Northern Frights

by Arthur Slade

  Then there was a thud. Now there was only one horse neighing, its voice ragged. It wheezed out its fright, stomping and struggling against an unseen attacker. Roars and growls echoed through the trapdoor.

  For a moment the horse stood in the light and I could see its grey hide. It was Sleipnir. Four gashes stretched along his side; one leg looked broken. He tried to neigh, but only blood bubbled out of his mouth.

  A grey shape jumped onto his back and clung to him. Sleipnir let out a frightened, gurgling whinny, kicked up his front legs and jumped out of the light. The whole croft house shook.

  We looked at each other. Mordur was still holding tightly to the fire poker. Michael, who had been frozen in place, shifted his weight and the floor creaked, loudly. There was an answering rustle from below us. Then came an odd, child-like cry of discovery from a few feet below the trapdoor. Like a prize had been found.

  Us.

  16.

  The ladder creaked as, rung by rung, the intruder climbed up. Next came a sniffing, a great inhalation of air. This was a hunter who had tasted blood and now wanted more. There wasn't a nerve in my body that would function. Ice ran through every vein, weighing me down.

  We stared at the trapdoor. It lifted slowly, hinges squeaking with rust. A snout tested the air for several seconds, then the thing pushed its head up into the chamber and turned towards us, its eyes glowing orange. The creature looked human, except for the protruding canine snout and a covering of dark grey fur. It opened a wolf- like mouth and let out a low growl. Dangling from its teeth was a strip of hide, flesh still attached.

  It brought up a hand, not a paw, but a hand — with four clawed fingers and a thumb.

  Before it could climb another step, Mordur yelled, launched himself through the air and landed on the trapdoor, knocking the beast to the ground with a great thump. It roared and a second later the trapdoor, which Mordur was still lying across, was struck from below, lifting it up a few inches and nearly throwing Mordur right off.

  "Help me hold it down!" he cried.

  Michael got there first, kneeled next to Mordur, adding his weight to the door. I forced each muscle into motion, stood up. The trapdoor was hit a second time and one of the hinges flew into the air, deflecting off the roof.

  I found a long post and slid it across the door, between Michael and Mordur. There were two rings on either side that had been nailed into the floor. Sarah grabbed the other end of the post and helped me guide it towards the opposite ring, but it was too big to fit cleanly.

  A third blow hammered into the wood. Michael was knocked off and Mordur fell away, clutching his ribs.

  "Quick!" Sarah hissed, "push it through."

  I shoved the post. It caught the other ring and I forced it into the hole, blocking the door. Michael and Mordur had jumped back on the door, braced themselves for an impact.

  None came.

  There was a knothole in the centre of the trapdoor, large enough to see through. I leaned over to peer through it and was hit by a scent of rotting flesh. Then a large, hypnotizing eye filled the hole, swirling with orange and grey colours. It mesmerized me. A voice began to speak in my head in a language I'd never heard before. But the message was clear: surrender. Don't struggle. Don't resist. There is no escape. The eye stared right into me, seemed to know who I was. My body became weak.

  "Annnngggie." Michael's voice sounded slow and thick. "Annngie whatttsss wwrrronngg?"

  Someone leaned in beside me. Sarah. Close enough that she could see through the hole. She gasped, then backed away. "Geh — eh — ttt gonnnne!" she yelled. Her voice freed me slightly and I was able to inch away. She had stoked the fire, lighting the room, and was now holding a heated metal poker. "Get gone!" she commanded. "Fardu burt! Draugr! Flydu!"

  She ran forward and shoved the poker down into the knothole. The thing below us screamed and pounded so hard against the trapdoor that the wood cracked. Another wail followed, like a child that had been denied a toy.

  We could hear the creature running and the noise of the door to the outside crashing open.

  Sarah lowered the poker.

  "Is it gone?" Michael asked. "Is it gone?"

  I slowly released my grip on the post. My body ached. I bent and peeked through the crack in the trapdoor, afraid I would see that eye again, hear that voice. But there was nothing. Snow was blowing in through the door, already a small bank had formed on the ground.

  "What the hell was that?" Michael asked.

  "It was ... it was ...." I was shaking, my hands cold. "I thought it only went after sheep, Mordur."

  Mordur was still kneeling on the trapdoor, holding his ribs. He pushed himself to his feet. "That was not what attacked my dog. That was too small."

  "You mean there's something larger out there?" I asked.

  "I do not know. Perhaps," Mordur said.

  "Well, that's great news," Michael said. He looked at Sarah. "And what were you yelling? Some kind of hocus pocus?"

  Sarah shook her head. "It was from the sagas. I read it a long time ago. It just came back to me before I hit that thing in the eye."

  "Well, it worked," Mordur said, "but for how long?"

  17.

  We armed ourselves with whatever we could lay our hands on — Mordur found a large hunting knife, Michael a board, Sarah kept the metal poker. I picked up a walking stick. We waited, listened. When we finally thought it was safe, Michael slid the pole out of the rings and slowly lifted the trapdoor. Mordur leaned into the hole, craned his neck so he could see into all corners of the lower croft room. "It is gone," he said. He climbed down the ladder, holding the knife in one hand. Michael, then Sarah, followed.

  I decided the walking stick was too thin for a weapon, so I searched around for something else.

  "Angie, what're you doing up there?" Michael yelled through the trapdoor.

  "I'll be down in a second." I found another fire poker leaning against a chair and next to it the backpack that Michael had used to carry our lunch. A few inches away was the box of calf skins. It seemed to be my job to clean up after these guys. I gently put the box inside the backpack and pulled it over one shoulder. I grabbed the poker and went to the stove, twisting a key on the oil lamp. The wick sunk out of sight, the light died. I stumbled across the floor to the trapdoor and climbed down the ladder.

  The front door had been knocked off its hinges, snow blanketed the ground floor. Mordur was bent over one of the horses. "Poor Sleipnir. Look at his throat ... "

  Sarah turned away. "It's terrible." I was glad to be standing a few feet away, I couldn't see anything clearly.

  Mordur stared at Sleipnir, his face grim. "Thordy and I will come back to bury them. They will be good here for now. With the snow and cold."

  Mordur stood up and stared out the entrance, holding his knife out in front of himself. "I do not think that ... that thing will be back soon. It will be holed up somewhere with a sore eye. The snow is cleared, maybe enough to make home. Are you ready to go?"

  "We don't have much choice," Michael said. Sarah was already tightening a scarf around her face. I pulled my zipper up. I didn't want to spend another moment in this place.

  We entered a world of whiteness. There was a splash of red next to the broken door. I stepped closer and found a small cloth sack on the ground, just like the one I'd seen back at Uncle Thordy's house. It had been torn open and a black liver-like thing sat on the snow.

  "What's that?" I asked.

  "Butcher bag," Mordur said. "Livers and hearts and organs. For fox traps."

  "I saw a bag like that near the house," I said. "What's another one doing here?"

  He shrugged. "I do not know. But we better go home."

  We marched through the snow, which had now gathered into huge drifts. The occasional blast of wind tried to knock us off our feet, coated our eyebrows and scarves with wet snow. We struggled through high banks, frosty air rising from our mouths. I had no idea what time it was anymore. The light behind us was fading.
>
  On the plateau, the snow made everything look even flatter. There was no horizon, just a blank world. Somehow Mordur found the way. We traveled in single file, one step behind him. He would turn to help when there was a long drop or a difficult area to cross.

  We hardly spoke. Sarah stumbled and Michael let her lean on his shoulder. They walked this way for quite awhile, helping each other. I thought of Andrew and what it would be like if he were still here. I felt tears welling up in my eyes.

  I was growing colder. I rubbed my cheeks to get the blood flowing, then tightened up my scarf.

  Mordur halted every once in awhile and searched around as if trying to see some invisible pursuer. I sped up, so I was a step behind him. "I got your dad's letters," I yelled above the wind.

  "Did you?" He looked surprised and relieved. "I forgot them from my mind."

  "I knew you'd want them." I wanted to say something else. Something about his father perhaps. Maybe I'd tell him I knew what it was like to miss someone you cared about.

  Mordur cast another glance backwards, but before I could open my mouth to tell him what I was thinking, he shouted, "Hurry! Soon there will not be any light left."

  The sky was now grey. How long had we been out here? I picked up my pace, gave up on talking. Every ounce of energy was funnelled towards putting one leg in front of the other. I couldn't help but think that there was something in the snow behind us, pursuing us.

  The feeling of running away reminded me of my nightmares. Were they warnings about what attacked us in the croft house? Or was there something worse out there?

  When I first spotted Uncle Thordy's house, I let out a small cheer. The porch light flickered and Uncle Thordy's truck was parked outside. We broke into a run, kicking snow ahead of us.

  We burst into the house without knocking. Uncle Thordy met us in the hall, his fists clenched. "You're back!" he exclaimed, dropping his hands. "Are you alright?"

  At first none of us spoke. Whatever he saw in our faces must have answered his question. "What happened?" He looked directly at Mordur. "What happened?"

  "The úlfslikid, it attacked us."

  18.

  Uncle Thordy's eyes widened. "During the day! Where?"

  "In the croft ... " Mordur began. He sucked in some air, held his side. "I ... I think we must sit down."

  "Come in, come in." Uncle Thordy motioned with his hands. "You all look like you've been dragged through Niflheim and back."

  We kicked our boots off, dropped our weapons, and tumbled into the living room. Uncle Thordy locked the door and followed us. The lights of the Christmas tree reflected in the window and the fireplace was blazing. It looked like heaven. I collapsed on the easy chair and loosened my jacket. I set the backpack at my feet. Michael and Sarah plopped down on the couch, both still dressed for outside. Mordur leaned against the wall beside me, favouring his right side.

  "You okay?" I asked.

  "Yes," he wheezed, "just a little bump."

  "Why don't you sit?" I said, patting the armrest of my chair.

  He gave me a mocking salute that only made him wince more, then sat carefully. "Thanks," he whispered.

  Uncle Thordy had gone into the kitchen. He returned with a tray full of coffee in huge grey mugs. I grabbed mine eagerly, the comforting smell filling my nostrils. I sipped. It almost burned my tongue.

  "Where are the horses?" Uncle Thordy asked.

  "Dead." Mordur leaned one arm on his knee, trying to take pressure off his chest. "Both dead."

  There was the sound of a door opening and footsteps plodding down the hall. Grandpa stumbled like a sleep walker into the room, his face as pale as the white bathrobe he was wearing.

  "Uncle Thursten, careful." Uncle Thordy got up and tried to guide him to a seat, but Grandpa just waved him away. Step by slow, careful step he closed in on his target then turned and lowered himself onto the couch beside Sarah. He looked like he'd aged ten years in the last ten hours. His eyes were bloodshot. His lips curled into a painful smile. "Don't stop on my accord," he whispered, hoarsely, "things were just getting interesting. Please, though, for an old man's sake, start at the beginning."

  So we did. First Mordur spoke, then we found our voices. Sarah would explain something and Michael and I would add our bits. It was a jumbled story, like piecing together a nightmare. I drank the rest of my coffee, my body was finally starting to warm up. I took my jacket off.

  When we finished, Grandpa cleared his throat. It was a gross, phlegmy sound. He looked at Mordur. "So you think this — we'll call it a wolf — is different than the one you saw before?"

  "Yes. But it was dark both times. Maybe it grew large in my memory."

  Grandpa thought this over for a second, then turned to Uncle Thordy. "How many attacks have there been?"

  "Four," Uncle Thordy said. "Just on animals though. The only evidence we've found are tracks."

  "Wolf tracks?"

  "No, not exactly. They are larger. But signs of claws in the print. They always disappear after a few hundred yards. And, up until now, it's only happened at night. Dogs won't follow the beast, they just spin in circles and yelp. The constable is baffled by them." Uncle Thordy wiped sweat from his forehead. The thick scars above his eyebrow glistened. "I thought the nephews would be safe. I'd never have allowed a trip to the old croft house if I thought this could happen."

  "It wasn't like anything I'd seen before," I said, thinking of its glowing eyes. "It climbed the ladder. It had ... hands."

  "Hands?" Uncle Thordy repeated.

  "Did it bite any of you?" Grandpa asked.

  We all shook our heads.

  "Any scratches?"

  Again, we shook our heads. Grandpa let out his breath, like we'd answered an important question.

  My thoughts were getting tangled. I wanted to yell What's going on? Grandpa seemed to know more than he was letting on. Maybe Uncle Thordy did, too.

  Another part of me just wanted to curl up in some corner and hide. Too much was happening.

  "I ... " Mordur began. "I have a favour to ask from you, Mr. Asmundson."

  "It's Thursten," Grandpa said. "And what's this favour?"

  Mordur reached down for the backpack, opened it and pulled out the box. He lifted the lid and gently took out the calf skins. "These were hidden in the croft house. My father wrote French on them. Michael said you would read it."

  "French?" Grandpa echoed. "I can't say I know much of it. My wife dragged me to a French class for a few months before we went on a holiday in Quebec. I watch hockey games on the French channel, but that's about it. At least I know when they say, 'he shoots, he scores.' I'll give it a try."

  "There is also this." Mordur held the spearhead in the palm of his hand so everyone could see. It glinted in the light. "I think Dad made it."

  "He kept himself busy," Uncle Thordy said. "That's one thing about Einar. If he wasn't reading some old book about Icelandic history, he was trying to recreate it. Some of the professors at the university would even phone him and ask him questions. He showed me a paper that one professor had written that quoted him. He was pretty proud of that."

  "May I hold it?" Grandpa said and Mordur handed the spearhead to him. "That's a fine piece of metal work. Light, sharp as a razor. And all these symbols carved on the sides. This must have taken a long time." He gave the spearhead back. "I wish I could have met your father. He sounds like quite the man."

  "He was," Mordur said.

  Just then I saw the slightest movement in the kitchen window.

  There was a face staring in at us.

  Then it was gone.

  "There's someone outside," I said.

  19.

  "What?" Uncle Thordy turned towards the kitchen, following my gaze. "Where?"

  "In the window," I answered, my voice cracking. "Just for a second. Someone looked in."

  Uncle Thordy got up, went into the kitchen. Michael and Mordur followed. They stood at the window peering through the glass.

 
"Th — there," Sarah whispered. She was still seated next to Grandpa, pointing at the window in the living room. "Someone's there."

  I turned. Glaring through the pane was an old, female face, eyeballs the size of boiled eggs, glaring from me to Sarah to Grandpa. The reflection of the Christmas tree lights made it seem like the woman was looking in at us from another world.

  The old woman's scratchy voice carried through the window pane. She was shouting in Icelandic.

  "It's Gunnvor," Uncle Thordy whispered, amazement in his voice. "I haven't seen her for years."

  The name sounded familiar. Then I remembered Grandpa had talked about the old woman who lived on the hill. Only hours ago we'd seen her stone house at a distance. So this was Gunnvor.

  "She says she's lost her child," Grandpa said. "She says we stole him."

  Uncle Thordy strode further into the living room. "Gunnvor," he said loudly, as if he was speaking to someone who was hard of hearing. He shouted something in Icelandic and pointed to the front door.

  Gunnvor seemed to grunt a reply.

  Uncle Thordy raised his voice even louder, repeated the words.

  She disappeared from the window.

  We followed Uncle Thordy to the front door. He opened it and called Gunnvor's name a few times, then muttered under his breath like he was cursing. "Mordur, get the flashlights from the kitchen. I'll need help to find her."

  Mordur went towards the kitchen, grimacing like he was trying to hold in the pain. Maybe his ribs were broken.

  Sarah was already pulling on her coat and heading for the door. "I'll help."

  "I'll hold down the fort," Grandpa said from his seat.

  I wasn't sure if I wanted to go outside. The woman didn't look all that friendly. And who knew what else could be out there? Michael went out the door too, so I pulled on my jacket and, as I did, noticed a tear in the shoulder. Perhaps I'd caught it on something in the croft. It felt like a bad omen.

  We filed out into the front yard. The snow had stopped and there wasn't a breath of wind. The Northern Lights were back, dancing like angels through the sky. We circled the house, but the only sign of Gunnvor was a sled she had left next to the fence.