Chapter 3 #2
Niillas rummages in his bag some more and comes up with a flannel shirt, thick and well-worn, in a pattern of dark red and black. He offers it to Sander, who only stares at the item for a long moment.
“You’re shivering.”
Sander wants to protest that he doesn’t need it, but he has to concentrate to keep his teeth from chattering. So what’s one more little scrap to his pride? He accepts the shirt, shrugging out of his leather jacket.
The shirt is warm and soft, and too large for him.
A new experience. Usually, Sander is the one lending out his hoodies to grateful smaller folks, and it’s oddly nice to be the petite one for once.
Also, the fabric smells good, and Sander has to resist the urge to bury his nose in it and drown out the rotten stench of the farm with the clean, woodsy scent of Niillas.
“Thanks,” Sander mumbles.
“Didn’t think to ask Jonas for a hoodie?” Niillas asks, settling down cross-legged beside him.
Sander bristles, although part of him recognizes Niillas’ tone for teasing.
“It’s October, not January,” he snaps. “And we’re indoors.”
“Indoors, in a house with broken windows and no heating.”
“Well, sorry I didn’t consult the Boy Scout handbook before accepting Henrik’s stupid dare.”
Niillas snorts in what may be amusement or may be mockery.
“You could have asked me what to bring.”
“Right, because you’re such a font of helpful information. Yes. No. Maybe. I’m amazed you managed three full sentences tonight.”
“You never ask the right questions.”
“Oh, so now it’s my fault for not being psychic?
” Sander turns to face him fully, frustration bubbling up.
“What kind of questions should I have asked? Hey Niillas, do you happen to know if this allegedly haunted farmhouse has central heating? Also, should I be worried about supernatural entities, or just regular old hypothermia?”
There’s an angry spark in Niillas’ dark eyes, but when he answers, his voice is carefully controlled.
“You don’t believe in Henrik’s story.”
“No. Do you?”
The question is meant as a joke, to rile Niillas up, but the way he hesitates—
A derisive smile spreads across Sander’s face.
“You do believe in this bullshit, do you? Not Henrik’s story, but the trolls and spirits nonsense.”
“I think the veil is thin tonight, and I think civilized people underestimate what that means.”
Niillas’ voice is dripping acid.
“You think I’m a clueless city boy. Is that what you’re implying?”
“I think you’re reckless.”
“Same thing, in your opinion.”
“No.” Niillas’ gaze is burning now, and Sander is drowning in the depth of his eyes. Not for the first time either. “Idiots can’t help what they are. Reckless people choose to ignore consequences.”
The words sting, especially because Sander isn’t sure what they’re talking about anymore. Probably unstable buildings? Hungry forest spirits? Lacking ice hockey tactics?
“I’m not ignoring anything. I just don’t believe in ghost stories.”
“What about bear stories? Wolf stories?”
Sander frowns.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“We’re in the middle of nowhere, Eriksen. No cell service, as you might have noticed, no neighbors for kilometers. If something goes wrong, if you get hurt, or lost, or if we encounter something dangerous, we’re on our own.”
Sander hasn’t checked his reception, and now he’d feel foolish pulling out his mobile.
“I’m a forestry student,” he says instead, managing to sound only vaguely petulant. “I know how to spend a night in the woods. Also, please tell me you aren’t worried about an indoor bear attack.”
Niillas gives him a very strange look.
“Any number of things can kill you in the wilderness. And you didn’t even think to bring a sweater or a flashlight. I bet you didn’t even think to check the weather forecast. That’s not bravery, Captain. That’s just foolish.”
The criticism lands hard, partly because it’s accurate. Sander had been so focused on the social dynamics of the bet, on proving himself to the team, that he hadn’t considered the practical implications of spending a night in an abandoned house in the middle of nowhere.
“Fine,” he says, suddenly too tired to keep arguing. “Point taken. I should have been better prepared. Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” Niillas says dryly.
They lapse into a silence that feels as cold and unfriendly as the abandoned house.
That’s when Sander hears it.
A scratching sound, faint but persistent, like claws dragging across wood. It’s coming from somewhere above them, from the upper floor they haven’t explored yet.
“Did you hear that?” Sander whispers.
Niillas tilts his head, listening. The scratching comes again, followed by a soft thud, as if something has been dropped.
“Probably just mice,” Niillas says, but his posture is alert in a way that reminds Sander uncomfortably of a predator scenting prey.
“Big mice.”
The sound moves across the ceiling, from one end of the house to the other.
Footsteps.
Definitely footsteps.
Sander’s heart rate kicks up, and he scoots closer to Niillas without thinking about it.
“Maybe someone else is squatting here,” Sander suggests, though the story sounds unconvincing to his own ears. Who would camp out here? “Someone who doesn’t want company.”
“Maybe.”
But Niillas doesn’t sound like he believes it either.
The footsteps stop, and the silence that follows is somehow worse than the noise. Sander strains his ears, trying to catch any hint of movement, but there’s nothing except the crackle of the fire and his own rapid breathing.
“We should check it out,” Sander says, though the idea of going up there in the darkness makes his skin crawl.
“No.” Niillas’ response is immediate and firm. “We’re staying down here tonight. If someone’s up there, they haven’t bothered us. Let’s keep it that way.”
It’s sensible advice, but something about the way Niillas says it, like he knows more than he’s letting on, makes Sander even more nervous.
They try to settle back into their previous uneasy quiet, but the atmosphere is unbearably charged now.
Every creak of the old house settling makes Sander tense; every whisper of wind through the broken shingles sounds like movement.
The fire that had seemed so welcoming now casts dancing shadows that look like reaching hands, and the walls seem to press closer with each passing minute.
Sander finds himself studying Niillas’ profile, looking for some sign of what he’s thinking. But Niillas’ expression is unreadable, his dark eyes fixed on the door.
“You’re not surprised by this,” Sander realizes suddenly. Maybe he believes in Henrik’s horror tale bullshit, maybe he’s just a paranoid bastard, but Niillas doesn’t seem surprised at all. “You expected something like this.”
Niillas doesn’t answer immediately, and when he does, his words are carefully chosen.
“Old houses make noise. Especially damaged ones.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Sander hisses, more angry because he’s also scared, and he can’t even tell if Niillas is worried too.
Alert? Certainly.
But he could be either shocked or completely uncaring.
“I know what you meant.”
“Then why don’t you answer my question?”
Frustrated beyond measure, Sander springs to his feet. He needs to move. The cramped feeling of the room presses against him, all shadows and flickering light and half-truths.
“I can’t just sit here,” he mutters, pacing toward the window. “This is such bullshit.”
He reaches the window and peers out into the darkness, trying to see past the reflection of the firelight on the glass. The forest stretches away into blackness, the aurora casting everything in an eerie, shifting glow.
For a few blessed seconds, he can breathe.
This is all just in his head.
It’s windy; the house is old and damaged, or maybe a pine marten has found shelter on the roof.
There are no footsteps.
Never have been.
But Sander is making a fool of himself, and Niillas is probably having the time of his life watching him flinch.
Then something catches his eye.
Movement between the trees, just at the edge of where the comparatively lighter area of the open meadow fades into the more compact darkness of the forest. Something large is shifting between the birches, too big to be a person, too purposeful to be branches swaying in the wind.
Sander’s breath fogs the glass as he leans closer, squinting.
The shape moves again, and for a moment, he catches a glimpse of something large and compact, a head crowned with what might be antlers, but with too many points, too many angles, spreading too wide to belong to a moose or any animal he knows.
“Niillas,” he whispers, his voice catching in his throat. “There’s something out there.”
Behind him, he hears Niillas rise quickly, the sleeping bag rustling.
“Get away from the window,” Niillas growls, low and urgent. “Now.”
But Sander can’t move. The shadow has stopped, and he swears he sees eyes reflecting in the darkness. Watching. Waiting.
His heart hammers against his ribs like a caged bird, and Sander is frozen in place.
Strong hands close around his shoulders and yank him backward, away from the window. Sander stumbles, his legs unsteady, as Niillas pulls him across the room.
“What?”
“Sit,” Niillas commands, pushing Sander down onto the sleeping bag with enough force that he has no choice but to comply.
“What the hell—”
“Stay put.”
Niillas is at the door in two quick strides and blocks it with a chair under the handle.
When he seems certain the door won’t open, he settles on the armrest of the couch, close enough to Sander to touch but also looming above him.
And blocking the way to the door. And the window.
Niillas’ dark eyes never leave the window.
“You can’t just—” Sander tries again, but he’s cut off with a sharp gesture.
“Be quiet.”
The command sends heat rushing through Sander’s veins; part fury and part excitement, something he doesn’t want to analyze too closely. Who does Niillas think he is, ordering him around like some helpless—
He stops mid-thought, suddenly aware of exactly what Niillas is doing. He has put himself between Sander and every possible entrance to the room. Between Sander and whatever might want to get in.
Something cold settles in Sander’s stomach.
Either Niillas is playing a very elaborate game to get into Sander’s head, and it’s working…
Or there is something very, very wrong with this house.