19. NINETEEN
NINETEEN
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I sat in the corner of the dark living room, my knees pulled to my chest. The air felt so heavy, thick with the smell of mold, smoke, and lingering animal fur, maybe. Lena's soft humming sang faintly as she moved through the house, lighting candles one by one. Their light cast long shadows across the room, making it even smaller, and more stifling.
I looked around, my eyes catching on the framed photos on the walls. Images of her and Thor's family stared back at me, their faces stood frozen in time. I couldn't connect it, any of it, no matter how hard I tried. Never in a million years would I have guessed the woman who greeted Joe and Laura, on the day we arrived, was Thor's mother.
Was this his house all along? If it was, he only told me half of the story, or maybe even less.
I looked toward the kitchen. There were papers everywhere, sticky notes taped on surfaces, each with scribbled words as reminders. They didn't feel random, and Lena didn't seem like the kind of woman who forgot things often. I knew there was something else behind it. The whole house was like a puzzle as if every creak of the floorboards and every whisper of air contained some piece with a deeper meaning.
I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself tighter.
The place felt alive in a way that made my skin crawl. I lowered my head, pressing my face into my arms, letting the tears come quietly. My chest burned with the weight of it all.
Soft footsteps came closer.
"Why tears?" Lena said calmly, almost detached.
I looked up, meeting her eyes, sharp and cold. She saw right through me.
"If you miss him," she said, lighting a pipe and slipping it between her lips, "he won't be back soon." She lowered herself into a wooden chair, crossing her legs. Smoke curled around her face as she leaned back, and exhaled.
"I..." My throat tightened, and I swallowed hard. "I lost my sister today."
Her hand paused close to her face, the pipe resting just shy of her lips. She didn't react the way I expected, no pity or shock. Instead, she scanned my face like she was turning my words over in her mind, expecting something else from me.
"When you're in pain," she said after a long moment, "it's better to keep your mind busy. Ask me anything. I'll answer. Maybe it'll take your mind off her."
I nodded, but my thoughts felt like a scattered glass all over me. There were so many questions I wanted to ask, but none of them formed. My eyes moved back to the kitchen, to the yellow sticky notes dotting the walls and counters.
"Why all the notes?" I asked finally, looking back at her.
Lena didn't answer right away. Instead, she stood, taking the candle from the table with her.
"Come with me," she said, the pipe still between her teeth.
I followed her to the stairs near the entrance. She led the way, slowly moving, one hand holding the wooden railing. Each step groaned under her, the sound so sharp in the stillness around us. The air got colder as we reached the last step, and my heart panicked just a little.
At the bottom of the stairs, she stopped in front of a door and pushed it open. The room inside felt so dark, with low light. I could still see the sticky notes, they were everywhere. The walls were covered with them, a sea of yellow squares scrawled with handwriting that ranged from neat to hurried.
Lena moved to a lamp in the corner, using the candle to light it. The warm glow lit the room, and she turned back to me.
"How much do you know about Thor?" she asked.
I hesitated. "I know about Snowman," I said finally, my voice barely steady. "If that's what you mean."
Her lips twitched like she might smile, but the expression never fully slipped to her lips. "No," she said.
She plucked a sticky note from the wall and handed it to me. The paper was flimsy between my fingers.
"I knew Thor was different from an early age," she said. "He used to have nightmares, and when he woke up, things would just disappear. Sometimes it was just small objects that he moved without remembering. Sometimes it was more than that."
"Sleepwalking?" I asked, staring at the note in my hand. The words on it were so far away as if they weren’t meant for me to see. Mommy: No. Erik: No. Dad: Yes. Joe: Yes.
Lena reached over, gently tugging the paper from my fingers. She folded it back into itself, then set it down where it had been.
"No," she said quietly, shaking her head. "He wasn't sleepwalking."
"Why is Joe's name on there?" My knees felt weak as I lowered myself onto the first step of the staircase, the wood creaking under me.
She hesitated, her lips pressed tight before the words slipped out. "When Thor turned seven, the blackouts got worse. And his behavior... shifted. One night, I asked him who he was."Her voice broke, and her eyes were distant as if she was reliving it. "And he told me, 'Mommy, I'm 1 Snjókarl. '"
The name hit me. " Snjókarl? " I repeated, testing the word.
Snowman.
Lena nodded, her gaze lowering to her hands. "I had him write a list of everything in the house. Everything! So that when he became Snjókarl, he'd know where to put things back. I knew something was wrong, but his father..." She clenched her jaw, her tone hardening. "He didn't believe in doctors. He believed in The Family ."
I felt my stomach twist. "Are you saying Thor doesn't know?" My voice cracked. "That he's... Snowman?"
Lena looked at me sharply, her expression solemn. "Oh, Thor knows. He had always known. But Snjókarl doesn't. He believes he's here to fix the world."
Her words sent a chill through me. "But why is Joe on the list, Lena?" My voice dropped, trembling.
She let out a shaky breath, like the words were clawing their way out. "Joe is Thor's stepbrother," she said softly. "My husband's first child."
She rose from the chair, moving to a drawer where she pulled out another piece of paper. This one was older, worn at the edges, with two names crossed out— Joe and Dad.
She turned to face me, her face still cold, without any emotion. "Thor was abused," she said in a low voice. "His father... he did things to him. And Joe? Joe helped."
A tear slipped down my cheek, unbidden, and everything he had been through pressed on my chest until I couldn't breathe. All I wanted was to wrap my arms around him, to tell him he wasn't broken, that maybe, we could figure this out together.
" Snjókarl protected Thor," Lena continued, her voice trembling now. "But as he grew, as life kept throwing darkness at him, Snjókarl changed too. He became... darker."
I swallowed hard, forcing out the question. "What is The Family , Lena?"
She drew in a deep breath, staring at the floor. "My husband started it in 1986," she said. "Back then, it was just seven of us. But people kept joining. The worst kinds of people. They would come, and then... they would disappear. The whole town suspected us. But no one said anything. Then the famine hit, and people were starving. Yet somehow, my husband always had meat."
She fell silent for a moment. "That's when I figured it out. We weren't eating animals, we were eating them. The missing members."
I felt bile rise in my throat. Her words were so plain, so cold, almost unreal.
"A few of us survived on plants, berries... scraps," she went on. "But most left. I stayed. I gave birth to Erik. Then Thor. And in the end, it was just the four of us. And Joe."
I stared at her, my stomach churning. "You're saying Joe was part of the cult? All of you?"
Her eyes flicked to me, and for a second, I thought I saw regret there, but she was still cold. "When my husband died, Joe left," she said. "But I think he took you and your sister because he wanted to start over. To finish what my husband started."
"I'm going to puke," I said, my hands pressing against my lips. My stomach churned, my chest tight. "I feel sick."
"We never thought Joe would come back," she said, standing slowly, like the words themselves were pulling her up.
"Why did you tell me all this?" I shouted, my voice cracking as I stood. "Why?"
She raised her arms, her scars etched deep against her skin. "These," she said quietly, " Snjókarl did this."
"He won't hurt me," I said, my body sinking, almost folding in on itself. "He wouldn't."
"You're his type," her voice cut through me, the same words she told me when we first met. Her gaze was heavy, unwavering. "Broken. Beautiful. Easy to manipulate."
"No," I said, shaking my head. "He..."
"He would," she snapped, her eyebrows shooting up, her tone rising sharp. "And he will. You have to run. This time, you can't hesitate. Run fast. Change your name, your address, your hair—everything."
"No," my voice was breaking, tears falling. I felt them drip off my chin. "I'll wait. I have to."
"You stupid, stupid girl," she spat, her face twisting in frustration. "You can't save him. No one can."
"Even if I can't," I choked on my own words "I'll keep trying."
She stared at me for a moment, her shoulders tense, before she let out a long, harsh breath. "Fine," she said, turning away. "Your funeral, not mine."
I slumped onto the steps as she walked upstairs, her footsteps fading behind me. I didn't look after her. I couldn't. My eyes just scanned sticky notes plastered all over the walls. They called to me, I needed to know.
I stood up, drawn to them, and started counting. One by one, tracing their edges, feeling the paper under my fingertips. I needed something to hold onto, even if the truth was hard to hear. I counted one hundred and one pieces just on one side of the wall.
My chest felt tight. My heart was sinking. I searched for something—anything—that could explain him. I was desperate to find the boy he used to be, the one his father had hurt. I wanted to see a clue, a crack, a piece of him that I could fix.
He had two faces. One soft, warm, and full of care. The other, cold and distant, cruel. I told myself that if both of those faces cared for me if I could keep both, I'd be safe.
But deep down, I wasn't so sure anymore.
An hour had passed. I was curled up on the bench by the wall downstairs, hugging my knees to my chest. Lena had gone out and still hadn't come back. Around me was nothing but silence, broken only by the faint creaks of the walls behind. My eyes stung from crying, my throat raw, and exhaustion pulled at me. But I couldn't rest. Not yet.
I heard the door open. My heart jumped, but I didn't move. I stayed curled up, too drained to care, even as heavy footsteps thudded against the floor. Only when they grew closer did I open my eyes and sit up.
He was there, standing at the top of the stairs. His white shirt was stained with blood, stains, and spots dark against the white. His hair was slicked back, damp, and messy, and his eyes weren’t the same. They were darker like something inside him had died. He held a white plastic mask in his hand, the edges of it stained with blood.
For a moment, he didn't move. He just looked at me, his chest rising and falling, short breaths. Then he took a step forward, and another, until he was in front of me. Without a word, he pulled me into his arms. My head rested against his chest, and despite the blood, the smell, everything, I clung to him like he was the only thing left in my world.
My stomach twisted in knots. How could I fall for someone like this? Someone born to destroy, to kill? Someone who could so easily hurt me?
I pulled back just enough to see his face, my hand pressing lightly against his chest. I needed to see his eyes, to find something in them, anything. My breath hitched as I looked up at him. His icy blue eyes met mine, and for a second, I thought I saw something soft beneath the surface. But the metallic smell of blood hovered at the tip of my nose, sharp and suffocating. My gaze flicked to the mask in his hand. It wasn't him, but it was. The face he showed me never changed, but the masks always did.
"Lena said," he started, "you know."
My throat clenched as tears rolled down my cheeks. "How could I know…" I couldn't complete the thought.
"Who should you choose?" he said, sliding his hands to grab my face. His touch was kind, and his fingers brushed the tears off my cheeks.
"No," I said softly, my voice cracking. "Who you are?"
His eyes softened, just enough to make me want to believe him.
"Bree," he paused, "I will be whoever you need me to be." "But no matter who I am, I will always choose you."
I leaned in again. "I'm so tired," I said. "I don't think I can fight anymore."
His arms tightened around me, holding me up, and I was slowly falling apart. "Then let me fight for you." He leaned back just enough to look into my eyes. "Just don't give up, Bree. Not on yourself."
"I'm not giving up, I just..." I whispered, my eyes closing as I tried to steady myself. "I know I've been through a lot. Mel's had it worse. You've had it worse." My eyes opened slowly, locking onto his. "I can't even compare the pain or the hurt... but I'm so damn tired." The tears came again, slipping down my cheeks. "I should be grateful I survived. I know that. But I'm not. I feel like... like I already lost the fight."
His eyebrows pulled together as he looked at me, his grip tightening just enough to ground me.
"Stop," he said. "Stop ripping yourself apart because another person's grief appears different. Everyone has their own troubles. It doesn't make yours any less."
"Fuck, Bree." He ran a hand through his hair, his frustration bubbling over. "You matter. If not to anyone else... you matter to me. Don't you get that?"
I shook my head, my voice trembling as I whispered, "I'm not enough. I'm not whole. I don't know if someone as broken as me can do anything but make it worse. I'm scared... scared that I'll hurt you, or ruin whatever this is."
"I don't need saving," he said as he pulled me closer. His arms were tight around me, and I could feel the strength behind his words. "You can't save me, Bree. Even if you tried. And you won't ruin anything. Trust me, you couldn't."
The tears came harder now, and I tried so hard to see his face through the blur. My voice cracked as I asked, "Can you fix me?"
"You don't need to be fixed," he said, his hand brushing against my cheek, wiping away the tears as fast as they came. "You just need to be loved."
Loved.
How could I even think about love when I felt so empty? What was left of me to love? Could he even love someone like me? Could anyone?
I loved before. Now, I am wounded. I don't know how to protect myself. I don't even know if I want to.
I was lost. Completely lost.
1. Snjókarl- Snowman