together, always considerate of each other, arguing little and loving each other all the more. For me, nothing in my life was more important than Marit’s happiness. Every day, I asked myself the same question: How can I make her happy today? I wanted to be the best husband. Marit enjoyed the attention, and she gave it back to me in the form of unconditional love. But even fairy tales have a last page. And ours did not end with the words: And so they lived happily ever after.

Our fairy tale ended differently; the little prince died at the beginning of the story, and the palace of the king and queen began to crumble, as if made only of shale. Grief consumed us, sapping all our energy and zest for life. Marit had no desire to talk with me about our son’s death. She shut herself behind an impenetrable curtain of self-pity and sorrow. Our older son, Jørn, noticed the change, seeking his mother’s comfort all the more in its absence.

To watch your own child deteriorate, then face their death with heartbreaking clarity is perhaps the worst thing parents can endure. We often hear from other families who have faced similar fates and about their attempts to cope. In those moments, you feel for them, think of them, but what it means to lose your own blood only becomes clear when you have looked into the abyss of death yourself.

Some days I don’t even want to get out of bed, don’t want to brush my teeth, make coffee, or drive to work. You lie on a mattress that feels far too hard, staring at the ceiling, asking yourself over and over how your own life is supposed to continue. On days like these, I often get in the car and drive to a beach on Håkøya, where I can sit for hours looking out at the strait and the shadowy mountains behind Tromsøya. Only there, in that solitary spot, do I feel like my dark thoughts are carried away by the current, allowing me to breathe freely for a few hours.

Despite all the grief and the rift that had formed between Marit and me, that was not the sole reason for our separation. What finally broke the camel’s back was another incident.

One rainy evening in August, I went to the study. I still had exams to grade, so I sat down at the computer. As the screensaver photos disappeared, I noticed an open email addressed to my wife. I was about to close it, but the salutation made me pause. I leaned closer to the screen and began reading:

Hey beautiful

Once again, that was an exciting evening. You are incredible, Marit. My wife would never agree to do such things with me. I’m already looking forward to the next time.

Fredrik!

Fredrik?

Where did I know that name from?

Ah, yes—her colleague at the hospital.

I read the message a second time, ignoring the tight knot forming in my stomach. A wave of nausea and coldness washed over me, and my hands began to shake.

What was this? Was it a joke?

It had to be a joke—Marit would never do something like this to me. Marit went out to dinner with her friend Selma last night. Or at least that’s what she had told me.

I stared at the screen, unable to think clearly. I heard our son Jørn in the living room, shouting at a video game on the TV. I heard the steady ticking of the clock on the desk, the rain tapping against the window, and the pounding of my own heartbeat, like drumbeats on a Roman galley. What should I do? Confront her? Call Selma and ask where they had dinner last night?

Marit came down the stairs and stopped in front of the study. Something in my expression made her pause. She looked at me. “What’s wrong?”

At first, I couldn’t say anything. I wanted to break down right there, but that wouldn’t have made anything better. “Can you explain this message?” I nodded toward the screen.

Marit’s face froze. Her cheeks flushed a deep red. “W-what message?” she stammered, taking a hesitant step forward.

“This one,” I pointed to the email.

Marit looked at the screen and swallowed hard. “Are you going through my emails?” she said indignantly.

“No, the message was open when I sat down at the computer. So, what’s this about?”

Marit remained silent, her eyes fixed on the lines. Tears welled up in her eyes. I felt a lump in my stomach. I feared I would throw up my lunch.

Marit backed away from the computer, going to the window, crying quietly. I didn’t know whether to feel angry or sad.

“I’m sorry. You weren’t supposed to find out.”

Great! That was supposed to explain everything? “Could you be a bit more specific?”

Marit lowered her head and buried her face in her hands. “I’m so sorry,” she said, sobbing.

“What are you sorry for?” I asked, my voice half- choked.

“What else, Sondre? You read it yourself.” She let out a sob.

“Yes, I read it. But I don’t understand it.”

Marit shook her head, taking a deep breath. “I’m unhappy. I have been for a long time. But you didn’t seem to notice. Either you’re blind, or you just chose to overlook it. For months, I’ve hardly been able to talk to you. So many times, I wanted to tell you, but I just couldn’t—I couldn’t hurt you.”

I felt as if I were falling into a bottomless pit. My mind was racing, replaying countless past situations. I searched for clues, for events that could confirm her statement. But I couldn’t think clearly; I could barely breathe.

Sobbing, she continued: “You’re so focused on me, and yet you miss my signals. I don’t understand it.”

My initial confusion turned into anger. “I don’t know what you mean, Marit!” I said, louder than I intended.

She turned around. “How many times have I rejected you in bed? How many times have I declined to go for a walk with you? How many evenings have we sat in the living room without saying a word to each other? Did you really not notice?”

I still remember that moment in the study, when Marit revealed the truth to me, as clearly as if it had just happened. Her words hit me like a hammer blow. I suddenly noticed the sad expression that had followed her like a shadow for some time—a sadness I had simply failed to see due to the comfortable numbness of routine. The joy in her laughter and the affection she once showed me now seemed to belong to another era in our relationship. Her gaze looked as dry and devoid of warmth as if it was a desert.

Realising this was, however, too late. There was no going back for us. The traces of our shared life had been erased, covered by a winter storm, and forever buried.

The following weeks and months were pure hell. I stumbled through life as if lost in the whiteout of an arctic tundra.

For our oldest son, Jørn, it was a particularly difficult situation. How do you explain to your child that from now on, they won’t sit down with both parents for meals, that family vacations are a thing of the past, and that Christmas movies won’t be watched together anymore? Jørn was seventeen years old. He was no longer a little boy, but that didn’t make the feelings of loss he tried unsuccessfully to hide any easier. Custody was divided fairly, yet an emotional distance grew between Jørn and me that was more devastating than a long separation. Before the divorce, we had often spent time outdoors together, skiing, climbing mountains, fishing. But after the divorce, Jørn lost interest in those shared activities. Whether he had simply lost the desire or didn’t want to experience them with me anymore, I didn’t know. He wouldn’t talk about it, even when I asked him directly. He had grown reticent, withdrawn, introspective, and I didn’t want to push him. I knew how hard this must have been for him. It was almost unbearable for me, and I was many years older. How must a seventeen-year-old boy have felt?

Three weeks after Marit’s confession, I left our home in Kvaløysletta and moved into a small apartment downtown. It wasn’t much. A bedroom, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a cramped living room. But for the time being, it had to suffice.

I can still picture myself on the first evening, sitting amidst moving boxes and a few sparse pieces of furniture. Everything that had happened over the last few months and years had come crashing down on me like a house of cards. Like a small child, I began to cry uncontrollably. My mind reeled with thoughts and images of the past months and years. I summoned the good memories with Marit, trying to understand when and where I might have gone wrong and where I should have reacted differently. I wanted to turn back time. I wanted to hold Marit in my arms, to comfort her, to help her forget her frustration, even if only for a short while.

But that was impossible—it was just wishful thinking!

Realization was so crushing, that I didn’t know how I was supposed to go on living. I had lost everything!

One of the moving boxes had “Kitchen” written on it in large letters. I stared at the box for a while before I finally opened it. Inside, I found two large butcher’s knives, and I pulled one out. The blade gleamed in the light from the window lamp. I ran my finger along the edge and brought it down to the underside of my wrist. What had my friend, a surgeon, once told me? Most people who try to cut their arteries do it wrong. They cut across the wrist, when really, the cut should be made vertically so the wound doesn’t close too quickly.

I started sweating, yet I felt an inner coldness. My hands began to tremble, and my heart was pounding against my chest. Images of Raik filled my mind. I saw him smile at me, hold my hand, snuggle against me, lie pale in a hospital bed, barely able to keep his eyes open from exhaustion.

As if an invisible hand gently pulled my fingers away from the knife, I let it fall and collapsed onto the floor, sobbing.

Chapter 3

A few months later, I was wandering through the snow- covered streets of the city, accompanied by dark thoughts, without purpose or intention. I glanced into several shop windows without truly seeing the displays. When I reached the small park in front of the cathedral, I stopped at a bench and gazed toward the mountains in the south east. The clouds had cleared, revealing an orange sun in the sky whose rays made the surrounding mountain peaks glow. A biting cold swept through the streets, but the warm light from above felt like a natural heater. On the rooftops, seagulls screeched in competition, and from the fjord came the deep horn of an arriving Hurtigruten ship.

I turned away and kept walking. A few hours earlier, I’d had a phone call with my son. Jørn had been in a bad mood, as he so often was lately. I had the feeling that he was usually in better spirits when he was with his mother than with me, but perhaps I was imagining things. My work, too, was becoming increasingly unsatisfying. Over the past few months, working with the current principal had become extremely challenging. His ideas and directives, which went against all reason, had already driven two colleagues to resign.

Did the principal care?

Of course not. He stuck to his strategy, even sitting in on lessons to later criticise them in a condescending manner, despite not having taught a class in years. At first, I let his reprimands roll off me. But over time, I could no longer accept his rebukes and began desperately searching for a solution. I often imagined standing in front of him and telling him to his face what a lousy principal he was. But every time he actually stood before me, with his greasy red hair and oversized glasses, the lenses as dirty as barn windows, my courage failed me, and I shrank like a grape left too long in the sun.

A month ago, however, after a sleepless night, I finally mustered the courage. I wrote my resignation letter at the breakfast table and slapped it on his desk with enough satisfaction for three people. The look on his face made up for everything I had endured in recent months. With my head held high, I left his office and felt better than I had in a long time—for a few hours, anyway.

It soon dawned on me that an even harder time lay ahead as I now had to look for a new job. But I wasn’t sure I even wanted to continue teaching.

In the pedestrian street, I stopped in front of a bookstore and looked at the books on display. The store’s owner, an old, eccentric-looking man named Yorick, rarely updated his window displays—or so I thought. But today, I noticed a selection of modern paperbacks, notebooks, children’s books, and colouring books. The dusty classics I usually saw were nowhere to be found. I often wondered how his shop managed to survive in the age of e-books. Surely he couldn’t make a living off people like me who still enjoyed holding a real book in their hands.

Movement behind the glass startled me. A man, perhaps in his mid-forties, grabbed a book and replaced it with a nearly identical copy. Before disappearing into the darkness of his shop, he nodded at me. I nodded back and continued on my way.

Chapter 4

The next day, it was Friday, and I had to be in my classroom in an hour. I sat at the kitchen table, nibbling on a piece of toast and leafing through the newspaper without much interest. When I got to the job listings and was about to flip the page, I noticed an ad that, unlike all the others, was visually more appealing. It wasn’t very large and contained only a few sentences, but above the text was an illustration of a house—or rather, a castle—with turrets and bay windows. Below the drawing, written in ornate script, were the words “Fog Castle”:

We are seeking a teacher for Mathematics, Geography, and English to start immediately or as agreed upon.

Our boarding school is a prestigious institution with a history spanning several decades. We emphasise discipline and excellence in education. Our teaching staff are a well-coordinated team looking forward to welcoming a new colleague.

The boarding school is somewhat remote, located in Tåkevik.

Teachers are provided with modern, furnished accommodation.

Have we piqued your interest? Send us your application today.

If you have questions, you can also reach us by phone at 489 39 691. Ask for Sigrid.

I read the ad a second time, put the newspaper aside, and stared at my coffee mug. The boarding school was looking for a teacher who taught exactly the subjects I currently taught. Was that a coincidence?

I knew of Fog Castle from my time as a police officer and from photos in the newspaper. Although I hadn’t been involved in the investigation back then, I seemed to recall that the incidents had been suicides. I also vaguely remembered an article about the castle-like building.

Three hours later, while standing by the coffee machine in the teachers' lounge, Ines joined me. She was close to retirement and clearly counting down the days. Her mood improved with each passing day, and she was constantly joking, wishing everyone a good day, and smiling from the first period to the last. I was happy for her. She was one of the school's pillars, and she had achieved a lot over the years, which had surely added a few wrinkles to her face. I noticed her glasses hanging around her neck. They were the same pair she’d worn in photos from twenty years ago.

"Well, Sondre, how's it going?" she asked in her usual cheerful voice.

"Can't complain," I lied.

"Are the students behaving?"

"So far, yes."

From my curt replies, Ines probably gathered that I wasn’t in the mood for small talk and began preparing her coffee. I wondered if she might know more about the boarding school, so I brought it up.

Ines paused and looked at me with narrowed eyes. "Fog Castle? Sure, I know it. Well, ‘know’ is a bit of an exaggeration. I’ve never been there—it’s private property, as far as I know. Why do you ask?"

I shrugged. "Oh, just curious. I read something about it in the newspaper."

She placed her cup in the coffee machine and pressed the start button. "In the newspaper? Then it couldn’t have been anything good!"

"Nothing good? Why do you think that?" I asked, even though I already knew what she meant.

"Because there are some strange stories surrounding that boarding school. Haven’t you heard any of them?"

I didn’t mention that I’d only heard about the investigations back when I was with the police, so I shook my head.

"Well, I don’t know much either. People say there have been occasional suicides there. It’s not exactly angels that go to school there."

"I’ve heard that, yes."

"Has there been another suicide?" she asked.

"N-no idea. I read something online about the school yesterday. Could have been an older article—I didn’t check. Anyway, it wasn’t about suicides." I was surprised at how easily the lie rolled off my tongue, and I felt guilty.

"Ah, I see. Well, you should check it out for yourself. But be careful—I don’t know if they have wolves or something." She chuckled, grabbed her cup, and left the teachers' lounge.

I was left alone with my thoughts, sipping on my coffee. The illustration of Fog Castle lingered in my mind, and I felt an urge to see the place up close. However, I figured this could only happen if I submitted an application and was invited for an interview.

The recess bell ended my coffee break, and I returned to my class.

Chapter 5

After class, I didn’t go straight home. Instead, I strolled down to the harbour to get some fresh air. Swarms of tourists in heavy clothing and even heavier boots were trudging through the streets. Some looked as though they were about to embark on a North Pole expedition. The souvenir shops were packed, and the cafés were bursting at the seams. Much to my dismay, even my favourite café on Stortorget was filled to the brim. I spotted Svea, busy serving customers behind the counter.

My phone rang. It was Jørn, and as usual, the greeting was brief.

“How are you?” I asked, hoping this time I might gain some insight into his mood.

“I need 2,500 kroner for a new bike.”

So much for my hope.

“Don’t you already have a bike?” I asked, puzzled.

“I can’t get through the snow with it. I need one with wider tires and better gears.”

From experience, I knew that getting through Tromsø’s snowy streets with a regular bike was nearly impossible. “But those cost way more than 2,500 kroner, don’t they?”

“Mom’s paying the rest. But she said you should contribute too.”

Of course, I thought. As if I wasn’t already paying enough every month. “Do you have one in mind?”

“Eirik has a brand-new one. He got two for his birthday—one from his uncle and one from his godfather.”

I knew Eirik’s family. They were loaded. “2,500 is quite a bit, don’t you think?” All I got in response was a long sigh.

I could have said no and explained to my son that I had already given him money for new sneakers last month, even though his old ones were barely a year old. I could have told him that you can’t always get everything you want. But I knew exactly what would happen—a reproachful call from my ex-wife, and Jørn would distance himself from me even more. “Fine,” I said instead. “When are you coming over?”

“Tomorrow evening.”

“Alright. I’ll be waiting.”

After he hung up, I stared at the screen, feeling like I could cry. The emotional distance that confronted me during every meeting and every phone call with Jørn hurt me to my core.

Sullenly, I looked out over the fjord. A wooden sailboat, the Hermes 2, was leaving the harbor, chugging northward, accompanied by screeching seagulls. I watched the Fjellheisen cable car on the opposite mountain as it transported tourists to the viewing platform. It was late afternoon, and the sun cast its last, barely warming rays over the fjord, bathing the entire city in golden light.

I recalled the job ad and replayed the text in my mind. On the one hand, the idea of teaching in such an extraordinary place fascinated me. On the other hand, I was unsure whether a workplace so far outside the city would suit me.

Suppose I applied for the position, got it, and moved to that godforsaken bay, even if only during the week. What would I find there? How would I feel in the evenings, alone in the apartment? Without restaurants, bars, or shops nearby?

And yet, I couldn’t deny the familiar urge for something new, something exciting, something that would distract me. It gnawed at me; it dominated my thoughts.

A seagull landed screeching at my feet, grabbed the remains of a hamburger bun, and flew off with a strong flap of its wings. I watched as it circled around the harbor boats before disappearing over the rooftops to the south. Maybe I should follow the seagull’s example—venture into new territory.

I went home, sat at my computer, and began drafting an application.

Chapter 6

During lunch break the next day, I tried to learn more about Fog Castle and retreated to the computer room.

I typed "Fog Castle " into the search engine and waited for the results. There weren’t many hits. Upon closer inspection, I found that only the first two entries were related to the boarding school. The first link directed me to the school’s homepage, while the second led to a website documenting paranormal locations in Norway.

I frowned. Paranormal locations? Fog Castle? Admittedly, the name of the school did have a ghostly ring to it.

I decided to start with the school’s homepage. On the front page, the school’s crest was prominently displayed. With its lions heads and spears, it resembled a medieval military flag. Below the crest was a photograph of the boarding school building, shrouded in fog. Still, one could make out a bay and steep mountain slopes on either side. The massive house resembled a castle from England’s era of knights, looking somewhat out of place on Norwegian soil.

The facade was made of stacked rectangular stones, their colours alternating between dark green, gray, and black. The window frames were painted white, though they appeared weathered and yellowed in places. The house had five towers with cone-shaped roofs, each topped with a pennant bearing the school’s crest.

All that was missing were arrow slits and a moat!

The windows on the side facing the camera served as navigation buttons, each representing a different topic. I moved the mouse across the interface and clicked through photos of the classrooms, dining hall, and dormitories. The students didn’t have private rooms; they shared with a roommate. The classrooms resembled cozy living rooms more than places where academic subject were taught.

The website revealed little about the school’s history. It was built in the 1980s by a wealthy Englishman and converted into a boarding school in 1987. Another detail, that the school was not open to everyone, I already knew. It only admitted young people who had either gone astray or were struggling with psychological issues.

I wondered whether such students wouldn’t require specially trained teachers.

Next, I clicked on the second search result. With a hint of scepticism, I navigated through various reports on supposed haunted houses until I finally came across one about Fog Castle. The group that had researched and published their findings on this website claimed they had once been chased off the property. The group members were convinced they had been driven away by a ghost.

I shook my head, turned off the computer, and looked out the window. The information I’d gathered about Fog Castle didn’t help me much in making a decision. I had hoped to find an old newspaper article, but perhaps those had never been uploaded to the internet.

One thing was clear—Fog Castle knew how to maintain an air of mystery. This alone stirred a sense of excitement within me that I hadn’t felt in a long time.

In my mind, I imagined teaching in such an exclusive classroom. Compared to my current workplace, it seemed surreal. However, teaching delinquent youth would undoubtedly be anything but easy.

"Everything alright, Sondre?"

I startled. Arvid, a fellow teacher, stood in the doorway, frowning at me.

"Yes, everything’s fine, Arvid, thanks. I’m just a bit tired. Didn’t sleep well."

"I know the feeling." He glanced at the clock. "Come on, two more hours, then you can go home." He smiled encouragingly and disappeared down the hallway.

I rubbed my face, stood up, and returned to my classroom.

Chapter 7

Night had fallen over the ancient walls of Fog Castle, and an oppressive silence enveloped the building. Now and then, a faint cough could be heard through the closed doors of the dormitories, and somewhere, a toilet was flushed.

However, not all of Fog Castle’s residents were granted the luxury of sleep. For one amongst them, night was never a time for rest—it never had been. The night belonged to him, and to him alone. In the darkness, he felt strong, confident, dominant, and untouchable. He reveled in the late hours, prowling the cellars of the house, restless yet determined. Occasionally, he muttered something incomprehensible to himself, his thick lips producing clicking sounds, and he snorted like a wild animal. For years, he had followed the same ritual, night after night, regardless of winter storms or the midnight sun. His walk to the cliffs by the water was like a lifeblood to him; only there could he find his peace, his memories, and his pain.

At the edge of the cliff, he inhaled the cool, salty air and felt renewed energy coursing through him. The bay lay quiet under a massive starry sky, and he saw the slender crescent moon just beginning to rise in the south. He closed his eyes. The milky, clouded surroundings disappeared, and he found himself back in his childhood room. He had pulled his blanket up to his nose and smiled in his sleep, lost in his dreams, while the purring of his cat Raya barely registered in his subconscious. Comic books were strewn across the bedspread, some open, others crumpled. He knew them all by heart. Occasionally, his mother would buy him a new one, but since they rarely left the bay, he mostly made do with his old, worn copies. He remembered the dream that had haunted him that night—a dream of fire and raging waves, of ships smashing against the jagged coast. He heard the dreadful sounds of death and despair and, every time, opened his eyes in that moment to escape the memories, even though it nearly broke his heart.

He felt the emptiness inside him, the fear, and the sensation that no food could ever satisfy his gnawing hunger, no water in the world could quench his thirst. He missed—he mourned—he lamented. He sensed that the time had come. His desire would not tolerate any further delay.

He opened his eyes, bid farewell to the moon, the dark water, and the endless horizon, then turned and vanished into the walls of Fog Castle.

Chapter 8

After a restless night in which I had to get up four times to use the bathroom, I sat at the breakfast table, annoyed, staring at my phone for almost fifteen minutes. Next to it lay the newspaper clipping with the job advertisement from the boarding school. The application was written and ready to send, but the printer had yet to spit out the papers. I hadn’t taken that one decisive step. Too many uncertainties, too many doubts still haunted my mind. A new beginning was always an opportunity to forget the old, to make peace with the past. At the same time, it also brought doubts and fears that couldn’t simply be ignored. Over and over, I asked myself whether I should just stay in my current job, preserve the routine of everyday life, and enjoy the security that had, at least temporarily, made life easier. Was I emotionally ready to leave my safe environment just to experience something new? Would this supposedly new experience feel just as dull after a few months as my current situation?

While I pondered solutions, it occurred to me that a phone call with the responsible person on-site might alleviate some of the uncertainty. Perhaps they would even allow me to visit the school.

Sighing, I dialed the number provided in the ad and waited with a pounding heart for someone to answer on the other end.

“Fog Castle, Sigrid?” The tone of the voice suggested that the person was in a hurry and had no time for foolish questions. I considered hanging up right away. “Y-yes, hello, this is Sondre,” I stammered instead.

“How can I help you?”

“Sorry to bother you so early. I’m calling about the advertised position…”

“Yes?”

“I’m currently teaching at a secondary school in Tromsø and am interested in the job.”

“I’m glad to hear that. We look forward to receiving your application.”

She wanted to get rid of me.

“Yes, um… before I do that, I wanted to ask if I could visit the boarding school beforehand?” I held my breath as silence lingered on the other end.

“Yes, we can arrange that,” Sigrid finally replied. “When would you have time?”

Surprised by her quick agreement, I stammered as I mentally sifted through my calendar. My classes for the day ended just before noon. “I could drive out this afternoon if that’s not too short notice?”

“No, that works for me. Let’s say two o’clock?”

“Perfect.”

“Do you know how to find us?”

“I think so, yes. Past Tromvik, over the mountain pass to the bay.”

“Exactly. At the pass, there’s a gate. Next to it, you’ll find a phone. Pick up the receiver and wait until someone answers. The gate can be opened from here.”

“Got it. Thank you very much.”

“One more thing,” she added quickly. “What subjects do you currently teach?”

“Exactly the ones you’re looking for,” I replied enthusiastically.

“Thank you. See you later, then,” she responded curtly. The line went dead. I stared at the display, my hand trembling. Whether from anticipation, nervousness, or a lack of caffeine, I couldn’t tell. Perhaps it was a bit of everything.

I set the phone aside and went to the window. Unbidden, my thoughts turned to Jørn. He had stopped by last night to pick up the money for his new bike. He had intended to leave right away, but I managed to convince him to stay for a soda.

“Take a seat,” I said, fetching his drink. When I returned to the living room, he was texting on his phone. I placed the glass on the table, sat on the sofa, and waited for him to put the phone away. After half a minute of silence, I asked, “Who are you texting?”

“Eirik!” he replied.

“How’s he doing?”

“Good.”

I waited a few more seconds. “Could you text him later?”

Sighing, he shoved the phone into his pocket and gave me a look of mild annoyance.

“Did you take the bus here?” I asked.

“No. Fredrik drove me.”

I clenched my teeth. “Do you want me to drive you home later?”

“No, it’s fine. I’m meeting some friends at Nerstranda.”

“Alright,” I said with a shrug. “When are you getting the new bike?”

“The day after tomorrow.”

“Will you come by so I can see it?”

He shrugged briefly. “I don’t know when I’ll have time again.”

At that moment, his phone vibrated, and he pulled it out again.

It was frustrating. Having a normal conversation with him was nearly impossible these days. I consoled myself with the thought that it was just a phase, one every teenager goes through.

I had brought up several other topics during Jørn’s visit, but his answers were brief, and our meeting ended after barely twenty minutes.

Annoyed, I glanced at the clock above the oven. I had to hurry—class was starting in fifteen minutes, and I wasn’t even dressed yet.

Chapter 9

Mikkel Hansen strolled leisurely through the hallways of Fog Castle. In his left hand, he carried a worn-out toolbox. Along the way, he encountered numerous students. Some were chatting animatedly, while others moved through the corridors with their heads down, shutting out the world around them. None greeted him, none even acknowledged his presence, as if he were invisible. In the past, students had shown respect for his appearance, which reminded them of a Nordic warrior. But now, having aged, his demeanor seemed to have lost its former lustre and authority.

He stopped in front of a door on the second floor, set his toolbox on the ground, and inspected the door. A student had vented their anger on it. The lock had been ripped out of the door, and the frame was splintered. The damage was too severe for his tools to fix. A new frame would be needed.

Back in his small attic apartment, he placed the toolbox in a corner, ambled over to the window, and gazed out at the sea. The wind had picked up, and the sea was churning. He could hear the waves crashing against the cliffs farther north. The seagulls screeched as if there were no tomorrow. He both loved and hated the bay. He longed for nothing more than to leave this place forever, but he hadn’t managed to do so yet. The bay clung to him, refusing to let him go. It had become his home, whether he wanted it to or not.

His gaze fell on a locket hanging on a chain around the window latch. Gently, he ran his finger over the photo on the front of the locket. A smile formed on his lips, and his eyes filled with tears.

“Papa?”

“Papa?” It was his daughter’s voice—distant—but unmistakably hers.

“I’m here, little one,” Mikkel whispered.

The bay faded, the sound of the waves receded, and the seagulls fell silent. He saw only the glow in his daughter’s eyes, her inner excitement in eager anticipation of the next day. For the first time, she would be allowed to accompany him fishing, which was as exhilarating to her as the first day of school. She had gone to bed fully dressed and had struggled to fall asleep.

Mikkel smiled at the thought.

At four in the morning, he finally woke her, and she was instantly wide awake. The entire way to the boat, she talked nonstop. She carried her own fishing gear as proudly as a knight carried their lance. He could see her face as the first fish bit and she struggled to muster enough strength to haul her catch into the boat. He heard her squeal with delight when the wriggling fish finally landed at her feet, and he saw the joy in her eyes when he told her she could take her catch home for lunch.

He closed his eyes. The images disappeared, and his daughter’s voice fell silent, as it had so many times before.

Chapter 10

I left my classroom shortly before noon, got into my old Nissan, and started the engine. With a nervous churning in my stomach, I set off, merging into the traffic heading toward the tunnel that would take me under the city and out to the other side of the island. Visibility in the tunnel was hazy, caused by the roughened road surface worn down by the studded tires that most cars used here for added safety.

As I exited the tunnel, I saw the mountains on Kvaløya in the distance and further west, those of Ersfjord. The white peaks glowed orange in the February sun, looking like the perfect subject for a beautiful painting. To the north, however, the sky was growing darker.

I passed the airport, crossed the Sandnessund Bridge, and drove on Kvaløya toward Kaldfjord. The upcoming meeting at Fog Castle made me nervous. This unease likely wasn’t caused by the conversation with Sigrid herself. Rather, it was the fact that I was actively looking for another job, turning my life upside down—at possibly the worst time to do so.

Maybe I was exaggerating it, blowing everything out of proportion, dramatising unnecessarily.

Fifty minutes later, I reached Tromvik. The weather had changed by then. Dark clouds hung over the village, and it had started to snow. Visibility worsened by the minute, and I searched for the turnoff to Tåkevik. To my right, I caught a glimpse of the sea and a small harbor, both gradually being veiled by a curtain of snow. There were barely any people outside. A woman exited a grocery store and loaded two shopping bags onto her kicksled. Two boys played in a garden with colourful snow shovels. Other than that, the place seemed deserted. I slowed down, convinced I had missed the signpost. Cursing, I stopped the car. While rummaging through the glove compartment for a map, a sudden knock on the side window startled me.

I jumped. An older man with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth stood there, smiling kindly at me. I rolled down the window and greeted him.

“Lost your way?” he asked with a grin.

“I’m looking for the turnoff to Tåkevik,” I replied.

The man gave me a look as if I had said something inappropriate.

“What are you going there for?”

Slightly unsettled by his bluntness, I responded, “I have an appointment at the boarding school.”

“An appointment? Well, well!” He took a drag on his cigarette, exhaling the bluish smoke slowly as he looked up at the mountain beside us and raised his eyebrows. “Pretty lousy weather for a drive over the mountain.”

“I know. But I can’t reschedule.”

The man stared at me for a moment, scrutinizing me. “The road should be cleared, but be careful. The descent on the other side is steep. It’s easy to skid.”

“I’ll be careful, thank you.”

He nodded. “Drive back four hundred metres. After the green house on the right, the road leads straight into the mountains.”

I thanked him, turned the car around, and drove back to the edge of the village. About five hundred metres later, the green house came into view, and just behind it, I spotted the signpost to Tåkevik. I turned onto the road and followed it into the mountains. The first two kilometres were relatively easy to navigate, but after that, the road became steeper and more winding. Without studded tires, I would have had to turn back. To my right, I saw a few reindeer searching for food. The wind picked up, blowing snow across the road. After about twenty minutes, a red barrier appeared ahead of me, and I stopped. I found the gray telephone box, picked up the receiver, and waited. It rang almost ten times before a tinny voice answered.

“Fog Castle, Sigrid.”

“Good afternoon, Sigrid. It’s Sondre here,” I announced my arrival.

“I’ll open the gate,” came the brief response.

I hung up, got back into the car, and drove past the now- open barrier downhill. I felt as though I were entering another world. Fog enveloped me, reducing visibility to just a few meters. The road descended steeply. On either side, colored markers indicated the path; without them, I would have completely lost my way. After about five minutes, the weather suddenly cleared, the fog lifted, and I saw the serpentine road ahead of me, ending at a large parking lot. Beyond it, Fog Castle loomed like a rock rising from the snow—a truly strange sight, an English castle nestled in a Norwegian bay.

I could see a narrow strip of beach below, squeezed between towering cliffs. My pulse quickened with each meter I drove. More and more details of the imposing building became visible until, finally, the entire house presented itself in all its glory before me. The photos on the internet had not been exaggerated. I felt as though I was approaching an abandoned haunted castle.

Alfred Hitchcock would have been delighted by its appearance!

I parked my car next to several other vehicles and stepped out. Up close, the building appeared slightly more inviting. It had four stories, and light shone from most of the windows. At each corner of the rectangular structure, small turrets reached toward a leaden sky. Some of the windows had black streaks running downwards, making it look as though the building was crying.

I didn’t want to imagine how eerie this place must be at night!

Leaving my car behind, I followed a footpath leading to the entrance. The closer I got, the more it felt as though the house might swallow me whole at any moment. The windows above the entrance looked like the eyes of a beast, and the steeply rising facade gave the impression of an overhanging.

At that moment, I noticed a shadow behind one of the windows and saw a young woman with red hair. I tried to smile and nodded at her. She nodded back.

I stopped in front of the entrance and studied the intricate carvings on the dark door. Grotesque faces glared at me with diabolical expressions. Horses with flaming manes reared up, their mouths agape.

I felt like I was in the movie The Haunting, arriving at a ghostly mansion, unsure whether I should actually enter.

In the center of the door hung an iron ring, adorned with a lion’s head at its base. I searched in vain for a doorbell. So, I lifted the heavy iron ring and let it fall against the iron plate fixed to the door. The resounding clang made me jump. I wondered if anyone in this enormous building would even hear such a sound. I had barely finished the thought when the rhythmic staccato of high heels echoed toward me. The door was suddenly yanked open, and I found myself face-to-face with a woman of about sixty, perhaps seventy years old. Her gray hair was tied into a flawless bun at the back of her head, so tight it looked as though it might hurt. Her lips were thin lines on her otherwise round face. Her skin was pale and smooth, like candle wax, and her black eyes stood out like coal buttons on a snowman. Her gaze was eerie, almost intimidating.

To complement the sternness of her face, she wore a white blouse beneath a gray blazer, from the pocket of which peeked a pen. Around her neck hung a necklace with a crucifix. If I had had her as a teacher in school, I might have cried out of fear as a child.

“Sondre Iversen, I presume?” she said in a tone that could freeze the Sahara.

I nodded.

“Come in.” She stepped aside, allowing me to enter.

The entrance hall was immensely impressive. The floor consisted of a series of sand-coloured stone tiles interspersed with burgundy mosaic tiles. Tall indoor plants stood in the corners, landscape paintings adorned the walls, and wall-mounted lights provided warm illumination at regular intervals. The hall was at least four metres high and seemed much larger from the inside than one would expect from the outside. The smell, a mixture of old wood and musty cellar, reminded me of my grandfather’s house.

Opposite the entrance, a wide stone staircase led to a mezzanine, branching off to the right onto the next floor. A burgundy carpet lined the center of the staircase, running from the first step to the last.

I felt as though I had stepped into the castle from Beauty and the Beast!

“Follow me, Mr. Iversen,” she instructed.

I found it extremely odd that Sigrid addressed me by my last name. In Norway, everyone was on a first-name basis, except with the king.

I followed her brisk steps, noting how her stiff gait suited her demeanor perfectly. A corridor extended from