The morning came quietly, as if the town itself was reluctant to wake. Pale sunlight slipped through the curtains, drawing faint lines across the wooden floor. I stayed in bed for a few moments, just listening. The building creaked softly, birds chirped in the trees outside, and the river sang its constant, low song in the distance.
For a while, it felt like any other peaceful morning in any other quiet town. No mysteries. No deaths. Just life moving at its own pace.
But peace doesn't last. Not for me.
---
After a quick shower and a breakfast of coarse bread, brown cheese, and strong coffee in the guesthouse's small dining room, I stepped outside to find Maja waiting for me. She had a folder tucked under her arm, her posture sharp as always.
"You're up early," I said.
"So are you," she replied with the faintest smile.
We got into my car, and she directed me toward the first site: Svartbekk.
The road wound tightly through dense forest, the kind where the trees grow so close they almost touch above you. Moss covered the stones like green velvet, and the air smelled damp and fresh. As we drove, Maja talked about herself.
"I grew up in Bergen," she said. "Moved here a few years ago. People were skeptical at first. Outsiders don't usually last."
"You seem to have," I said.
She smiled faintly. "I like the silence here. The calm."
I nodded, keeping my eyes on the road. But there was something else under that silence. Something I couldn't yet name.
---
Svartbekk was more beautiful than I expected. A small clearing opened to reveal a dark stream winding through the trees. The water caught the morning light in strange ways, glinting silver one moment, black the next.
"This is where they found the first victim," Maja said, pointing to a large stone in the middle of the brook. "She was leaning against it, as if she was resting. But she wasn't breathing."
I stepped down to the edge, crouching to examine the spot. The ground was damp, pressed where someone had knelt. I picked up a small stone; it was slick, cold against my skin.
The place felt arranged. Not chaotic, not like an accident. More like… a stage set for something.
I wrote in my notebook, sketching the stone, marking the direction of the current, noting the shape of the trees. Everything here seemed to form a pattern, even if I couldn't see it yet.
---
We moved on to the second site, a small pond called Stillevann. The road grew rougher, gravel spitting under the tires. The forest thickened, pressing close around us, and the light dimmed as if the trees were hoarding it.
When we reached the pond, I stepped out first. The air here was still — so still it felt unnatural. The water lay flat, reflecting the mist above it like a perfect mirror.
The trees stood tight against the edge, their branches reaching over the surface as if they were trying to shield it from the sky.
I walked to the shore and stared into the reflection.
That's when I saw it.
For just a second, my eyes weren't my eyes. They were darker, deeper. Holes leading somewhere endless.
I jerked back, heart pounding. Maja didn't notice; she was behind me, making notes on her map.
I said nothing. Not yet.
---
After visiting Stillevann, we returned to town. Maja said she had paperwork to finish and left me at the guesthouse. I needed to walk alone, to clear my head.
Sauda was alive in its own quiet way. Children played in the park. An old man cleaned fish on the pier. A woman waved from the bakery, her smile wide and warm.
On the surface, everything was normal.
But under it all, there was that feeling again.
As if every person I passed knew something I didn't. As if they were watching me, not with suspicion, but with expectation.
Like I was part of a story I hadn't read yet.
---
Back at the guesthouse, I sat at the desk and opened my notebook. I wrote down everything I had seen — the sites, the markings, the strange stillness of the water. I described the way the reflections didn't behave like reflections should.
And then, without thinking, I wrote a sentence that made my skin crawl as soon as the ink dried:
"He waits beneath the water."
I stared at the words for a long time.
I didn't know who he was.
The words I wrote earlier still gnawed at me, but I pushed the notebook aside and decided to step out for some fresh air. The town was quiet, as if it had tucked itself in for the night. Windows glowed warmly in the houses, and the faint smell of wood smoke hung in the crisp evening air.
I strolled down the narrow streets, hands in my coat pockets, letting the cool breeze clear my head. The locals I passed greeted me with smiles, but there was a softness to their voices — too soft, like they were choosing their words carefully. I smiled back, though I couldn't shake the sense that they were measuring me, weighing something I couldn't see.
The small park near the river was empty, the swing set moving slightly in the breeze. I sat on a bench for a while, watching the clouds drift past the moon. Everything here was calm, unnervingly calm.
---
On my way back, I crossed the bridge that spanned the river. The water below shimmered faintly under the moonlight, dark and still. I stopped, leaning on the railing, listening to the night sounds — the distant bark of a dog, the wind moving through the pines.
And then the music came.
Not loud, not even clear, but there. A melody so faint it felt like it came from the bones of the world itself. It rose from somewhere deep beneath the water, curling around the edges of my thoughts.
I stayed there, listening, unable to move. The tune was mournful but strangely inviting, like a voice whispering from the other side of a dream.
Just as suddenly as it came, it was gone. The silence that followed was heavier than before, as if the night itself was holding its breath.
---
Back at the guesthouse, the owner met me at the door with a warm smile and a plate of apple cake.
"You've been working hard," she said. "This will help."
I thanked her, but as she handed me the plate, her eyes lingered on me a moment too long. Not curious — assessing.
When I got to my room, I sat by the desk, staring at the untouched cake. My sleeve slid back, revealing the faint mark on my wrist. It hadn't faded.
I pulled the fabric down quickly.
---
I didn't write more that night. I couldn't.
Instead, I sat by the window, watching the river wind through the town. Even from here, under the moonlight, it looked like a strip of black glass, too smooth to be real.
I told myself it was just water. Just a river.
But something in me whispered otherwise.
Something that wasn't entirely my own.
Sleep didn't come easily. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the water — black and endless, stretching out under a sky without stars. I dreamed of walking along its edge, but no matter how far I went, the river never ended. At times, I thought I heard footsteps behind me, but when I turned, there was nothing. Only the sound of the current, moving too slowly to be real.
When I finally drifted into something that resembled rest, it wasn't peaceful. I felt weightless, as though I were sinking. Not drowning — sinking. The water wasn't fighting me. It was pulling me in like a mother cradling her child. And in the deep, something waited.
When I woke, it was still dark. The room was cold, though the window was closed. For a moment, I didn't know where I was. The smell of the river clung to the air, sharp and metallic.
---
At dawn, I dressed quietly and stepped outside. Mist clung to the ground, curling around the trees like pale fingers. The town was silent, not even a bird sang yet. It felt like I had stepped into a world that hadn't quite decided to wake up.
I walked without a destination, letting the stillness guide me. The cobblestones were damp with dew, and the faint glow of early light caught on their edges.
I passed a few houses where curtains shifted just slightly as I went by. Perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps someone really was watching.
---
The bridge drew me in again, as if it were the only place I belonged. I leaned over the railing, staring at the surface below. It reflected the mist like a perfect mirror, no ripples, no movement. For a moment, it felt like if I just reached out, my hand wouldn't break the surface. It would pass right through.
I closed my eyes and listened. The faintest trace of that melody reached me again. Softer now, almost gone, but still there. The same mournful tone, the same call I had heard the night before.
I should have felt fear.
Instead, I felt calm.
---
By the time the sun rose properly, the mist began to thin. Life returned to the town in small doses — the bark of a dog, the sound of someone chopping wood, the smell of fresh bread drifting from the bakery.
To anyone else, it would have seemed like an ordinary morning.
But I knew better.