Horror Stories From Denmark Box Set
Date: 2013-05-07 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Anthologies; Suspense
Description: Four heart-stopping short-stories related to Willow Rose's International Bestselling Rebekka Franck Series. Can be read separately. This book is not for the faint at heart. ROCK-A-BYE BABY: Lisa Rasmussen just had a baby and everything in her life seems perfect at this point. Only she wishes that everyone else around her would be as flawless as she is and stop getting in her way. And if they won't listen, then she'll make them. EENIE, MEENIE: Johnny is a criminal. He has been locked up before - but never in a place quite like this. Now he wonders if he will ever make it through to his release
Publisher: DMC

Horror stories

From Denmark

Willow Rose

Copyright Willow Rose 2013

Published by Jan Sigetty Boeje

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

Cover design by Jan Sigetty Boeje
http://sigetty.wix.com/coverart

Special thanks to my editor Jean Pacillo
http://www.ebookeditingpro.com

Connect with Willow Rose:

http://www.willow-rose.blogspot.com/
http://www.facebook.com/willowredrose
https://twitter.com/madamwillowrose

Table of Content

Rock-a-bye Baby

Eenie, Meenie

Nibble, Nibble, Crunch

Humpty, Dumpty

About the Author

One, Two ... He is coming for you (Excerpt)

Rock-a-bye Baby

Willow Rose

1

I'm doing my Zumba class. I'm sweating heavily while glancing anxiously at the baby carriage on the other side of the window where my princess is sleeping heavily next to all the other babies who have come with their mommies to the Mommy-and-Me Zumba Extraordinaire that the local fitness center in Karrebaeksminde hosts every Monday morning. Monday, naturally, because they know Monday is the day every mom wants to start a new life of exercise and diet. The carriage is not moving. She's still asleep I think relieved while I push myself and dance to the fast rhythms trying hard to sweat off the butt giving birth to my third child has given me.

I'm forty-one, I'm not tired as my mother says I am. I have enough energy to do it all. I know I do.

When I come home, the baby is still sleeping. I eat an organic, low-carb, fat-reduced lunch and drink a smoothie made from beet, spinach, lemon and apple. I drink a skinny-latte afterwards while reading the Zeeland Times. My old friend from high school Rebekka Franck has an article in the paper about a fire in Neastved, the biggest city close to us. I read it feeling good, happy and energized from the exercise and healthy food. I detect a typo in the third line of the article. It annoys me. I pick up my iPhone and call the newspaper to let them know. They tell me that they are very sorry, and that they'll make sure to tell whoever is responsible. I hang up feeling good about myself. If people make a mistake they need to know.

The baby is making sounds, I pick her up and bring her to the changing table. Quiet, cleanliness and regularity those are the keywords to having a baby. I change the diaper and tickle her stomach. Josephine is three months old. I gave birth to her on a Sunday after only three hours of labor. I had a natural birth. No sedatives. Just me and nature. I gave birth in water in my own house. The mid-wife came to help, but I didn't need her much. I didn't even need my husband. Like the two first times I did it by myself.  I took control of the birth. It's my body, I told them when they wanted to discuss anesthesia. I told them I found it repulsive that they wanted to sedate me, I told them that women through all times, in all kinds of countries had done this without being sedated, so why shouldn't I?

I am not a natural blond, but I do color it which I'll admit to if asked, but I won't reveal that I recently had a laser-treatment remove the facial hair that is beginning to grow on my chin and upper lip.

My baby is laughing and smiling, but all I see is the weird blemish in her forehead that won’t go away. Strawberry mark, the mid-wife had told me after the baby had arrived and I saw the mark. "It'll eventually disappear on its own." But it hadn't. Not yet. I'm thinking tumor and look it up on the Internet while the baby is in the playpen. An article suggests that scientists don't agree on the subject. In some babies they even keep growing, some parents have them frozen and cut off when the baby is six months old. I consider it. I look up doctors who will do that for me and write their names down. I put the note on top of the other notes, I've made the last week.

I get up and walk to the kitchen. I drink a glass of water, one of eight I have decided to drink every day to make sure I get enough water. The baby is whining, I pick her up and give her my breast. I read a magazine about educating children while my baby drinks her milk. I have breastfed all of my kids till they were more than a year as is recommended by the Danish health department. To give your baby the best start, the flyer from the hospital said.

I read about sibling jealousy and decide to spend more time with my older children when they come home from school. I think about my husband and plan to give him a blow-job tonight after reading another article about the difficulties relationships experience once there is a new baby in the house. It's been three weeks since we last had sex, I count by looking in my calendar in the phone where I have marked the last time. It's about time we get intimate for the sake of our marriage.

The baby sucks on my breast and it hurts slightly. Such a precious time, I think to myself. And so brief, when they're all dependent on you and your breasts. I caress my princess' thin hair while I sing to her.

Rock-a-bye baby, on the treetop,

When the wind blows, the cradle will rock,

When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,

And down will come baby, cradle and all.

2

My oldest daughter is the first to come home. I have just put the baby down for her afternoon nap when I hear the front door open. I jump down the stairs and welcome her as she enters.

"How was your day, sweetie?" I ask.

Amalie throws her bag in the hallway and her jacket on top of it. She gives me a look, walks past me to the kitchen while grumbling "Whatever."

I pick her jacket up from the floor and put it on a hanger. I brush it off lightly and remove a couple of spots with my nail, scratching them off before I put it in the closet. I place her backpack by the foot of the stairs so she can grab it before she runs upstairs to do her homework. I hear her go through the refrigerator and feel my hands shake lightly at the thought of the mess she is about to make. I calm myself down by counting to ten a few times before I brace myself and walk over to her.

"Any news from school?" I ask keeping my smile on even when everything inside of me frozen by the look of the counter where she is now making herself a sandwich.

She looks at me like I'm a complete idiot.

"Like what?"

I shrug and try to not let the tone in her voice bother me. I close the refrigerator door and stand by the sink. "So there’s nothing new to tell me? Any cute guys we should talk about?"

Amalie rolls her eyes at me and sighs frustrated. "Please don't pretend to be interested in my life, Mom. It's gross."

"How can it be gross?"

She sighs again. "It just is. It's too much all of a sudden."

I tilt my head. "All of a sudden? I've always been interested in your life. You know that."

Amalie scoffs. "As if ..."

"What do you mean?"

"Ah come on. You and Daddy haven't been the least bit interested in me and Jacob ever since ..." Amalie pauses and looks at me. Then she shakes her head. "Never mind."

"Ever since what exactly, Amalie?" I ask. "Since I had the baby?"

Amalie shrugs. "Yeah. You know. Whatever."

I nod and smile to let her know I understand and respect her feelings just like the article told me to do. Jealousy was common in the older children and could be very difficult for them to express. It is my job as a mother to help them put words to their feelings.

"So what you're saying is I don't pay you and your brother enough attention. Is that it?" I say to help her find the words.

Amalie shrugs again. "Well, I mean it's only natural that you don't, with all that has been going on and all. It's just ... well it's been three months now and ... well I guess I'm wondering how long this is going to keep on?"

I nod again understandingly. "I know sweetie. It must have been hard on the two of you."

Amalie nods slowly. "Yeah. It kind of has been. I mean with everything going on at home and all, it's been pretty hard to focus on school. So ... I guess what I'm saying is ..." Amalie looks into my eyes, then hesitates. "You know what? I'll just talk to Dad about it."

"You can tell me anything, Amalie. You know that," I say. "I'm here for you."

"Are you sure you can handle it?"

I smile at my daughter's great compassion for me. Worry about me just because I haven't been sleeping much lately. Yes I am tired from being up several times at night and breastfeeding, but I can certainly find the strength to listen to my daughter's problems. "I'm stronger than I seem," I say.

"Well ... It seems I might be ... failing math."

I feel my fingers grow numb. My daughter reads it on my face.

"My teacher says it's okay. I can take a summer class and there will be no problem after that. It's okay, mom. It really is."

I restrain myself, but my nostrils won't relax, neither will the vein in my forehead that my daughter is now staring at.

"Mom? Are you okay?" she asks.

I close my eyes and count to ten, then count again and force pictures of relaxing places, long, white beaches stretching as far as the eye can see, nice clean hotels with nice service and rose petals on the nicely made bed. I open my eyes again and look at my daughter. Then I reach out and touch her cheek gently. "Of course I'm okay," I say. "Now what did you say the name of your teacher was?"

3

I go directly to the front office and ask to speak with Mr. Berendsen, my daughter's math teacher. They tell me he has gone home for the day but will be back tomorrow. I smile and nod politely, then leave the high school, running down the street pushing my sleeping baby in the carriage in front of me.

I know where he lives. It's right next to the school, so I decide to leave the car by the school. A few seconds later I'm by his door. I park the baby carriage in his yard, then walk to the window and look in. I spot Mr. Berendsen inside his kitchen preparing dinner. He's alone. I bang on the window. Mr. Berendsen jumps inside of the house. I am grinning as he spots me. I point at the door. He hesitates, then walks towards it. He opens it slightly.

"Yes? Can I help you with anything?" he asks.

"As a matter of fact, I believe you can," I say and walk closer. He seems afraid of me. "You're my daughter's teacher. Amalie Rasmussen?"

Mr. Berendsen relaxes and opens the door further. "Ah, Amalie. In three a?"

"Yes, that's her. I'm her mother. My name is Lisa," I say and we shake hands. Mr. Berendsen seems more relaxed now and he invites me inside. I accept and follow him into the kitchen.

"I'm in the middle of preparing dinner, so if you won't mind I'll be continuing while we talk."

"Having company over?" I ask and sit at a kitchen chair.

"No, just for myself. I'm alone. Have been ever since the wife left me two years ago."

I nod and smile like I know how that feels, which I don't, cause I have never been divorced. I would never let that happen to me.

"So what happened?" I ask.

"What do you mean?"

"Why did your wife leave you?"

Mr. Berendsen seems startled by the question, but I pretend I don't notice. I look around the small kitchen and spot dust and dog hairs in the corner. I pick some up, thinking this house needs cleaning. It annoys me that people live like this. Filthy. Disgusting. Lazy. I look to see if I can locate the dog.

"Why?" he asks.

"Why what?"

"Why do you want to know that?"

I shrug with a smile. "Just curious." I pause and look at the man while he is chopping carrots. "Maybe you cheated on her?"

The knife slips in Mr. Berendsen's hand and he almost cuts himself. I look at him awaiting my answer.

"You are extraordinarily direct," he says. "But if you must know then yes, I had an affair, but only briefly. She had one that lasted for several years and now she is living with him." He goes back to chopping carrots.

"I thought it would be something like that," I say.

Mr. Berendsen stops chopping again and looks at me. "Why?" he asks.

"Why what?"

"Why did you think it might be something like that? " he asks gesticulating wildly with the knife in his hand making quotation signs.

"Be careful," I say. "Don't cut yourself."

Mr. Berendsen calms down and puts the knife on the table. Then he sighs and looks at me. "Tell me again, why did you come here?"

"Oh. It was about my daughter," I say. "She tells me you're failing her."

"Well she's the one failing the class. She's been very unfocused lately and hasn't done well on the tests. I'm sorry, but I have to fail her. I told her she could take a summer class to make up for it."

"Yes. I heard that. But you see there is the problem that we're planning on going to Paris all summer, to visit an old friend of mine who lives outside the city in a big wine-castle and who has children the same age. We’ve had this all planned out and now ... well we can't just change something that has already been planned, now can we? You see my problem, Mr. Berendsen?"

"It's just for a week. If she passes the test, she'll be fine. You'll still be able to go to France for several weeks."

I slam my clenched fist onto the table. Mr. Berendsen jumps. "Exactly how many weeks we have isn't the problem here, Mr. Berendsen. It's the fact that we have to CHANGE our plans, that you force us to rearrange everything just for you, just to make you happy. This is what is wrong with this world today. NO one respects anything or anyone any more, everything is just me, me and me. It's all about what I can get out of it and someone simply has to put a stopper for this behavior, don't you think Mr. Berendsen? I mean how are the young people to learn how to respect other people's plans if all they see is that we can just CHANGE it to fit everyone's need and do whatever they lust after whenever they lust for it. Not everything in life is like a marriage that you can just CHANGE and throw away like you want to, Mr. Berendsen. Some things have to be steady in life; some things just can't be CHANGED!"

I am standing up now, without even realizing it. Mr. Berendsen is staring at me. I close my eyes for a second while pressing my gloved hands against each other. When I open my eyes again, I'm smiling at him. "So you must understand that you need to let my daughter pass. Do we understand each other? I think we do."

"Mrs. Rasmussen. I simply can't let your daughter pass this class just because you've planned a trip to France this summer."

I walk closer to him. He holds the knife out in front of him. I can tell he's afraid of me. "You can't or you won't?" I ask.

He never answers. I'm thinking tenderloin for dinner tonight.

4

The baby keeps me awake almost all night and I attend to her, sit in the nursery and rock her in the rocking chair while singing softly to her. It helps her calm down, but she doesn't fall asleep. When the sun comes up I'm too tired to get up and I ask Christian to take care of the older kids, to make their lunches and drive them to school. He does so without arguing. I tell myself I should give him that blow-job soon, since I was too tired last night. The baby is finally sleeping, and I try to get some rest, but it's too bright outside for me to fall asleep. I stay in bed and listen while the house becomes quiet. After that I feel restless and take a shower.

I walk downstairs and pick up the paper. I read it while sipping my skinny-latte and gulping down a smoothie made from raspberries, rice milk, honey, ginger, flaxseed and lemon juice. Rebekka Franck has a story in the paper about a man who had acid thrown in his face in an accident at work and is now in the hospital. I find a grammatical error almost at the end of the article and call the newspaper to let them know. The lady answering tells me she can't see what it is, but tells me she will let whoever is responsible know. I hang up. I drink the rest of my smoothie and go to the bathroom. The baby is still sleeping. I should get some sleep too, but can't seem to rest. The house is dirty and needs to be cleaned. I can't seem to relax when the house is filthy. So I clean it. I wash the windows, mop the floors and polish the silverware I inherited from my grandmother when she died. I think I can still smell her sickness on it. I rub it again and again trying to get the smell off, but without success. I still feel restless when the house is cleaned. I think I need to get out of the house, so I grab the baby and put her in the carriage without waking her. I go for a stroll in the city and feel better. I walk through a park where I meet other mothers. They smile at me and I smile back. Children are playing at the playground, but I am afraid they're going to wake up my princess, so I keep walking. My mother calls me and asks me out for lunch. We meet at a café and have a salad. I don't eat the croutons or the bread that comes with it to not get too many carbs. The chicken tastes good but a little dry.

"Your dad and I went to the opera last night," she says. "They play Il Trittico these days. It's splendid. You and Christian should go soon. Get out a little you know.  It would do you good."

I nod while chewing. Discreetly she lets me know I have something on my lip. I wipe it off with my napkin.

"We had dinner at Restaurant Bojesen just before we went. It wasn't Noma, I tell you that," she laughs. "At least it was better than this," she continues. "I mean what have they done to this poor chicken?"

I don't answer. I focus on my food and glance at the baby carriage outside. Josephine is still sleeping. I'm thinking about dinner tonight. I'm torn between spaghetti Bolognese or an oven dish with my special sauce. I can't seem to decide.

"Have you done something with your hair?" my mother asks. "You really should. I have the best new hairdresser. He's in Copenhagen, but I don't mind the drive. He's the best. Did the crown-princess' hair before she married the prince. Oh, he's excellent. Can't you tell?"

I nod even if I didn't hear half of what she said. My eyes are fixated on a woman and a man sitting in the corner of the café. They're fighting over something. She is crying but tries to hide it so no one will see. They have a child with them. He's fussing, he doesn't like them arguing. He is no more than two, I guess. He wants out of his high chair, his mother helps him, still while arguing with the man. The boy is now on the floor. He takes off. Stumbles across the room and starts to bother people. They all smile. He stops at one table where two women are eating. He puts his fingers in their food throws it across the room. He hits someone in the neck. The parents don't notice. They're still fighting.  My mother goes on and on about their trip to Vietnam last month. I pretend to be listening, but can't get my eyes off the child who is now terrorizing another couple. The mother finally notices and rushes after him. She slaps him across the face and everyone in the café gasps. Then she takes him by the hand and drags him crying out of the café. I close my eyes and start counting. My mother's mouth is still moving when I open them again. I put down my fork on the plate. I get up. My mother stops talking.

"Where are you going?" she asks.

"I lost my appetite," I say.

I leave. I grab the baby carriage and run after the couple down the street. They're still fighting and the kid is crying. I walk right behind them. They don't notice me. Still fighting they walk into an alley pushing the child in a stroller in front of them. I follow them. Now they see me and stop and look at me.

"What do you want?" the man asks.

"Don't you know it's wrong to hit a child?" I ask. "It's actually illegal in this country."

The man steps forward with a menacing look. "What did you say?" he asks.

I stare into his eyes then repeat it. "It's wrong to hit a child."

He doesn't seem to understand and it annoys me. It troubles me that people that stupid are allowed to even have a child.

He looks at me like he wants to slap me. I can tell he has been hitting his girlfriend by the look of the bruises on her face.

"I give you three seconds to get the hell out of here, before I beat the crap out of you," he says.

I don't move.

5

Amalie is at home when I get back. Josephine is awake and I place her in the playpen after changing her.

"You're home early?" I ask when I get out into the kitchen where she is eating her sandwich leaving a mess I know I eventually have to clean up.

Amalie smiles for the first time in weeks. "Math was cancelled today."

"Really? How come?"

Amalie shrugs. "I don't know. I guess Mr. Berendsen was sick or something."

"But they didn't send a substitute? They usually do?"

"Yeah," she says while chewing with her mouth open. "It's weird. It was like no one knew he wasn't there. We waited in class for him for twenty minutes, when he still didn't come someone went to the front office to ask what was going on. They said they hadn't heard from him. He only had one class today. Maybe he forgot?"

I take an apple and wash it before I bite it. It's juicy but firm, just the way I like it. I chew while thinking. "It sure doesn't sound like him," I say.

Amalie shrugs. "Nah, what do I care. I'm just happy to be off early."

I smile. "If you're happy, then I am too," I say.

Amalie leaves and I clean up after her, thinking I should have told her to do it herself, but also know why I didn't. She was finally so happy and we had a nice time together. I didn't want to ruin that.

"Learn to pick your battles carefully," I mumble to myself, quoting an article in my magazine about disciplining teenagers. I wash her dish and put away the bread. Then I walk to the playpen and pick up Josephine. I play with her on the floor till my husband comes home with Jacob. I put Josephine back in the playpen while I attend to my son and his needs. I kiss him and ask him about his day while finding a healthy snack for him in the kitchen.

"Did you have fun today in pre-school?" I ask.

He nods and eats the apple-bites I cut out for him. My husband takes a cup of coffee and loosens his tie.

"How was your day?" I ask.

He shrugs, while drinking his coffee. "Okay, I guess. Like most days. Trying to land the Boyesen account, but it's harder than expected."

"Well it will be yours, I'm certain," I say and cut up more apples for my son.

"I'm not so sure anymore," my husband says.

"What? How come?"

"Well I've been gone a lot lately so I'm afraid Martin will give it to Gert instead."

"He wouldn't!"

Christian shrugs again, then sips his coffee while slurping.

"Don't do that," I say.

He looks at me.

"Don't slurp the coffee, please."

Christian sighs then takes his cup and walks into the living room. I hear the TV turned on. I close my eyes and count to ten again. I debate within myself if I should go in there and tell him that the rule is no TV in the afternoon, but I restrain myself, repeating the sentence from my article: "Pick your battles carefully."

Jacob looks at me and smiles. I smile back. My husband returns to the kitchen and takes another cup of coffee and takes a bag of licorice out of the cupboard. I count to ten again, then speak anyway.

"Don't eat candy right before dinner," I say. "You know those salty things are bad for your blood-pressure and it'll ruin your appetite."

My husband opens the bag with a grin anyway, eats a handful, chewing them with his mouth wide open, smacking his lips.

I calm myself down.

"What's that?" my husband asks and points at my shirt. I look down and see a big red spot on my new white silk shirt.

"Blood," I say and try to wipe it off with a paper towel.

My husband laughs showing the black half-eaten licorice in his mouth. "Good one," he says. "Looks more like fruit-juice."

I take it off and throw it in the washer.

6

I serve frikadeller, Danish meatballs for dinner. They all look like they enjoy it. I have no appetite. I push a potato around with my fork. The silence gets on my nerves. I can hear my husband chew. The clock on the wall ticks too damn loud.

"Did you watch the news today?" Amalie asks.

Her father shakes his head. "No, what's new?"

"Someone was killed here in Karrebaeksminde."

My husband swallows loudly, then picks up his glass of wine I told him not to have on a weeknight, then gulps it down. "Really?"

"Yes a couple. They were stabbed in an alley in town. They think it was drug-related. They guy apparently owed a lot of money to some bad guys or something. But listen to this. They had a two-year-old with them when it happened, and apparently whoever did this dropped the child off at a day-care not far from there."

"Then they must have seen who it was?" Christian asked and drank again.

"No, apparently they didn't. They said he was left in a stroller outside the door and then whoever brought him there rang the doorbell of the day-care and then ran off. Weird, huh?"

My husband nods slowly while chewing. "That is very strange."

"A killer with a conscience, that's nice," I say and smile.

"They say the kid was full of old bruises on his body once the doctors examined him."

I clench the fork in my hand till my knuckles turn white. Then I drop it on the plate. "Anyone in the mood for seconds?" I ask smiling.

I watch the news with my husband after all the children are in bed, but soon I get bored and go to bed too. I sleep for a few hours before Josephine wakes me up by crying. I go to her and sit with her for a couple of hours to calm her down. I feed her and rock her until she falls asleep in my arms. I stay with her all night, afraid to wake her up if I get up from the chair. I fall asleep with her in my arms. She wakes me up at dawn and I change her diaper before anyone else is up.

I change her clothes and bring her downstairs where I let her lie on a blanket while I prepare breakfast for the entire family and pack the kid's lunches. Jacob looks sad when he comes down.

"What's wrong buddy?" I ask while serving him his oatmeal.

"I don't want to go to pre-school today," he says.

"Why not? You know you have to go if you want to be a big boy and go to kindergarten next year like all the other kids."

"I just don't want to."

"What's wrong? Did something happen yesterday?"

Jacob is not eating. He just scoops the spoon around in the porridge.

"You can tell me Jacob. You can tell me anything."

"It's just Oliver. He is so mean."

"Oliver Bille?"

Jacob nods. I lean over and kiss his forehead. "What did he do, huh?"

"He hit me. On the playground. I didn't want to give him the car I was playing with, so he hit me. "

"And what did you do?"

"I gave him the car and ran. Later when I was on the swing he came and said he wanted that too, then he pulled me off it so I scraped my knee." Jacob pulls up his pants to show me.

"How come you didn't show me this yesterday?" I ask startled.

"I thought you might be mad."

I caress his cheek gently, then lean over and kiss him again. "Oliver is the one being a bully. Why should I be mad at you, huh?"

Jacob shrugs and smiles when I tickle his stomach.

"Now eat," I say and push the bowl of oatmeal closer. "I'll drop you off today."

I gulp down my morning smoothie made from organic kiwis, honey, beet, ginger, and banana that according to the recipe is guaranteed to keep me satisfied until lunch and to keep me heart-healthy with its richness in polyphenols and vitamin C. Then I change Josephine again and put her in the car next to Jacob.

In the pre-school the staff greets me with gentle smiles and tells me it's so nice to finally see me again. I sign in Jacob and while I do I spot the boy Oliver saying goodbye to his father. After saying goodbye to Jacob, I decide to approach him. I run after him into the street carrying Josephine by the handle of her infant car seat where she has fallen asleep. He hurries to his car, a huge Mercedes. He is nicely dressed in an Armani suit when I poke his shoulder. He turns and looks at me annoyed.

"What?" he asks. "I'm kind of in a hurry to get to a meeting."

I smile, then put my baby down on the ground carefully, making sure she doesn't wake up. "I understand and acknowledge that completely," I say finding my very nice tone of voice. "But I need to talk to you about your son."

The father sighs, annoyed. Then he puts his arms up in front of him. "As I told you, I have a very busy day and this is not the time for this."

I grab his arm and hold on to it tight. "I'm sure you're a very, very important man, with many very, very important things to do, maybe even so important you hardly have time to talk to your son or even discipline him. But your son is a bully, and I'm beginning to see where he has got it from. Tell me, Mr. Bille, why are you in such a hurry? Is it because you're late for some big business meeting where you're planning on stepping on some innocent people on your way to the top? Or are you just late for your mistress who is waiting for you in the apartment you rented for your little love affair to take place in secrecy?"

Mr. Bille blushes and pulls his arm out of my grip. "What is this?" he asks. "Some kind of extortion? Who are you? How dare you to talk to me like this? Do you even know who I am?"

"No. I have a feeling you would love to tell me, but that's besides the point here."

Mr. Bille stares into my eyes, then blinks a couple of times, looking confused. "What is it you want?" He asks.

"What I WANT is for YOU to stop your SON from bullying other children," I say and poke him in the chest while speaking.

"You're insane," he says, shaking his head.

I stomp my feet in the pavement. "See that's exactly what I am talking about. You people bully anyone you get in contact with and you get away with it. Uh, I HATE that."

"Listen to me, woman. I don't know who you are or how you know about my affair, but I tell you to leave it alone, leave me alone now, or I swear I'll call the police."

I close my eyes and count to ten. The kitchen knife in the pocket of my jacket feels sharp against my thigh.

Mr. Bille opens the door to his car while mumbling. "Crazy bitch, I don't know why I ..."

I open my eyes, then pull out the knife and stab him in the lower part of the stomach. The stab hits him midsentence. Startled he stares at me in fear. I'm still holding the handle of the knife in my hand. I pull it out, then lift it and stab Mr. Bille again, this time in the chest. Mr. Bille's eyes look up at me, and then roll back in his head. He tries to scream, but his mouth is full of blood. Besides no one would hear it in the noise from the construction-workers nearby who by the way see nothing. His hands are trying to grab the handle of the knife, but the stab wounds have sapped his strength. His body is shaking now and I step backwards while Mr. Bille's blood is running into the road. Some of it has sprayed onto my jacket, I notice, annoyed. Now I have to stop by the cleaners on my way home. Today of all days!

I stay and watch as Mr. Bille falls into the street with a deep groan. His face is pale and blood is running out from the corners of his mouth. He is still alive and tries to speak, probably even to scream, but nothing but a twisted groan springs out of his throat. His fight for survival is pathetic. Makes me want to stab him again, but I decide he's not worth the effort. Will probably just bleed to death within the next five-six minutes. I lean over and pull out the knife from his chest. A river of blood flushes out from the wound. I wipe the knife in his Armani jacket, then put it in my purse. I pick up Josephine and start to walk back to my car.

There was another grammatical error in Rebekka Franck's article in today's paper about yesterday's killings in an alley downtown. Tonight I'll serve spaghetti and meat sauce.

7

"The police came to the school today," Amalie says during dinner.

I hardly blink as I speak. "Really? What did they want?" I roll the spaghetti neatly onto my spoon before I put it in my mouth. I'm careful to not eat too much of this food that is so rich in carbs. Tonight I'll give Christian that blowjob, I think while chewing.

"They were looking for Mr. Berendsen," Amalie says. "He's been missing for two days now."

"Well that's because I killed him," I say, rolling yet another perfectly shaped roll of spaghetti onto my spoon.

My daughter rolls her eyes at me. "Ha ha. Very funny, Mom. No, seriously they are really worried that something happened to him. They say they found his finger in the house or something."

"His finger?" Christian asks.

"Yeah, apparently the dog was chewing on it. They didn't find the rest of him though. But rumors say that his blood was smeared all over the walls of the kitchen."

"So they think he was killed?" Christian asks.

I grab the bowl of salad and pull it closer. I pour a big pile onto my plate.

"I guess so," Amalie says. "It's kind of creepy."

"Oh, nonsense," I say. "People are killed every day on this planet. Makes more room for the rest of us, am I right?"

Amalie chuckles. "You're funny, Mom."

"He was a bastard anyway," I say and eat my salad. It crunches in my head, sounding like when I chopped through Mr. Berendsen's bones with the axe I found in his garage. "So how do you like the meat?"

"It's delicious," Christian says. "It has like an extra flavor, I can't really detect. What is it?"

"The secret's in the sauce," I say with a grin quoting one of my favorite movies Fried Green tomatoes.

"That's so gross, Mom," Amalie says knowing where the quote comes from since I have forced her to watch it with me a million times.

Then we both laugh. Christian feels left out since he has never seen the movie. Jacob is eating without listening to the conversation as usual, smearing meat sauce all over his face and into his hair. I smile and hand him a napkin thinking it looks like the blood on Mr. Berendsen's walls, blood and chunks of meat.

I go to bed early after watching the news about a man being stabbed to death in the middle of the street. My husband nods off after three minutes and I sneak upstairs after kissing him gently on the cheek.

As always Josephine keeps me up most of the night. I sit with her in the rocking chair, giving her my breast while watching the moon outside the window in the nursery. I'm tired but still feel energized. I fall asleep in the rocking chair with Josephine in my arms and don't wake up until Christian comes in. He kneels next to me, then kisses me on the cheek.

"Sleep in here again tonight?" he asks.

I nod, careful not to wake up Josephine. Christian's eyes are sad when he looks at me. He strokes my hair, then kisses me again.

"You'll be late for work," I say.

He nods without a word, then leaves to get himself ready. I put Josephine in her crib, then turn on the baby-alarm before I wake up Amalie. Jacob is already up and playing with his cars in his room. I find his clothes and help him get dressed. I drink a simple organic orange, apple, kiwi-smoothie, then help everyone get out the door. As the house goes quiet I pick up the paper and read Rebekka Franck's latest article about the man getting killed in the parking lot downtown yesterday. No witnesses have so far come forward which worries the police since the murder was committed in broad daylight and someone must have at least seen something. I find a typo in the second paragraph and call them up to let them know. The lady tells me she'll let them know, as usual. I hang up, get myself ready to go and apply for a passport for Josephine for our trip to France this summer.

Tonight I'll be making my famous oven-dish.

8

I pick a number at the Citizen's Department and sit down. Josephine is sleeping in the carriage that I place in the corner. I'm number five hundred thirty-eight. The next in line is number eighteen. The place is packed with people. Kids are playing, some are running around, others are crying. It's only nine in the morning but people look tired already. Their long faces stare at the screen hanging from the ceiling where the numbers are displayed. Now serving number nineteen someone says over the loudspeaker. I'm rocking the carriage to make sure Josephine won't wake up from all the noise. I prepare myself to sit here a long time and hope Josephine will sleep through it all. I find a magazine and flip through it. I read about the crown-prince and the princess and their four kids. They have been to some gala last week and both look wonderful, he in his uniform and she in her amazing dress. Well, it's easy to look great when you have that many people working for you making sure you do and taking care of your kids, I think to myself and put down the magazine. I find one of my favorite magazines called Mama and even if it's an issue I've already read I still find an article I can't remember having read before. Are children allowed to cry themselves to sleep? is the title of the article. It's the story of a family and how they all sleep together to make the children feel more comfortable at night. I scoff while reading it, since I think it's just an excuse for not wanting to discipline children properly. Are they supposed to sleep together when they're a teenager still? I wonder. Irritated with people's idiotic ideas I throw the magazine down on the table. I glance at the big screen, still only at number twenty-four. I check on Josephine, she's still sleeping. I pull off the cover to the carriage to make sure she's not too hot. She looks so peaceful while she's sleeping.

An hour and a half later it's finally my turn. My number is shown at the screen and someone calls for five hundred thirty-eight to please go to desk five. I grab the carriage and push it towards the window. I park it next to me and sit down. A woman is sitting on the other side of the glass. She looks like she hates me, but I'm thinking she probably just hates her job.

"Yes?" she asks.

"I'm here to apply for a passport for my baby," I say.

"Do you have the papers?" she asks.

I hand them to her through the opening in the glass. "I think it should be all there. We're going to France this summer, that's why I need a passport for her."

"Hmmm," the lady answers while going through the papers. She puts on her glasses, taps on her computer then looks at the screen. She turns and looks at me above her glasses. "Where is the baby now?" she asks.

"She's sleeping."

"I can't make a passport for a sleeping child," she says.

"I beg your pardon?"

The woman sighs. A sign in her window tells me her name is Susse Egholm. "I can't make a passport to a child I haven't seen. I need to see her face to make sure she is the child on the picture that was taken."

"But she's sleeping. Listen she's only three months old, I promise you it's her in the picture."

"I'm sorry," she says without any feeling to the words. "I can't finish your application before I have seen the child."

"What if you came out here and look at her face?"

"I need to see her eyes to be sure it's really her," she says. "Those are the rules."

I close my eyes and count to ten to calm myself down. "Listen ... Susse ... you seem like a nice person, can't you just make an exception. My baby has been awake all night and she really needs her sleep."

Susse Egholm shrugs. "I'm sorry ... rules are rules."

I clench my fist where she can't see it. I calm myself down again. I try once again to reason with her. "Do you have children?"

Susse Egholm shakes her head. "I don't see what that has to do with it," she says. "But no. I haven't had the honor. I hear it's a real hoot."

"So you don't know what it is like to stay up night after night with your baby trying desperately to get her to sleep, you don't know what it is like to finally be able to have her fall asleep while you're so exhausted you can barely stand up straight."

Susse shakes her head. "Listen, lady. If you don't want to wake the baby up, you can come back later and show her to me once she's awake. But you'll have to get back in the line."

"And wait another hour and a half?"

"Probably, yes."

I close my eyes and clench my fist till my nails hurt the palm of my hand.

"Or you could wake up the baby right now and get it over with."

I give Susse Egholm the finger, then run out of the center pushing Josephine in the carriage in front of me.

9

I use the back entrance. It's afternoon when I walk into the Department and find Susse Egholm sitting behind a desk in her office. She's eating a piece of chocolate cake with her fingers while typing on the computer.

I walk in and park Josephine by the door, then I close it and make sure it is locked behind me. Josephine has fallen asleep again after being awake during my lunch. Susse Egholm lifts her head and looks at me as I approach her desk.

"You're not allowed to be in here," she says.

"And yet here I am," I say.

"Besides I'm not handling customers from here. I'm on my way home. Is the baby awake yet?" she asks.

"She was earlier, but the center was closed for lunch-break from noon till two and lucky me, it didn't open till she had fallen asleep again."

Susse Egholm swallows another bite of her chocolate cake. She wipes her fingers in her napkin. Crumbs fall onto the carpet. She has a small piece stuck between two of her teeth as she speaks. "Listen, lady. You have to get back and pick a number if you want to have this done, and this time wake the baby up, for crying out loud. Only for a few seconds and then she can go right back to sleep again."

"You don't know much about babies, do you?" I ask. "Then you'd know that they don't go back to sleep again once you wake them up like that. It's written in all the magazines, you DON'T WAKE UP A BABY!"

Startled Susse Egholm pulls her chair backwards and drops half of the cake onto the floor. "Get out," she says. "Get out of here before I call for security."

Her hand is on the phone. I pick up the stapler and staple one into her hand. "What are you doing, crazy bitch?" she yells.

I turn the stapler and give her a series of blows to the head with the heavy side of it. She tries to scream, but I pick up my Mace from my purse and spray it into her mouth to shut her up. I spray some in her eyes and nostrils as well. She is still making too much noise, though, so I find her jacket and place it over her head to drown out the gurgling screams. I keep shooting staples into her hands and face until it's empty. Then I pick up the keyboard and start hammering it over her head till she lies still. I remove the jacket and find a razor sharp paperknife. I stick it up her nose and cut her nostrils open. She wakes up momentarily, screaming, but I stuff her mouth with post-its and tape and yank it into her throat using a pencil. She tries to throw up, but I hold her head backwards till she chokes in her own vomit. Her body shakes for a little while, then gives in.

I decide to forget about my diet for a few minutes and eat the rest of her chocolate cake on my way out.

When driving home I pass several police cars driving in the opposite direction. I wonder if Christian has landed that Boyesen account yet as I swing the car into the driveway and park it in the garage. Josephine is awake the rest of the afternoon and I play with her while my dish simmers in the oven.

Christian comes home looking tired but Jacob tells me he had a wonderful day. Amalie is happier than ever, since she has a new math-teacher now, she tells me, and she is nice and will let her pass the class if she aces the next test which I make her promise that she will.

"I'll go study for it right away," she says and runs to her room.

I put Josephine in the playpen, while I allow Jacob to watch a cartoon for once and go into the kitchen to talk to my husband. He's upset and has taken a beer from the refrigerator. He is going through the drawers.

"That bad, huh?" I ask.

"Hmm," he answers.

I walk past him, pull out another drawer and find a package of cigarettes that I hand him. He smiles and takes them. I follow him to the terrace where he lights it up. He hands it to me. I shrug.

"Why not?" I ask and take it. "We all have to die somehow, right?" The taste reminds me of being in my twenties and meeting Christian at a party at a friend's house. Back when everybody smoked. I laugh at the memory. Christian smiles. Then he grows serious.

"I'm losing the account," he says.

I blow out smoke, then give the cigarette back to him. "To Gert?"

Christian nods. "Martin told me today that he was sorry, but Gert has been doing a great job lately and I have hardly been there."

"That's bullshit and he knows it," I say. "You work as hard as anyone."

Christian shrugs and looks down. "It has been a little hard lately. To focus, I mean. Plus I have been away too much. I've had to leave early and come in late some days, in order to help you out."

"Yeah, but still ..."

"It's all that it takes," he says. "Even if they know our situation, with the baby and all ... well they can't take any special consideration, not when it comes to something this important. That's just the way it is."

I close my eyes and try to sing a calming song inside of my head. The only one I can come to think of is Rock-a-bye baby, I try it anyway, and it doesn't help. I'm still furious.

"I'm going to kill Gert," I say. "Him and his stupid I don't look old because I have Botox three times a month -wife."

Christian laughs while blowing smoke out of his mouth. "I guess I feel the same way every once in a while."

10

I'm already awake when Josephine cries at two o'clock in the morning. I haven't closed an eye all night. I can't stop thinking about that awful couple Gert and his even worse wife Marianne.

When I hear Josephine I go to her and feed her while staring at the dirt in the corner of the room. A small ball of hair and dirt that I hadn't noticed earlier when I cleaned the house. I can see it even though I have only lit a small lamp in the corner of the room. In the dirt I keep seeing Marianne's Botoxed face. She's grinning at me. As soon as Josephine is done eating I make my decision. I change her diaper, then bring her with me in the carriage where she falls asleep while I walk in the dark night pushing her in front of me, gently rocking her till she makes no noise anymore.

I wake them up by throwing apples in their faces. I brought the bag from home. They’re organic, naturally. Gert wakes up when the first red apple hits his forehead.

"What the hell?" he says and tries to cover his face when another apple hits his cheek.

Then his wife Marianne opens her eyes as well. I throw an apple at her and hit her on the mouth. It hurts, I can tell by her reaction. Gert reaches for the night lamp and lights it. They see me between apples flying. I'm smiling while throwing.

"Lisa?" Marianne says. I can tell by the tone of her voice that she is surprised, confused even.

"What the hell are you doing?" Gert yells and sits up in the bed while still covering his head with his arm.

"Throwing apples," I say while another hits him in the forehead and knocks him backwards. I have always had a good arm. Used to play handball and could throw the hardest on the team. I'm wondering if any of my kids can throw as well as I used to, then wonder if they could make it farther than I ever did. Maybe go on the national team?

"Stop throwing apples at us!" Marianne yells.

One hits her face and breaks. Juice runs across her cheek while pieces of apple splatter in her face.

"Ouch! Goddammit Lisa! That really hurt."

I laugh a madman's laughter. I can't help it. Gert is out of bed now and storms towards me. I smile and tilt my head as he tries to grab my arms. I pull out my knife and stab him in the stomach. His eyes grow wide in surprise as he tries to touch the handle of the knife. Marianne starts screaming. I throw another apple in her face, but she keeps screaming and tries to get out of the bed. While Gert is bending forward and moaning I walk to Marianne with an apple in my hand. She screams and tries to get away from me. I grab her hair and pull her towards me. Then I stuff the apple into her mouth to shut her up. Her jaw sounds like it breaks as I push it in. She tries to scream but only a muffled sound comes out of her, then she tries to close her mouth, but can't, she even tries to chew and destroy the apple, but it's impossible. It's too big and I'm holding her hands so she can't pull it out either. I can tell she's struggling to breathe through her nose, so I hold it a few seconds just for fun. Then I tie up her hands with some of my husband's duct tape that he uses to fix anything even if I think it looks terrible. I tie up her legs as well. I hope Josephine is still sleeping in the baby carriage that I placed in the living room when I walked in the kitchen door to the house that they carelessly had left unlocked. I hope the noise hasn't woken her up. It's three a.m. and I'm thinking of making homemade sausages for dinner tonight. As I pull Marianne by the hair out of the bedroom and down the stairs making her body bump all of the steps on her way down, I'm thinking that I'll give Jacob some of my homemade spelt rolls in his lunch box today. Gotta make sure he eats healthy and gets healthy habits from a young age, I repeat from an article I read earlier in the day. Or was it yesterday? I don't know anymore.

Marianne is crying when I place her on the kitchen floor. I don't have time to feel bad for her. I find a stack of old newspapers that I spread out across the floor to cover the nice, clean tiles. Then I go upstairs and find Gert lying on the floor. He is still moaning. He has tried to move towards the phone by the bed but not gotten very far. I shake my head, then take the lamp and slam it into the back of his head knocking him unconscious. I make a trail of blood across the nice beige carpet as I drag him towards the stairs and lift him with much difficulty over the railing and let him fall downstairs, hitting a table and knocking down the family pictures that were neatly placed on top of it. Blood is smeared all over the pictures of their grown daughter standing with her high school diploma. I don't have time to clean it up. I pull Gert's hand and drag him into the kitchen and place him on the newspapers. Marianne lets out a whimper when she sees him. She is trying to kick and scream, but as soon as I start the chainsaw, I can't hear her anymore.

11

I'm still working the meat grinder when Christian comes into the kitchen the next morning. He looks tired, I think.

"There is coffee in the pot," I say.

He looks around in the kitchen. Ground meat is lying in huge stacks. "Have you been up all night cooking or something?" he asks.

I smile and nod. "Thought I'd make homemade sausages for tonight."

"For an entire army?" he asks.

"Well I was gonna freeze some for another day."

Christian shakes his head and rubs his hair. "I don't think we have enough room in the freezer for all this." He watches as the red meat comes out of the small holes in the end of the grinder and falls into a big dish I have placed underneath.

"Well I bought a new freezer yesterday," I say and put more meat in the top, then work the handle. "Or was it last week? I don't remember anymore. I had them place it in the basement."

"Where did you get all this meat from?" he asks and looks at the big black bag next to me.

"Oh, that. That’s just someone I killed last night."

Christian yawns and then chuckles. He walks over to the pot and pours himself a cup. Then he shakes his head slowly. "No seriously, did you get it from the butcher again, cause it looks like there is a lot of meat there, and it must have been expensive. We won’t have much money now that I've lost the account."

I smile and tilt my head. I have a tic in my left eye that won't seem to go away. I ignore it. "I promise it wasn't expensive."

Christian walks to the counter and looks at the ground meat. "Looks good though," he says and sips his coffee. "Can't wait."

"I know you love those sausages I make."

Christian drinks from his coffee again. "Will you make them Italian Hot sausages the way I like them best?"

"I'll make sure some of them are hot just for you."

Christian leans over and kisses my cheek. I place a piece of meat in the grinder and turn the handle.

"I better get dressed and get ready for work," Christian sighs. "Today Martin is gonna choose who gets the Boyesen account. I’ve dreaded this for days, but there’s no way to avoid it. Guess I just have to take it like a man, right?"

"I'm certain you’ll enjoy your day."

Christian smiles at me. "It's good to have you back. Seems like you've been more yourself lately."

"I didn't know I’ve been gone," I say.

"You know what I mean," he says and kisses me again. "I'm glad you keep yourself busy, just make sure you get some sleep today, promise me that?"

"I'll try."

Later in the day I go to the butcher and buy all of his hog casings to stuff with the meat. I tell him I'll be back tomorrow for more since I have many sausages to do. At home I stuff as many as I have with help from my sausage stuffer that I got for Christmas. Then I make some of them by using blanched savoy cabbage leaves as a wrapper. I put those aside for myself thinking they're healthier and that I will never get my husband to eat them, or the children for that matter. The rest of the meat I put in the new freezer along with the hundreds of sausages I've made. I have to rearrange a little to make room for all the meat, so I take out Mr. Berendsen's head and let him sit on the table next to me while I make room for the rest. Mr. Berendsen looks at me slightly disappointed, I think when I put him back in with the rest of his body, or what is left of it.

Amalie is happy when she comes home later in the day and we drink herbal tea together in the kitchen while she tells me about her day. I enjoy being with her and love seeing her this happy again.

"It's still a mystery what happened to Mr. Berendsen," she says. "Not that I mind, but the police came again today to ask questions. It kind of scared me."

"They're just doing their job," I answer while the tic in my right eye grows worse. Wait wasn't it in the left eye earlier? I shake my head and drink my tea. I wonder if I have eaten at all today. I can't seem to remember. Have I even read the paper? I can't recall reading Rebekka Franck's latest article. Maybe I already did. Yes, that's it. I already read it. There was a misspelling in the fourth paragraph. Or was it in the third? I don't know. Maybe it doesn't matter. Amalie is still talking. I try and listen in, but so much information is running through my head. Amalie tells me she loves her new math teacher and that she doesn't mind if Mr. Berendsen is gone, but at the same time, she feels bad if anything bad happened to him. I nod and smile, while thinking that I have nothing to serve along with the sausages. You can't just eat sausages alone. I need to go buy potatoes or maybe pasta? Too many carbs. I'll make a salad, I decide.

"Am I a bad person for thinking this way?" my daughter asks. "In my defense, Mr. Berendsen was really mean to many of the students. I don't think you'll see anyone being sad that he's gone."

"We all have to die at some point, honey," I say and pat the top of her hand. "Some people just deserve to die earlier."

Amalie looks at me strangely. "What do you mean, Mom? You think he was killed?"

"Well there was blood in his house, right?"

"Yeah, but they haven't found his body or anything. Just his finger." Amalie shivers slightly by saying it. I feel nothing. I'm thinking about Josephine. I don't seem to recall where I put her. Is she sleeping? Yes that has to be it, I think. I get up from the chair and walk to the living room. The playpen is empty. So she must be in her bed, I think and walk upstairs. My daughter follows me to the stairs.

"Are you alright, Mom?" she asks.

"I'm fine honey," I say without looking at her.

I walk into the nursery but find the bed empty. A panic starts to spread. Has something happened to her? Did I forget her somewhere? At the butcher's? At the grocery store? I feel the room spinning around me and I can't seem to make my mind stand still. If only I could remember, if only I could get a picture of where I had her last. I run down the stairs feeling panic rising. Amalie looks at me with concern.

"Do you want me to call Dad?" she asks.

"No, no. You mustn't do that," I say. I grab her shoulders and shake her heavily. "Promise me you won't call your dad!"

"Okay. Okay," she says.

I let go of her and storm out the door. The baby carriage is gone! It is not in my front yard where I always put it. Someone has taken my baby carriage and my baby! In the street I spot my neighbor. A woman in her thirties who hasn't been able to have a child. Suddenly it strikes me. She has taken mine! I always had a feeling about her, I think as I run towards her. She is walking towards my house and she is ... yes she is pushing my baby carriage in front of her! I run towards her feeling the anger rise. She is smiling and waving.

"Hi there, neighbor," she yells and waves.

I approach her while my hands are shaking heavily. I imagine killing her with my bare hands, strangling her while looking into her eyes and letting her know that nobody, nobody takes my baby.

"I found this in my front yard," she says and points at the blue carriage. "Is it yours?"

I reach out and push her away from the carriage. Then I slam my fist into her face forcing her to stumble backwards with a shriek.

I grab the carriage by the handle and start to push it towards my house. Josephine is awake and now she is looking at me. I smile at her while promising her that no one is ever going to take her from me again. As I pick her up and walk inside I'm thinking I'll make potato salad as a side dish.

12

I have barely put Josephine down in the playpen before my husband storms through the front door. I look at him startled.

"What are you doing home this early?" I ask.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

I shake my head. "Am I okay? What do you mean by that?"

"Amalie called and told me you were freaking out."

"She did what? I told her not to call you. Well I'm fine. As you can see everything is just fine. I've just been stressed out a little lately. You know not enough sleep and all."

Christian nods and smiles. "I'm relieved that everything is well," he says. "I actually have great news ..."

"Really?" I ask. Josephine is fussing and I rub her belly gently.

"Yes. I got the account!"

I smile from ear to ear. "You got it?"

He nods and I jump up and hug him. "I'm so happy for you my love."

"I can hardly believe it myself," he says and sets down his briefcase. "When the meeting started today Gert never showed up. Can you believe that? Martin was so angry he immediately signed the account over to me."

"That is wonderful news," I say and kiss Christian on the lips.

We should celebrate," Christian says.

"Let's have some sausages!" I exclaim.

Christian shakes his head. "No. I mean let’s go out. Just the two of us. We'll get a nanny."

I look at Josephine in the playpen, then shake my head. "I don't ..." Then I pause. I can hardly explain to my husband how I almost lost her today and how I am determined to never let her out of my sight again. Trusting my baby with a stranger isn't something I feel ready for just yet.

"Come on," he says. "Let's go out for once. It's been far too long."

I look into his eyes. I wonder if I should give him the blowjob now and maybe that'll make him forget about going out? I'm not sure it's enough.

"Where will you get a nanny with this short notice?" I ask.

"One of the new guys at the office, Karl, gave me the number of his nanny, when I told him I was planning on taking you out to celebrate tonight. I can call her right now and see if she's available."

"I don't know, Christian. I'm worried about this. She doesn't even know the kids."

Christian picks up the phone and dials a number. "We're doing this," he says. "We need to live a little."

I look down at Josephine while Christian walks into the kitchen with the phone. I hear him talk to someone. Josephine is cooing happily. My belly rub helped her. I'm sweating anxiously. How am I supposed to leave her home all alone?

My husband returns looking happy. I feel a panic rise inside of me.

"Done," he says with a huge grin. "She'll be here at five thirty and you can introduce her to the kids and show her around before we leave. Okay?"

I force a smile while feeling the desperation plant small chills on my back. What do we even know about this girl? I think. She could be a mass-murderer, she could be a psychopath, part of a pedophile ring that steals small children and sends them to Eastern Europe to raise them on those farms, I saw on TV, where they use them for all kinds of atrocities. Maybe she herself is a pedophile, maybe she'll hurt my little daughter somehow, and exploiting the fact that she cannot tell on her afterwards?

While my husband whistles and goes into the kitchen to grab himself a beer from the refrigerator I take Josephine into my arms and kiss her cheeks till she starts fussing again. I bring her with me into the kitchen clinging on to her tight.

"What about all the sausages then?" I ask.

13

The nanny turns out to be a sixteen-year-old girl and at first sight she doesn't seem like she could hurt a fly, let alone a child. She tells me she is a student at the local high school, and her parents are out of town this week so it's okay if it gets late even if it is a school night. Then she gives me a list of references to people she has been a nanny for the last couple of years. She knows CPR and is a trained lifeguard in case any of the children should come near water which I tell her they never will and that I will make sure to kill her if they do. She laughs thinking I'm joking and I finally agree to leave the lives of my loved ones in her hands. Josephine is asleep when we leave and I hope she will stay like that until we come back. Just to make sure that the nanny, Lucille is prepared I show her where the changing table is and leave a bottle of pumped out breast milk in the refrigerator. She seems a little confused at first and I am almost having second thoughts, but my husband calls for me from downstairs and I decide to give him the evening he so dreams off. Maybe I will even give him that blow-job when we come home, I think as I say goodbye to Lucille and let my husband drag me out of the house to the taxi waiting on the street outside. As the door closes behind me I feel a shiver of anxiety and I'm almost about to turn around but Christian's grip on my hand is tight and determined and a few seconds later I find myself in the backseat of the taxi looking back at the house where I have left my babies in the hands of a high school mass-murderer.

The dinner is good even though I hardly touch it. I'm thinking about Lucille alone with the children and regret that I forgot to tell her about the sausages in the refrigerator that she could give the kids for dinner.

"You're hardly eating," Christian says and empties his third glass of wine. "You haven't been eating much lately at all," he says.

"I forgot to tell them about the sausages," I say.

"Well forget about the sausages. We'll eat them tomorrow. And the day after that. Lord knows there’s enough for a long time, right?"

"But I was really looking forward to having sausages tonight," I say. "I spent all night preparing them, chopping the meat off the bones."

Christian smiles and grabs my hand. "It's good to be alone like this," he says. "It's been way too long since we have been just the two of us. I've really missed it. I've missed you."

I look up from my plate and look into his eyes. He's smiling, dazed by the wine. "I really love you Lisa," he says.

His eyes are warm, gentle and the light from the candle is reflected in them. I can't stop thinking what his eyeballs would look like if I poked my fork into them. I smile back. He takes my hand and kisses the top of it. I imagine chopping his off by the wrist.

"Maybe you want a blow-job later?" I ask and finally eat some of my scallops. They're way too salty for my taste. "When we get home?"

Christian almost chokes on his wine. He spits some of it out on the white tablecloth. It looks like blood sprayed on a white wall. Christian grins and holds a hand to his mouth. "You're really something," he says.

"I think the sausages needed more nutmeg," I say.

Christian shakes his head and laughs, then the waiter pours him another glass of wine. We toast and drink some more. The wine seems to calm down my mind, but it leaves me confused and strangely out of control. I feel like the room is spinning and hold onto the table to not fall down.

"Are you alright?" Christian asks.

"I'm perfect," I say and let go of the table. I'm getting used to the spinning now and quite enjoying it. It's fun; I think and try to catch things as they fly around me at great speed. Christian is smiling and toasting again. The wine is warm and makes me fuzzy, my sight gets blurry and soon everything goes black.

I wake up feeling thirsty. I walk down the stairs and get a glass out of the cupboard. I pour water into it and drink while watching the full moon outside my kitchen window. I wonder how we got home. I don't seem to remember anything. My head begins to hurt. I open my eyes widely.

"Josephine," I say out loud and throw the glass in the sink and run upstairs. I storm into the nursery. I breathe a sigh of relief. Josephine is still sleeping. I look at her in the darkness and smile, then look at the Winnie The Pooh clock on the wall. It's almost two o'clock. About the time she normally wakes up. There is no need to go to bed again, I tell myself and sit in the rocking chair and wait for her to wake up. Again I wonder about the dinner and how we got home. Did we take a taxi? I simply don't remember. I shake my head feeling like a young girl again after a night in town with the girls, not remembering what I have done the next day. Then I remember something. I think I did give Christian that blow-job last night. I clearly remember having it in my mouth. Or maybe it was a sausage. I have no way of knowing.

Josephine makes a sound and I go to look at her. She is tossing and turning in her sleep. That's when I realize something is wrong. Something is very wrong. My baby is lying on her stomach! And she has a blanket over her body. Terrified by this I pick her up, while my heart is beating fast. I hold her close to me, then breathe relieved once again. I listen to her breaths for a long time, relieved that I noticed this fatal mistake that the nanny had made in time. I can hardly think the thought to an end. The nanny almost killed my baby!

14

I can't stop thinking about it. I feed Josephine for at least an hour. I can tell she missed me by the way she clings to my breast and won't let go even if I can tell she is full. Every time I try and pull her away because she's asleep, she wakes up and starts fussing. I let her stay close to me for another half an hour, then put her in the baby carriage and go for a walk in the hope that it will make her fall back to sleep.

I find myself outside a house. I have a note that I'm clenching in my fist. It's the nanny's address that she gave to me before I left her alone with my children earlier in the evening. I'm sweating even if it is a cold night. Josephine is finally asleep again in the carriage. I'm wearing nothing but a light nightgown. The wind goes right through it, but I'm still not cold.

The house is dark and the wind is pulling on the big birch in the front yard. Its thin crooked branches are swaying lightly making it look like arms reaching out to grab me.

I kick down the back door to the house, not caring what kind of noise I'm making. Then I storm inside pushing the carriage in front of me.

I find the girl in one of the rooms in the back of the house. I realize I don't know if she's an only child or if there could be someone else in the house. I decide I don't care and push the carriage through the door to her room. She wakes up immediately and starts to scream. I slam my baby's toxin-free organic glass bottle into her face. She screams in pain. I move quickly while she is still startled by the sudden attack. I take a couple of diapers out of the bag and stuff them into her throat to drown out the noise. Finally only muffled sounds are coming from her. She's fighting me but I'm too strong, plus she is skinny and I am able to hold her down with the extra weight I gained during my last pregnancy. I tape her arms together with duct tape and her legs as well. She's still fighting, so I hit her with the bottle again, while thinking how amazingly sustainable it is. Her eyes roll back in her head and she is fighting to stay conscious. I hit her again. This time it leaves a big, bloody wound. I get some on my nightgown and sigh annoyed.

"Now I have to wash this," I mumble.

Then I swing the bottle again and knock her out. I glance over at Josephine in the carriage. Luckily she didn't wake from all the noise and turmoil. I look at the nanny and shake my head heavily. She is coming back now slowly. I watch her as she opens her eyes and tries to figure out if it was all a dream. Then she realizes it isn't and stares at me with wide-open eyes. I smile and wave at her. New muffled sounds comes from behind the diapers. I have put duct tape across her mouth to force them to stay in. She's choking on them, I can tell. Gagging and trying hard not to throw up. I look at her in contempt.

"To think I let you alone with my children. So irresponsible," I say. I get agitated just by thinking about what she has done. I am sweating a lot now and try to wipe the drops of sweat off my upper lip with my hand, but it's not enough. I use a blouse I find on the floor. "Messy too, huh?" I say to the girl who has stopped trying to scream and is now staring at me in distrust. "Hasn’t your mother taught you anything?"

I wipe off my face in the blouse. The white in it turns red and I realize I have her blood all over my face. I wipe my entire face with it, then fold it neatly together and put it into my bag. I'm not so stupid I'm going to leave evidence like that around after me. I look at the girl. Her eyes are fearful. I tilt my head and smile.

"You know I have to hurt you now, don't you?"

She utters a muffled sound that I think is a gasp, then nods her head slowly. Her eyes are filled with tears. I don't feel pity for her. After all she almost killed my child. Now she has to pay.

"I mean I can't let a thing like that go unpunished. You almost killed my BABY," I say and point at the carriage.

She looks like she doesn't understand. I sigh and try to explain.

"Don't you know how to put down a baby?" I ask.

She stares at me like she doesn't know what to do. Then she nods.

"Well then you should know, that babies MUST NOT SLEEP ON THEIR STOMACHS!"

As I yell the words I take out the kitchen knife and stab it into her leg. It makes a crunching sound. She moans something. Then I pull it out again. She is crying hard now.

"Don't you know anything?" I say. "If you put them down on their stomach they will SUFFOCATE." I sigh again, then stab her in the other leg. She groans in pain.

"I mean it's in all the books, for crying out loud. You can read about it in every magazine there is about babies. SIDS is the most common killer of little babies and they are almost always found lying on their stomachs when they are dead, suffocated. And on top of it, you put her blanket in with her?" I pull out the knife and stab her again, in the thigh this time.

"A blanket she can get over her head and it can block her breathing! She is so small she can't remove it herself. Don't you KNOW that?" I raise the knife again and stab her in the stomach. "No, blankets," I say when I pull it out and stab her in the chest. "And always ... Always put the baby on its back!"

On the last word I stab her once again in the chest and warm blood spurts out on my face and all over my nightgown. I keep stabbing her till she hardly moves anymore. Then I try to flay her, to cut off her skin while she is still - barely - alive. But it's more difficult than it sounds and I have to give it up half way. The room is a mess when the girl finally takes her final breath. Blood is on all the walls, pieces of her skin is spread on the bed. I don't know what to do with it all and certainly have no more room in my freezer, nor any desire to make more sausages.

I decide to burn the house down. I leave the gas-stove open, then light a match and throw it in through the door. The pressure wave from the blast pushes me and the baby-carriage in the back as we walk down the street. I never turn to look back at the explosive fire.

15

Rebekka Franck has an article in the paper about last night’s explosion in the nice neighborhood just north of us. I shake my head while drinking a cherry, cabbage and cinnamon smoothie. There is a grammatical error in the last paragraph. I tell Christian and show him, he says he can't see it. I think he just doesn't care. I tell the kids to eat their breakfast. Christian is whistling happily. I am thinking I must have given him that blow-job after all. I smile and look at my family. Amalie is happy and for once on time for school. Jacob tells me he can't wait to get to pre-school and Christian is excited about starting a new day at the office and begin taking care of the Boyesen account.

"Maybe we should go to The Maldives this fall," he says. "With the extra money I'm making now there should be a little extra for more vacation."

"That sounds wonderful, darling," I say and kiss him when he leans over to say goodbye.

Everything is perfect, I think as I watch my family take off with smiling faces. Everything but ... I think as the house goes quiet. My eyes keep focusing on the article on the table.

"Everything but this," I say out loud and tap my finger on the error in the article. It is bothering me that she keeps making these mistakes and even more that no one else at the paper seems to care enough to correct her or at least catch the mistakes before the article is printed. The more I think about it, the worse I feel inside. I try to calm myself down, then I pick up the phone and call the paper. I let them know that there is another mistake today and that I think they should do something about all those errors soon. "It's a disgrace to the reader," I say in contempt. I hang up without saying goodbye. Josephine is awake and I go to her in the playpen. I lean over and receive one of her smiles. I tickle her stomach gently.

"We're not going to let people just disrespect us, will we? No we're not. No, we are not," I say and tap her stomach with my fingers causing her to smile again.

"People should know when they make a mistake. It should be corrected," I continue. "Where will it leave us if no body corrected anybody anymore? Everybody would just be imperfect and full of mistakes, yes they would. Yes they would. And we can't have that, now can we? No we can't."

Josephine makes a frowning face and I laugh. "Seems like we agree on the matter," I say.

I leave Josephine to play with her owl made from organic cotton and non-toxic materials. I walk into the kitchen and empty my smoothie while obsessing about the article. It is still lying on the table in front of me and I feel like it's looking back at me, almost mocking me. I try to leave it alone and focus on cleaning up after breakfast. I wonder what to prepare for dinner. I decide on making a Swedish dish with sausages, paprika and potatoes. I wash the dishes but feel like the article is calling me from the table. I breathe heavily and try to stay calm. The sentence carrying the error is in my head, it's repeated over and over again. I wipe the plates clean and put them back in the cupboard. Then I pull everything out of the cupboard again and wipe the shelves clean before I put all the plates back again and place them straight in a line. I turn all the cups next to them to face the same way. Then I move on to the next cupboard where I pull out all of the cans and boxes. I put them back, sorting them alphabetically and making all the labels face outwards. I close the cupboard, then move on to the counter. I wipe it down with a disinfecting cloth and arrange everything so it looks neat. I'm sweating again and can't seem to stop. I find a towel and wipe it off, but more keep coming. I smell bad, I realize. So I walk upstairs and take a shower to wash it off. I scrub my body with a sponge, till stripes of blood run down my leg. Then I stop. I walk downstairs after drying my hair. My skin is hurting from all the scrubbing and the black pants I'm wearing rub against the abrasions. I make myself a decaf skinny latte and stare at the pile of newspaper clippings in the corner. There is a whole stack that I have placed on the counter as neatly as possible with a rubber band holding them together. All are articles that Rebekka Franck has written; all have errors in them that I have underlined.

Josephine is cooing satisfied from her playpen and I grab the phone and dial the newspaper again. This time I don't talk to the receptionist, this time I ask to talk to Rebekka Franck personally.

16

I invite her to come to my house for lunch. I tell her I have homemade sausages. She tells me it has been way too long and that she would love to swing by, but she is not going to be able to come until one thirty, is that okay?

"I have to finish this article I'm writing for tomorrow's paper," she says. "About the big house-fire yesterday. Maybe you've heard about it. A sixteen-year-old girl was killed. Real tragic. They think she was sleeping inside of the house when it happened. She was burnt beyond recognition. The parents told the police she was there and they found only a few body parts that they used to ID her by using DNA. That's what the article is about tomorrow." Rebekka paused. "I'm sorry if I'm grossing you out by telling too many details. It comes with the job. You get numb in the end."

"I heard about the fire," I say. "I was there. I killed the girl and set the house on fire afterwards."

A silence on the phone. I hear Rebekka talk to someone. Then she's back. "I'm sorry, that was my photographer. What did you say?"

"I said I hope you like sausages."

"Are you kidding? I love homemade sausages. Besides I'm looking forward to seeing you again. What has it been two years?"

"Two years, three months and seven days."

Rebekka laughs in the other end. "You always were funny," she says.

I don't laugh. I stare at the pile of newspaper clips with all the errors underlined.

"Can't wait to catch up," she says.

I pick up my kitchen-knife from the table. I have polished and sharpened it.

"Me either," I say.

Then we hang up. I walk into the living room and pick up Josephine. Then I feed her while fantasizing about cutting off Rebekka Franck's tongue.

When Josephine has fallen asleep I put her in the crib upstairs while thinking about where it would be best to kill Rebekka Franck. In the living room or maybe the kitchen since it's easier to clean. I'm thinking about doing it in the garage that I could arrange first with newspapers to make sure it didn't stain the floors. I walk out there, and realize that I'll have to move the car first. So I open the garage door and back into the driveway. Then I walk back and close the garage door. The room seems perfect now, I think. I move Jacob's bike and some plastic bags with his old toys. I tip one over and a pink, organic, non-toxic teddy bear falls out. I pick it up feeling my heart race in my chest. Who threw away Pinkie-Bear? I wonder. It is Josephine's favorite. Following an eerie feeling I empty the bag onto the garage floor. More toys. All baby toys, girl stuff, things I have been looking for. I go through it frantically, almost panicking. What is all this stuff doing out here where Josephine can't play with it? I don't understand. It seems so cruel somehow. I pick it up and bring it upstairs to the nursery. I throw everything in a pile, thinking I don't have time to put it up on the shelves now, but will do it later. I look at Josephine while she is sleeping. Suddenly she looks so pale, I think. My heart is pounding when I put my hand on her chest. It's moving, she's still breathing. I wonder why she is so pale all of a sudden and worry if she might be coming down with something. I decide to leave her alone to get some sleep and take the baby alarm with me downstairs. I spread out all the newspapers to cover the floor in the garage. I can't seem to get them to stay down, the papers keep moving every time I turn my back on them. I find the duct tape and tape them all to the floor so they won't move again. Sweating I walk back into the kitchen. The smell is back, I think and smell myself. I have to go upstairs and take another shower and get clean clothes on. I decide to wear a dress this time, since I am so hot. I dry my hair and put on make-up, then storm into the kitchen and begin preparing the sausages. I take out a bag from the new freezer and catch a look from Mr. Berendsen as I close the lid. I run into the kitchen and throw all the sausages into a pan, cover them in oil, then turn on the heat. I stare at the sausages roasting while I feel sweat running across my face. I look down at my dress and realize it's soaked in my sweat. It's dripping on my feet soaking my shoes as well. I look at the clock on the oven and realize I only have a few minutes. No time for a shower, I think and wipe the sweat off with a towel. It's soaked when I'm done. I smell my armpit and realize I stink. I don't have time to take care of it so I go to the sink and splash water on my face to wash it off. The sausages are roasting in the pan and soon the smell from them exceeds the smell of my sweat. At least I hope it does. I wipe my face again when I hear the doorbell ring.

17

"You look wonderful, Lisa," Rebekka says when I open the door. She is holding a bouquet of flowers that she hands to me. I take it with a smile and tell her she looks great too, then walk to the kitchen while keeping a close look at all the aphids I see crawling on the leaves. I try to wash them off, but they seem to be stuck on it, so I decide to pretend they're not there until I have killed Rebekka, then I can throw the flowers out. There is no need to be rude, I think and smile at Rebekka as she enters the kitchen and I am put the flowers in a glass vase from the Danish luxury style-brand Georg Jensen.

"So how have you been?" she asks.

I turn my head like an owl to look at her. "Fine," I say while fighting the tic that has come back. I draw in a deep breath to keep me calm. "Just fine."

"I'm so glad to hear that," Rebekka says. She walks to the stove and looks at the sausages. "Um, smells delicious," she says.

I smile again, while grabbing the knife in my hand. I begin cutting salad and put it in a big bowl. The lumps are too big, but I don't care. I hardly look at it. I cut tomatoes, bell peppers and put in sunflower seeds. Rebekka is walking around looking at the kitchen.

"I'm so glad you called," she says. "I mean I've been wanting to stop by so many times, and thought about calling you a lot, but ... well you know, life got in the way, I guess."

I'm chopping rapidly now. The newspaper clippings on the counter are laughing at me. I'm sweating heavily, big drops are falling into the salad.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Rebekka asks.

"I'm great. Why shouldn't I be?"

Rebekka shrugs. "I don't know ... I guess ... well I just think that I would be devastated ..."

I interrupt her. "Sausages are done," I say and take them off the stove.

"Smells great," she says.

"You already said that," I correct her.

She pauses, I can tell she is startled. "I guess I just did," she says.

I poke the tip of the knife into the wooden carving board with a loud sound. Rebekka jumps and looks at me.

"That's just it," I say.

"What is? Are you sure you're okay? You seem a little ... well a little off to be frank."

I pull up the knife and hold it in front of me. "The problem is, Rebekka Franck, that I cannot keep quiet any longer. People make mistakes all the time, and those people need to know that what they are doing is WRONG!"

I'm yelling the last word and it frightens Rebekka. She jumps backwards while I walk towards her with the knife in my hand. "All those mistakes," I say. "All those errors. Couldn't you just have corrected them? Why did you keep on doing them? Why don't you take pride in what you do enough to do it properly? Don't you have any RESPECT for your readers?"

"Lisa. I don't know what you're talking about. To be honest you're kind of scaring me right now. I thought this was a friendly visit. I thought we were just talking, catching up. I can leave if you don't want me here."

I stomp my feet. Rebekka jumps again. "But I do want you here. How else can I correct you? I have been trying so hard to tell you about all the grammatical errors and typos in your articles, but that STUPID, PUTRID BITCH working on your newspaper doesn't seem to do anything about it. Why is that? Why don't you want to change it, Rebekka?"

"Wait. Are you the woman who has been calling us and telling us that we're making mistakes that we can't find anywhere? Is that you, Lisa?"

I stomp my feet again with the knife clenched in my hand. "Why won't you listen to me!" I say.

Rebekka shakes her head and puts her hand out. "Easy with the knife, Lisa. I'm sorry. I didn't know it was you who called. If you had told them it was you, I would have talked to you in person."

"But that's not the point, is it?" I say. The room is spinning and sweat is running across my face, dripping on the floor, soaking my clothes and leaving a puddle underneath my feet.

"I don't know," Rebekka answers. "You tell me. You tell me what the point is. Cause I don't seem to understand anything right now."

"The point is that everybody is so terribly WRONG. They do the wrong things all the time, why won't anyone do what is right for a change? Why doesn’t anyone try and be the best they can be? Why doesn't anyone do their jobs properly anymore? Why don't doctors know when a baby is about to die? Why can't they tell when a baby is going to die? Why do they tell you it's healthy and then it dies overnight? Why don't they warn you, Rebekka?"

Rebekka stares at me. The knife is shivering in my hand. "Why Rebekka? Why?"

She shakes her head. "I don't know, Lisa. I don't know."

A terrifying feeling grabs me and I run upstairs. I storm into the nursery. My heart stops. The crib is empty. I let out a scream and fall to my knees, crying, yelling. I hear steps on the stairs, Rebekka is behind me now. I feel her hand on my shoulder. "I'm so, so sorry," she says with a low voice.

"I can't find my baby," I mumble between breaths. "Someone has taken my baby." For a second I wonder if it's the neighbor again, but I don't move. I cover my face with my hands and cry.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," Rebekka says. "It has to be the worst thing in the world to lose your child only three days after giving birth. I can't even imagine how hard it has to be."

I'm hyperventilating now. The knife is still clenched in my hand. It get up and point the knife at Rebekka. "I have to kill you now," I say.

Rebekka looks at me compassionately. She's not even afraid. It surprises me. "I understand your anger," she says. "I think I would want to kill the entire world too."

"But I will. I will kill you," I say. "Like I killed all those other people. I murdered them, Rebekka. I really did."

Rebekka walks closer. She pushes the knife to the side, then grabs me and hugs me tight. "Oh you silly head," she says. "You couldn't kill a fly if you tried to. Don't you think I know you? We’ve been friends for twenty-five years."

"But you don't know what I've done. I have killed many people. I really have, Rebekka."

She shakes her head with a smile. "I don't think you have. I don't know what's going on with you, and I didn't want to tell you this, but I talked to your husband earlier today to make sure it wasn't too much for you to have me over for lunch today and he told me you have been very sick for a long time, but you're slowly getting better now. Grief is a horrible thing. It messes with your brain causing you to imagine all kinds of stuff. Christian told me you have hardly slept ever since it happened, that you never eat, that you've had a hard time letting go of Josephine and that he had to remove her stuff slowly and one toy at a time when you weren't looking. He also told me that you have been walking around with the empty baby carriage day and night. I think your mind has been messing with you. You might have imagined killing someone, but you have never done such an awful thing. I simply can't believe it."

"But I did. The girl, the one who died in the fire yesterday. That was me. I killed her with this knife."

"No you didn't. She died in the fire. It was tragic, yes, but it wasn't murder. I talked to the police about it yesterday. It was an accident caused by a leak in the gas for the stove. End of story. Your mind is playing tricks on you."

"But I know that I'm a killer."

"How ..?

I drop the knife on the floor. It doesn't make a sound when it hits the soft carpet. "Because I killed my baby. She ... she was on her stomach when I found her." I am crying heavily now. I can't seem to get my brain to keep still. I can't focus. My sight is blurry. All I see is blood. Blood running down the walls, blood on the floors, blood flushing from the crib.

"What have I done?" I ask and look at Rebekka. Her face is covered in blood. It's flushing down her face. "I killed my baby."

Rebekka grabs my hands and take them in hers. She looks at me with compassion. "You can't do this to yourself, Lisa," she says. "It wasn't your fault. Sometimes babies just die."

The sentence keeps echoing in my head. I want it to stop. Sometimes babies just die. Sometimes babies just die.

"It wasn't your fault," she repeats. "You did everything right. You can't keep blaming yourself, or you'll lose it. You need to stay strong for your family. For your children. For Jacob and Amalie. They all need you. Even Christian needs you."

I'm crying heavily now, throwing myself in Rebekka's arms. She's holding me tight. I have a pain in my stomach that won't go away.

"I think we better get you out of here," Rebekka says. "Let me take you to see your doctor. He can get you the help you need."

I'm crying and nodding. I sob, sniffle and look at the crib. It's still empty, even the blood is gone. "I think I might like that," I say. "I think I need help."

"Of course you do. No one should go through a thing like this all alone. You need to talk to a professional before you lose complete touch with reality."

Rebekka helps me get down the stairs. I feel a pinch in the heart when I realize the playpen is gone. It knocks the breath out of me. I look into the kitchen where the sausages are on the counter.

"Leave them. Let's go see your doctor, then grab a late lunch at a café afterwards, okay?"

I smile and nod. "Let me just clean the mess up," I say.

I go to the kitchen and take out a roll of aluminum foil. I put all the sausages in the foil and wrap them up. I put the pan in the sink and then walk down to the freezer in the basement.

I open the lid and put the sausages in for later. I push Mr. Berendsen's head to the side to make more room. I feel like he stares at me when I close the lid.

"Be right there," I yell before I run up the stairs and shut the light off on my way up.

THE END

Eenie, Meenie

Willow Rose

1

"Eenie, meenie, miny, moe. Catch a naughty boy by the toe. If he screams don't let him go. Eenie, meenie, miny, moe."

The man was counting, pointing at the doors as he whispered the song in the dark hallway. His finger ended at door number nine. The man grinned and embraced himself for what was ahead. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. It was important not to rush these things. It had to be done just right. He pulled down the ski mask to cover his face, then walked to the thick door and peeked in through the small window to make sure the boy was asleep. Then the man pulled out the keys and put one in the lock.

The boy was asleep in his bed when the man entered quietly. He didn't wake up even when the keys jangled in the lock. Not until the man was inside and had closed the door behind him, did the boy react. With a small shriek he sat up.

"Who’s there?" he asked. "Who are you? What are you doing in my cell?"

The man chuckled but didn't answer. He walked closer while hushing the boy as if he were a small child wakening from a bad dream instead of a juvenile criminal facing his real punishment for what he had done.

"Hey. I asked you something," he said and got up from the bed. The boy was no more than fifteen, but working out along with the other prisoners had given him a muscular upper body that was very unusual for his age. His attitude suited his posture very well. He puffed himself up in front of the masked man and lifted his fists to show him that he would defend himself if the man came any closer. That didn't scare the man though. He was prepared for him to try and fight back. They all did. But the man was ready. He pulled a stun gun from his pocket and walked towards the boy. The boy gasped and drew backwards against the wall. The man walked closer with the gun crackling in his hand and as soon as it touched the boy and his body was shaking in spasms, the man knew it wouldn't take long before the boy would be like a puppy in his hands. Or maybe even more like a doll that he could do with as he pleased.

The man chuckled while the electric impulses ran through the boy's body and as soon as he saw the eyes roll back into the head, he turned it off and let the boy's body fall lifeless onto the bed.

"Time to get to work," the man said and put his briefcase on the bed next to the boy. He opened it and looked at the tools inside. He picked up a pair of pliers and examined them, moved them a little to see if that was what he wanted to use. He looked at the boy. A third time offender. His first offense was stealing cars with his older brother. Second time he robbed a small store and beat the crap out of the owner. Third offense was what really ticked the man off. The boy and his three brothers had gang-raped a girl in an alley after a party. They spotted her at the party in a private home, and then followed her when she was walking home with her boyfriend. According to the boy's file they attacked the boyfriend from behind and beat him senseless with baseball bats and then forced him to watch as they gang-raped his girlfriend.

That was what troubled the man. It is one thing to steal a car or rob a store to get cash. It was wrong, yes and should be punished. But raping a fourteen-year-old girl and forcing her boyfriend to watch? That was too much. And apparently more than what the justice system could handle. The boy was more than they could cope with. One year in juvenile detention was the boy’s sentence. Which would probably be reduced to six months if he behaved. The man felt his fury rise just thinking about it. In a few months this boy would be out in the streets again, raping more innocent girls, beating more people up. And who knows what he might do next? The man knew these boys. They came back again and again. They never learned and the punishment the court gave them simply wasn't enough for them to stay out of trouble. And while they were inside the juvenile center? Well they just made new friends that were bad for them, who got them into more trouble as soon as they got out. It was a joke, really, the man thought. That was why he decided to take matters into his own hands.

The man looked at the tools and decided on the folding utility knife.

2

It was Johnny's first time in the juvenile prison in Roedvig Stevns on the east coast of Zeeland. But it wasn't his first time in prison. He had done time before. Three times before, to be accurate so it wasn't an unfamiliar situation for him to be put in the small cell with nothing but a hard bench to sleep on, a desk, a closet, a small fourteen-inch TV and a sink.

"Here you go," the warden said and Johnny stepped inside without a word. The door was closed behind him and locked.

Johnny sighed and sat on the bench. It was just as hard as it had been in the other places he had been. The barred window under the ceiling seemed smaller and the walls were all painted screaming yellow, those were about the only things that weren't exactly the same as in the other places. The other inmates probably would be too. It usually didn't take Johnny long to piss some of them off and get beaten up in the toilet-room. But he didn't care. He had gotten stronger while he was on the outside by working out a lot. Plus he was older now and probably among the oldest. His experience would give him an advantage.

It hadn't been his plan to be in this situation again. After his third time on the inside, he decided it was time to change his life. Once released from the previous prison, Johnny hadn't gone back to his old friends. He moved to get away from them and to start a new life. Where it went wrong along the way he now had two years to think about.

Johnny rubbed his forehead and stared at the window. He could see nothing but the sky from here. How he already missed the big outside. He sighed and hit a fist in the pillow.

"Damn you, Christian!" he yelled.

Christian was his younger brother. He was the reason why Johnny had ended up in here, locked up once again. Johnny picked up the remote to take his mind off his brother. The small TV under the ceiling made a noise and some news anchor started talking. Johnny wasn't in the mood for too much reality, so he flipped the channels and found an old re-run of Friends, one he had seen many times before but still made him forget about his situation for just a few minutes.

As soon as it was done, Johnny's thoughts circled back again on his brother. Johnny didn't know where he was hiding, but he hoped it was a good place, since the cops were still searching for him. Johnny hadn't cracked. He hadn't ratted his brother out and never regretted not doing so. Johnny had told them he did it, that he had done everything and no one else was involved. But of course they hadn't believed him. They threatened him with hell on earth if he didn't speak. They told him that they knew he was only taking the blame for his brother and that all he had to do was to tell them that Christian was the one who had done it, and where he was, and then they would let Johnny go.

Of course Johnny hadn't listened to them. Who listens to cops? Who would rat out his own brother? No, he'd rather serve time, even if he hadn't done anything. Even if he had finally gotten his life back on track. It didn't matter. When it comes to family, you stick up for one another. You do what's necessary to help each other. Even if it means doing time for something you didn't do. It was beside the point.

Yet they were still looking for him. They would be until they found him, they told Johnny. "We'll get him and then we'll make both of you do the time."

Johnny had shrugged like he didn't care, but that was a lie. He did care. A lot even. Not about his own life. But about his brother's. Enough to take the fall. Doing time would have killed him. Christian wouldn't have been able to cope with it. Johnny had tried it before. He could do it again. No problem. Anything for your brother, right? Even if he had been so stupid it made Johnny want to beat the crap out of him if he ever saw him again. It didn't matter.

There wasn't much Johnny believed in, but he did believe in family and the bond between them. He would die for his brother; even take a bullet for him right here and now if necessary.

And he knew that one of these days it might just be what he had to do.

3

Brian woke up to the sound of screaming. He gasped and opened his eyes. It sounded like it came from the cell right next to him. Brian sat up and listened. The screams were spine-chilling. He breathed heavily. An anxiety took a hold of him. What could that sound be? What had happened to Ali in the cell next to his?

There was a lot of turmoil going on in the hallway outside and Brian got up to try and look out of the small window, but all he could see were the tops of the prison guard's heads. He heard voices, some of them seemed urgent, but couldn't discern what they were saying. The screaming hadn't stopped, it continued on and on and left Brian terrified. Had someone hurt Ali in the middle of the night?

He ran to the window facing outside and tried to look down. He spotted blue lights and heard sirens in the distance coming closer. A few minutes later he heard more voices outside his door. He ran back and peeked out. Now he saw some new heads, new faces. Paramedics, he thought. He watched as they carried Ali out on a stretcher. His body was covered with a white blanket, but it was already soaked in blood. Brian gasped and pulled away from the door. The guards soon knocked on all the doors and told them to go back to sleep. But Brian didn't sleep anymore that night. He sat on the bed waiting for morning to come, shaking in fear. This wasn't the first night he had been woken by the sounds of screaming. It happened a lot lately, but never so close to him, never someone he knew. Rumors flew around the inmates about who was getting hurt, but no one knew by whom or why. None of the guards seemed to care, they just shipped the injured off to the hospital and that was that. None of their business. Brian heard his own teeth chatter in the night. He was cold, but that wasn't what caused his teeth to rattle.

Brian stayed awake till the guards let him out for breakfast. His friends Gunnar and Torben sat with him at the table. No one said a word until Brian opened his mouth.

"Any news on what happened?" he asked.

Gunnar looked down, and then to each side to make sure no one was listening in on their conversation. "They say he was castrated," he said.

Brian almost choked in his oatmeal. "What did you say?"

"You heard me," Gunnar said. "They cut off his dick, man. With a small knife to make it take longer and hurt more. At least that's what they say."

Brian lost his appetite. He pushed his bowl away. Torben took his and ate it like he was in a hurry.

"That’s the second this month," Brian said. "The second inmate sent to the hospital. What the hell is going on here?"

Torben was slurping as he gulped down the rest of Brian's breakfast. Gunnar sighed. He looked behind him before he spoke. "I tell you, something is wrong in this place."

Torben grunted and nodded while licking the spoon.

"I know," Brian said. "It's creepy."

Torben and Gunnar stopped eating and stared at Brian.

"What?" he said. "It's not like I'm scared or anything. I'm just saying it's real creepy, right?"

"Sure," Gunnar said. "But I know what I'm gonna do if they come into my room. No one messes with me. I’m gonna give them what they deserve. Ain't nobody gonna touch my dick, if you know what I mean."

They all nodded. Brian felt certain he could defend himself if it really came down to it. Lord knows he had been through many fights and he always ended on top. Only sixteen, Brian was as tough as they get. But what worried him in this moment was that so was Ali.

Gunnar pulled Brian's sleeve. He nodded to his left. Brian looked in that direction and saw a guy, older than them by a year or two, tough one, with a scar on his neck. Brian recognized the knife-wound as he walked past them holding his breakfast tray.

"Who's the new guy?" Torben asked.

Gunnar bit the bread and pulled off a lump.

"That's what we're gonna find out," Brian said while Gunnar chewed the bread with his mouth open.

4

Johnny saw them from far away. He deliberately walked past their table so they could check him out. He knew they were the bunch he needed to hang out with in order to stay safe. They were the tough group, the ones who were in control. He could tell by the way they looked at him, the way they talked and comported themselves. It was the same everywhere. On the first day it was all about making the right friends and right enemies. Johnny was good at reading people. It had become one of his most cherished survival-skills.

He gave the boys a look as he walked by, to show he wasn't afraid of them, he was tougher than they were and make them sense his strength, sniff him out if you'd like, like dogs did. Johnny knew they were gonna ask other inmates questions about him in the coming hours. They would have their little group of wannabes, reservoir dogs to get them the information they needed on the "new guy."

Johnny sat in a solitary spot feeling their eyes on his back and on his eagle-tattoo that stared back at them. He wanted to show them he wasn't afraid to turn his back on them, he wasn't afraid to sit alone, he wasn't afraid of nothing. That would pique their curiosity, just like he wanted them to. As soon as they knew about him and what he was in for, they would come, they would approach him and he would soon be part of their pack. It was all a game really, and Johnny knew exactly how to play it.

It didn't take long. In the afternoon when they were all sent outside to the courtyard, all three of them walked towards him. Johnny was sitting on a bench smoking his third cigarette in a row when he heard their footsteps. He didn't turn around to look at them, but played it cool and kept his back turned to them until someone spoke.

"Hey, new guy," one of them said.

Johnny took a deep drag of the cigarette and blew out the smoke with a sigh. He turned his head and looked at them. He almost laughed when he realized how puny they really were. Three guys no more than sixteen with their hands in their pockets, pants hanging by their knees. One of them wore a baseball cap and completed the picture of a boy-band gone wrong.

Johnny nodded with a grin. "What's up?" he said.

"We wanna talk to you," the one on the right said.

He was the stupid one. Johnny could tell by the look on his face. The follower. He was going to do anything Johnny told him to as soon as this little charade was over. The one in the middle was the leader. He seemed smart, Johnny could tell by his eyes, plus he had the others do the talking. The one on the left was the tough guy. He spat on the ground and talked with the cigarette clinging to his lip in the corner of his mouth.

"What can I do for you?" Johnny said.

"Don't try and sound smart," the stupid one on the right said. "We do the talking."

Johnny repressed a chuckle and shook his head. "I don't think so," he said and turned away from them again. It was all a fight for power from now on, and he had to show them he didn't bow to anyone.

Johnny didn't see it, but sensed what was going on behind his back. The small feisty, tough guy stepped forward and wanted to start a fight, but the smart one stopped him, held him back. If he was as smart as Johnny thought, he knew they might be able to use Johnny; he would be good to have on their side. Apparently he was. He walked around the bench and sat down next to Johnny. The two hotspurs stayed behind them.

"So you're Johnny the Vampire?" he asked.

Johnny nodded, taking another drag of his cigarette. Vampire was the nickname he had been given after he bit a man and ripped off some flesh from his throat during a fight. It wasn't a nickname Johnny was sad about, but he thought it was a little overboard. All he had done was defend himself with all he had as a thirteen-year-old kid when his father attacked his baby brother with a knife.

Johnny spat on the ground and nodded.

"And you are?" he asked, looking at the guy next to him with the pretty eyelashes and very blue eyes.

"Brian."

"Nice to meet you, pretty boy Brian," he said and stuck out his hand. Brian smiled, took his hand and shook it.

5

Brian was concerned. Even if he had a new ally, a new friend who was extremely good to have on his side, he wasn't sure it was quite enough. No one knew who was behind the night attacks, but one thing was certain; it was someone with good connections and enough money to pay off the guards to let them in while the inmates were sleeping.

Ali had many enemies especially in the West wing and without a doubt one of the guys from over there that had done this to him last night. It had to be someone he pissed off, Brian thought to himself staring out the window of the prison church during the ceremony Sunday morning. They were all present. They had to be. All one hundred and twenty four inmates in this juvenile prison had to go to the service on Sunday mornings. Those were the rules. Brian never understood why the prison forced them to go, none of the inmates listened to what the priest said. It wasn't like any of them were about to lay their lives down to God and stop being who they were. Who were they kidding with this anyway? No one here wanted to repent. They all knew that God couldn't stand them for who they were and he never would. Why else would he have given them such crappy lives? Why else would he have given Brian a father who ran away when Brian was only five and never came back? Why else would he have given Brian a stepdad who locked Brian in the bathroom so he could do nothing but listen when he beat Brian's mother? Why else would he have taken Brian's younger sister so early, that she barely made it to be seven years old? Why would he let the stepdad beat her till she didn't move anymore? Why? Why would he let the stepdad get away with it, get away with telling the police it was Brian? Why would he let his mother be so afraid of the stepdad that she would tell the police the same, just because he was only eleven and too young to be punished? Why would he let them get away with it? Why did he let Brian live the next three years in an institution where he was exposed to drugs?

If God loved him as much as the priest claimed, then why did he let all those things happen? No, Brian figured all this out a long time ago. God didn't love him. He liked to see him suffer. God had deliberately given him a shitty life so he could sit up there and laugh at him as he struggled through it.

But Brian wasn't mad at God anymore, neither was he sad that he ended up in this place. For the first time in many years he had a feeling of satisfaction. He received his revenge, not with God's help, but by his own hand. He still enjoyed thinking about the day when he tracked down his stepdad and attacked him with the knife. He remembered the sound of the knife going through the flesh. Every now and then he could still feel the warm blood on his hands as it ran across it. He remembered the look in his stepdad's eyes when he pulled out the knife and stabbed him again, in the heart this time. Sometimes he even imagined it in slow-motion, just to get all the details right. The tip of the knife disappearing into his abdomen, slicing through clothes, flesh, right into the liver. Then stab number two in the chest, ripping up veins, cutting through organs. Brian stabbed him ten times before he finally stopped. He even recalled the screams from people in the street, and the distant sirens when the police arrived and took him away. He spat at the dead body right before they pulled him to the car. Brian’s hands were covered in blood, his nostrils filled with the sweet, red smell of revenge.

"Amen," the priest said and ended his sermon.

Brian looked up at the big cross behind him. The priest told them that he would be in the confessional if anyone wished to talk. Then he left. Brian sat still for a few seconds and watched as everybody got up and started walking towards the exit. Brian didn't move. He stared at the cross. It wasn't a Catholic church but the priest put up a confessional anyway just for them to be able to talk anonymously with someone, in case they needed to confess anything or just talk. A lot of the inmates did it just to lighten their hearts and get stuff off their chests.

Brian never considered the offer before, but now he did.

6

"Eenie, meenie, miny, moe ..." The man was counting again. His finger ended on door number thirteen. As always the man peeked in through the small window in the heavy door to make sure the boy was fast asleep. Then he pulled out the key and put it in the door.

The boy sat up in bed immediately as the man entered and he had to hurry to shut it behind him and close it safely. Then he turned and grinned, but the boy couldn't see that since his face was covered by the ski mask.

"What are you doing here?" the boy said and jumped out of bed. He lifted his hands to show he was prepared to fight. The man chuckled and shook his head. They were all so alike.

This boy was also a rapist. A lot of them were. According to his papers he was seventeen-years-old, and he raped three women, all single mothers, by breaking in to their apartments while they were sleeping and put a hand over their mouths, threatening to kill their children if they screamed or resisted. This boy was really bad, he thought to himself as he watched him. He really needed to be stopped. Doing time didn't seem to help anything. This was his second time in prison yet he had still done it again. If someone didn't intervene, this boy would end up raping and maybe even killing more women as soon as he was released. In two months he was up for probation. It was time for action.

The boy was dancing like a boxer throwing punches at the man, but the man moved too fast and none of them hit. He decided to play along on his little game. Soon the man saw an opening and threw in a punch that knocked the boy backwards and into the wall. The air was knocked out of him immediately and the man was able to grab him, put his hand over his mouth and throw him on the bed. He saw the anxiety in the boy's eyes and smelled his fear, breathed it in. The boy knew he was in trouble. Nothing before this moment had ever frightened him before, the man knew that much. They all shared the same story. The Danish prison system simply wasn't punishment enough for these young boys. Yes they were detainees, but the life on the inside was often even better than on the outside. They got to work out all day, play pool in the living room or hang out with the other criminals doing drugs that the guards were paid off not to notice. The government had changed the prisons the last few years to make them "more like the life on the outside" which the man found difficult to comprehend. Why the inmates should have a life much like on the outside when they were in fact not on the outside, when they were being punished for doing wrong on the outside? He didn't understand, but the prison had to obey and they had put up small shops where the inmates could buy their own food if they wanted and a kitchen where they could prepare their own meals, or they could buy some in the cafeteria with the money the state provided them with while they were inside, which most of them preferred. Once they had done a quarter of their time they were even allowed to go out on the weekends. Now they all wondered why this country had so much crime, why so many young men chose a life of crime.  The man had been on vacations that were more of a punishment. He shook his head as he stared into the eyes of the boy. Then he leaned down.

He felt the boy struggle underneath him but the man was bigger than him and much stronger. He held him like this for a while. He wanted to let him feel the way his victims had felt. He had read about the Muslim countries and how they punished their criminals and found that to be very fair. If you stole something, they cut off your hand. It made sense, the man thought while holding the boy down with one hand and pulling off his underwear with the other.

"I want you to remember this for the rest of your life," the man whispered as he turned him around and entered him from behind, giving him the lesson he should have had many years ago.

The boy soon gave up resisting and lay on the pillow with his head pressed down, crying, while the man had his way with him.

When he was done he turned him around once again, and then punched his fist in his face, knocking him out. Then he opened his briefcase and took out a syringe, found a vein and injected the contents. The boy regained consciousness just as the liquid entered his body and then stared at the man, shivering in fear. The man stroked his cheek, and then looked into his eyes again.

"Take a good look at my face and my eyes. They will be the last thing you ever see. This way you'll never lust after another woman again."

The boy struggled again, but soon the anesthesia kicked in and his body went numb. Only his eyes were open, when the man poured in the acid.

7

Ali had come back. Brian had seen him Sunday afternoon being helped back into his cell. Brian hadn't gone into the confessional after all, but the following night he wished he had done it. He wished he had talked to the priest about what was happening in the prison, about his anxiety, but he was also afraid the priest would laugh at him, the way his fellow inmates would if they knew that the nightly attacks scared him. They asked Ali who attacked him, but rumors said that he didn't know. That told Brian that he knew exactly who it was, but he was afraid of being hurt again and therefore chose to keep quiet.

Now it happened again. Brian heard the screams early in the morning when the sun had almost risen. This time it was across the hall. A guy named Jon who Brian talked to on several occasions and even shared a joint with in the courtyard when no one saw them. His screams went right through Brian's bones and he stormed to the small window and peeked out. Guards were walking to Jon's cell and opened the door. Brian felt a shiver go through his body as he saw one of the guards, the first one to go in, come out of the cell and throw up on the floor in the hallway. Others were covering their faces with their hands.

Brian felt his heart pounding in his chest as he heard the sound of the ambulance and watched the paramedics arrive. He kept watching till they brought out the stretcher, then he turned his head away.

At breakfast he looked at Gunnar and Torben. "What's the word?" he said.

Gunnar growled with his mouth full. Johnny sat next to Brian in silence, listening in as well.

"His eyes," Gunnar said and pointed at his own. "Acid. Roasted them."

Brian let out a gasp that he regretted.

Johnny growled next to him. "This has happened before?"

Brian nodded. "Five times since I came here, but it seems to be getting worse."

"They have no idea who's behind," Gunnar said. "They all say they don't know who attacked them."

"Bullshit," Johnny said.

"You think they're just afraid?" Brian said looking at his cornflakes that he had no appetite for.

"Wouldn't you be?" Johnny said.

Brian nodded while biting his lip. He knew he would. He would be very afraid. No one knows what they would come up with next.

"Could it be those guys?" Johnny asked and nodded in the direction of a group from the East Wing. Four Middle Eastern looking guys with lots of tattoos and big necklaces. Brian knew they controlled all the drugs in the prison; they controlled the East Wing while Brian and his gang ran the West Wing. He earned his status by being the toughest and strongest among the inmates on the wing. He had beaten everyone who tried to take his position.

"It could very well be," Brian said.

"The guy from yesterday, the guy who lost his eyes, did he know them?" Johnny asked.

Brian shrugged. "He might have. He does sell drugs now and then. Mostly joints."

"And that other guy?" He said and nodded in direction of Ali who was sitting not far from them looking like the entire world had fallen down on him. Brian imagined for a second what it would be like to live his life without a dick. He made a grimace in disgust.

"One of them is his cousin. He might have pissed them off somehow. You never know with the Muslims," Torben said.

"Ali isn't a Muslim," Brian corrected him. "His family had to flee from Iran because they were Christian."

"Whatever," Torben said.

"You think they might be moving in on your turf?" Johnny asked.

Brian shrugged. "I have had trouble with them before. Gave the big one a new nose, if you know what I mean."

Gunnar nodded satisfied. "Brian don't look like much, but he's a good boxer. He once won the national championship. He's a fucking Danish Champion in his weight class, man."

Johnny gave Brian an impressed look. "Wouldn't have guessed."

"Well a lot of years with shit in your life will get you angry enough to knock down anyone, if you know what I mean."

Johnny nodded. "I do. I know."

They ate in silence. Gunnar was chewing with his mouth open. Torben was mostly grunting.

"We need to find out who’s behind this," Brian said and looked over at Ali who was eating alone looking like every bite he swallowed was extremely painful. No one dared to sit next to him for fear of being the next victim.

Johnny nodded. "Pretty boy here is right. We need to stop them or we'll be next."

8

Johnny was satisfied with his new group. He was certain he had chosen right. These guys, especially the pretty boy, seemed smart, a lot smarter than the guys Johnny usually hung out with on the inside.

As the weeks passed he kind of grew into the group and they accepted him as their equal. Johnny was certain he could take out Brian even if he was a great boxer as he claimed, but he didn't want to. He didn't want to lead the group; he wanted to be the man holding the puppet. He wanted to be the one controlling them without having to actually get himself in trouble. He had been in the game long enough to know that a guy in Brian's position was exposed and constantly at risk of being beaten or even killed. But Brian knew that as well, Johnny had noticed and detected an uncomfortable worry in Brian. If the guys from the East Wing were the ones behind the attacks, then it was only a matter of time before they did something to Brian as well.

Johnny didn't want to see that happen and soon he felt as protective of Brian as he had been of his younger brother for all of their lives. Johnny found himself constantly watching Brian's back in the cafeteria or in the bathroom, well everywhere really. If anyone would stare at him in a wrong way, Johnny would grab their balls and squeeze them till they knew their place. No one spoke to Brian without going through Johnny first. The only time Johnny couldn't protect Brian was at night, and that was when all the attacks had taken place. It killed him every night when they locked the doors and he was often awake most of the night listening to hear any screams. But for weeks there were no more and the group began to relax a little, thinking that maybe it was over, maybe the last two had it coming to them and that was all there was to it. But not Johnny. He kept his eyes open for anything unusual, anyone acting out of place. He knew when everyone's guards were down that they would attack, to get the most surprising effect out of it.

So when one of the big Middle Eastern guys from the East Wing one day cut in line at the cafeteria right in front of Brian, Johnny naturally knocked him down to let him know this wasn't tolerated.

Johnny ended up being dragged away by two guards and put in isolation for two days before he was taken to the warden. It was like being eight again and in the principal's office, he thought to himself as he was looking at the warden behind the desk in front of him. The warden was a big man, looking somewhat like a bulldog. His nose had been broken several times and his face was scarred and rough. On the top shelf behind him was a row of boxing trophies.

"So I hear you're causing trouble," he said and looked at his papers. "Johnny."

Johnny knew it was wisest not to speak so he kept quiet.

"You think I feel sorry for you, do you?" the warden continued.

Johnny still kept quiet.

"Well I don't. I don't feel sorry for any of you in here. This is not high school, this is not kindergarten. No one cares if you had a crappy childhood; no one cares why you did what you did. This is about punishment and if you don't play by the rules you'll get more punishment. You've been in isolation two days. How did you like it so far?"

Johnny stared at the warden with disdain. Being put in isolation was the worst part of prison Johnny knew. Being alone with his own thoughts, without anything distractions was pure torture to him. All he could think of was his brother.

"Well you better get used to it, cause I'm giving you two more days for what you did. You broke the guy's neck, for crying out loud. For what? Cutting in line?" The warden leaned over his desk. He seemed even bigger up close. He was grinning. There was something creepy about his eyes. They scared Johnny. It was like he enjoyed punishing Johnny, he liked to see him in pain.

"Here's the deal. If you don't learn how things work in here, we have ways of making you understand, of forcing you to never do anything wrong again. Do you know how they punish criminals in the Muslim countries?"

Johnny swallowed hard. He knew very well what the warden was saying.

The warden leaned back in his leather chair. "Very well then. I think we understand each other."

9

Torben wasn't a very smart guy. He had known it ever since his dad told him at the age of four.

"You're just plain stupid, boy," he said and Torben had known that was just the way it was. This was his destiny and from now on it was all about making the best of it. With stupidity also often comes a simplicity, which he found very comforting. Torben didn't want much out of life, he never had ambitions or dreams he wanted to fulfill and he was pretty much always satisfied with where he was and what he had. In Torben's mind that made life manageable and he found it was always very easy for him to settle in a new environment and make new friends. He simply just did what they expected from him and since he was never dissatisfied he never complained either.

In that way life in prison suited him well. To be honest he enjoyed it more than life on the outside where people constantly wanted something from him or expected him to act in a certain way, calling him stupid when he didn't live up to it. In here, behind the walls and bars on the windows, Torben felt safe. No one expected him to do anything, or to be smart in any way. He could just be himself and that made him feel good. Sometimes he dreaded the day when he was going to be let out of this place. Torben regarded the world outside as a dangerous place and it had gotten him into a lot of trouble, simply because nobody had taken the time to explain to Torben what was right and what was wrong. His parents never bothered, since they were too busy arguing, fighting, or drinking and his teachers soon gave up on him as well and let him do his own thing during class as long as he didn't disturb any of the other children. Torben never was good at anything, except for one thing. Torben was very, very good at adapting. He could be anything his friends wanted him to (except a very smart person like a rocket scientist or something). As long as they told him what they wanted from him and they could be sure he would do it. Torben was a loyal guy too. Always had been. Especially when his childhood friend (and best friend in the whole wide world) Troels told him to do something. Torben would do anything for Troels, since he loved it when Troels was pleased with him. So back when they both were no more than nine years old, Troels asked him to take an old lady's purse out of her hand and run, he did it. It didn't matter to Torben that Troels had taken all the money and put it in his pocket. He wasn't in it to gain money. What mattered to Torben was the look on Troels' face when he gave him the purse. What mattered was that he had patted him on the head and told him he was proud of him. That made it worth everything. There was nothing more important than that. So Torben continued to do as Troels instructed and soon it had become a daily thing to steal purses and wallets from women on the street or in the bus. Troels took all the money, but soon he started giving Torben a little bill now and then to make sure he stayed faithful to him. Sometimes Torben gave him the bill back, just to show him that he wasn't interested in the money. It didn't matter to him at all.

One day Troels had told him to go into a big house by the ocean and wake up the couple living there. Troels gave Torben a gun to hold when he woke them up.

"Tell them to take you to the ATM and withdraw ten thousand. Then tell them to sit down in the street and close their eyes while they count till one hundred ... no two hundred. I'll pick you up on the scooter and then we'll drive off."

Torben hadn't even blinked. He had done as Troels told him to, but even if Troels was the smart one and in Torben's eyes knew everything  he hadn't known that the house they were breaking in to belonged to the Director of the entire Danish Police force. She had - of course - an alarm system on the house that immediately went off and she had - of course - a gun that she pointed at Torben as soon as she came storming down the stairs. Not knowing what to do, Torben had fired a shot, but since he had never done anything like that before, he missed and blew down a lamp instead of hitting the Director of the police. The Director then shot Torben in the leg and arrested him. He was charged with assault and attempted murder.

But Torben didn't mind. He was happy in here where every day was the same. His only wish was that Troels could be here with him, he thought now as he lay sleepless in his bed in the middle of the night staring at the locked door, when suddenly a set of eyes stared in through the window and glared right at him.

For the first time since his arrival, Torben suddenly didn't feel so safe.

10

The man was peeking in when he realized someone was looking back. A set of eyes was staring at him from the bed. The boy was awake; he thought to himself and hurried up. The boy had seen him and now there was no turning back. The man put the key in the lock and turned it.

Inside in the cell the boy was already out of his bed. He stormed towards the man and grabbed him around the shoulders trying to push him out, but the man didn't move. Even if the boy pushed and pushed, he couldn't move the man one single inch. The man grinned underneath his mask and began to walk, forcing the boy's feet to slip backwards. Soon the man had pressed the boy back into the cell and while the boy threw punches at his face and chest he closed the door behind him. The boy hit his fist into the man's nose but the man didn't even bother to move like he knew how to. This boy was so puny and skinny and his punches so weak he hardly felt them. For sixteen-year-old he was strong, the man would give him that, but compared to the man, he was nothing. It was like a mouse trying to knock down an elephant.

The boy was panting and sweating with fear. The smell was intoxicating to the man. He reached out and grabbed the boy by the throat with only one hand and slammed him up against the wall. The push knocked the air out of the boy and he gasped for breath. The man held his throat tight and felt almost high thinking about the power he had in his fingers right now, the power to determine whether the boy should live or die. The man felt a shiver go through his body, a thrill of excitement sending electric impulses of pleasure through his entire body. He looked into the eyes of the boy and drank from his fear. Now the boy felt sorry, now he would wish he had never done the things that made him end up in here.

A thief. A petty thief was all the boy was. The man knew his story very well. He had been known by the police for many years before he broke into the Director's house and tried to kill her. He had stolen cars, old lady's purses and robbed small stores. Taken what wasn't his, stolen it from honest, hardworking people who didn't know how to defend themselves. A guy like that was going to continue even after doing his time in here. Once released it wouldn't be more than a couple of months before he returned. The man knew it. It was always the same. It wasn't entirely the children's fault, the man never believed that. No, he blamed the parents of these young men. They never taught them properly, probably too busy with their own messes to even care. That was why the man thought of it as his job to make sure the youngsters understood; it was his job to discipline them.

None of the kids he disciplined ever committed a crime again. Those were the hardcore facts. His methods were disputable, yes, but they had a high success rate, as high as they get. The numbers spoke for themselves. Some day the world would have to realize that he was right, some day he was going to make them all understand that the system was wrong. Weak and wrong. That it had to be changed. That was the man's biggest goal in life as well as stopping more people from getting hurt by these young criminals who didn't know right from wrong.

The man pressed his fingers into the boy's throat and fought the urge to just finish him off. High from the power trip he loosened his grip and threw the boy on the bed. The boy was coughing, struggling to breathe, struggling to get up. The man felt his heart beating faster and faster from the rush of excitement. He was breathing heavily as he watched the boy catch his breath and try to cry.

"Please ..." he said. "Please don't hurt me."

The man leaned over the boy's body and whispered in his ear. "I'm sorry, but I can't grant your wish."

Then he lifted his fist and slammed it into the boy's face. Blood spurted out of the nose and onto the yellow wall behind him. Then he threw a series of punches into the boy's face, breathing excitedly at the sound of the nose and the jaw breaking.

The boy was still conscious but only barely when the man pulled up the briefcase and opened it. This time he went for the pliers. The boy writhed and tossed, when he felt the man grab his hand. The man was breathing heavily while he stuffed the boy's mouth with a pair of socks to drown out the screams. He wanted him to be awake while he received his punishment, he wanted him to watch as he took the pliers and cut off the fingers one by one.

11

Brian woke to the sound of turmoil in the hallway. Voices, steps, then more voices, upset voices, commanding voices, but no screaming. Brian jumped up from the bed and went to the door. He paused for a second and thought about not looking, but his curiosity got the better of him. What he saw caused everything inside of him to turn. All the guards were gathered across the hall, where a door to one cell was left open. Brian felt sick to his stomach, mostly in fear, but also in disgust, from all the blood that was rushing out of the cell, like a red unstoppable river.

"Torben," he muttered under his breath and put his hand on the window. What had happened to him? What had those bastards done?

Tears pressed behind Brian’s eyes as he hit his fist against the thick door again and again until his knuckles bled, then he sunk to the floor helplessly. Torben hadn't deserved this. What had he ever done to them? To anybody? While Brian waited for hours for the door to be opened he speculated like a madman, plotting revenge.

Gunnar was already at their table when Brian arrived for breakfast. He wasn't hungry so he went directly to him and sat down.

"This will not be tolerated," he said. "How is he?"

Gunnar lifted his head and stared at Brian, directly into the eyes, something he seldom did. Brian sank in the chair. He felt the lump in his throat grow, it was ready to explode. Gunnar shook his head.

"Dead?" Brian whispered with a shivering voice.

Gunnar didn't have to answer. His eyes told him everything. Brian fought the tears and clenched his fists under the table. He felt his nails penetrate the skin in his palms.

"Who? How?" he stuttered.

"Bled to death, rumors say. He was beaten badly, then had all of his fingers cut off. Bled to death in his bed." Gunnar was speaking fast like he wanted to get it over with, as if getting the words across his lips was so painful it had to be done fast, like ripping off a Band Aid.

Brian bit his lip hard to not cry. He was breathing heavily while the anger rose. He scowled at the guys from the East Wing. They were smiling, laughing about something. Brian felt like jumping them and rearranging their faces, even killing them right here and now, but restrained himself. This was neither the time nor the place. Revenge wasn't something to rush, a quick reaction meant mistakes. It had to be planned in detail to be perfect. Perfection was Brian's trademark. He never made any mistakes, never acted premature or hastily. Plus they would be prepared now; they were expecting him to strike back for this. He needed to act when they weren't anticipating it. It had to be like a lightning strike, no one saw it coming and no one was the same afterwards.

"When will Johnny be out of ISO?" Brian asked Gunnar.

Gunnar shrugged. "Rumors say he got a couple of days more, but you never know with Warden Damhaug. He is known to do what he damn well pleases."

"We could use Johnny now, but we'll just have to wait. Waiting is good. Gives us time to think. Think and plan."

"Damn it!" Gunnar said and hit his fist on the table, causing the plates to rattle.

Brian stared into Gunnar's eyes and saw a vulnerability he hadn't seen before. He had cared about Torben, more than he had ever wanted to admit. Brian had too. Torben was the good one, stupid as shit, yes, but good. Wasn't a bad bone in his entire body. He just wanted to make people happy, that's all. There really wasn't much more to him than that.

"We'll get them," Brian said. "We'll get them soon enough."

12

Johnny couldn't stand being in isolation. It drove him nuts, not having a TV, not being able to smoke a cigarette, but most of all the damn silence was about to make him mad. In the beginning he had tried to keep it away by making enough noise on his own, by singing, reciting nursery rhymes that he remembered from his childhood or even do some basic math, addition and subtraction in his mind. Anything to keep the thoughts away, to force the solitude away. The solitude that he was so incredibly afraid off and the thoughts he was scared would drive him mad eventually if he didn't keep them out. The isolation cell was smaller than the others he had been in, nothing but a bed, a sink and a toilet in the corner. Food was delivered through a hatch in the door, without a word, without a face behind it. Johnny soon lost time and space and as always slept with one eye open.

To exercise Johnny walked back and forth in the small room, while singing some of his favorite songs. But no matter how hard he worked for it, he couldn't keep the thoughts out. They kept coming back, haunting him, forcing him to face the past he had spent so many years forgetting. When he reached the third day Johnny gave up the fight. He let the pictures overwhelm him and then he broke down and cried. Cried for himself, cried for his baby brother.

It was a familiar story. Two brothers growing up with a drunken father who occasionally beat up their mother. A living room packed with drunks every afternoon when they came home from school, some of them partying all night, entering the boy's rooms at night and touching them, doing things to them they knew was wrong even if it had been going on for all of their lives. It was pretty much the same for all in a place like this, Johnny knew that and therefore he didn't feel sorry for himself. It wasn't about what happened in the past, it was about moving on, putting the past behind him. His brother hadn't been able to do that.

Once the teenage years came and the abuse from strangers accelerated, he started doing drugs that their father provided for them, what Johnny later realized was offered in order to sedate them enough to not resist, since they were now getting stronger and harder to hold down. The younger brother lost it one day - only eleven years old - and ran to the living room, all high on something when he saw his father receive money from his drunken friends. Johnny had run after him to try and stop him from getting himself in trouble and he saw it too. That was when they had realized that their father hadn't just been too drunk to see what was going on, it hadn't happened by accident, all those men night after night. Not only did he know about it, he was the one setting it up. He was the one selling their bodies to those awful smelling men. Angry that they had seen him, the father had run after them with a knife and cut Christian severely, and that was when Johnny had enough. He threw himself at the father and used the only tool that was always at hand - his teeth.

Now - sitting in the dark room waiting for someone to open the door like he had done so many times as a child, scared of what would enter, it brought back all those memories that Johnny hadn't wanted to think about ever since he and his brother had stormed out of the house that night and into the road while their father’s screams filled the night behind them. Not even when he had to sell his body to strangers in the street for money or food, had he allowed himself to think about it or feel sorry for himself. He had done what he could to help his baby brother and keep them alive. Unfortunately he never managed to get Christian off the drugs. When they were living in the streets of Copenhagen, pulling tricks behind the Central Station his addiction got worse and worse and soon he got himself into debt, Johnny couldn't pay. So they stole a car and drove out of town and ended in Karrebaeksminde where they lived in an abandoned house for months, living off the money they stole from purses and picking pockets. It was easier out here in the country; in the big city people were more careful with their belongings. Out here in the small city most people didn't even lock the doors to their houses, so Johnny could walk right in and look for cash or anything of value to sell. Christian got off the drugs momentarily and for a little while everything seemed to brighten for them, until Johnny got careless and was caught robbing a gas station and arrested. He got four months, but when he was released Christian had joined up with the wrong group of people. He was back on drugs and built up a new debt that he couldn't pay. He was beaten half to death one day and Johnny found him at the harbor, between stacks of trash and had to take him to the hospital. After that Johnny thought Christian would stay off the drugs. His parole officer helped Johnny get a job at the harbor, helping the fishermen out by shoveling fish-guts and he was able to get them a small apartment. He got Christian a job as well and soon he hoped the baby brother would get his act together. But Christian went out one night without a word and got high and soon he stopped showing up at work and was fired. Johnny didn't see him for months until one day when he came to his door and told him that he had stabbed a guy and the police were after him. Johnny never got the entire story, but he gave his brother all his money and helped him steal a car. Then he told him to get the  hell out of there.

"Drive all the way to Germany if you have to," he said, knowing prison would kill the brother, knowing being alone with his thoughts would drive him insane in a matter of hours.

Now - sitting on the hard bed in his small cell, Johnny could only hope - and pray - that his brother was still alive and that he himself would be after doing his time in this hellhole.

13

Gunnar cleaned himself up and brushed his teeth, getting ready for bed. The doors were locked at ten. He was sad for the first time in many years. He was sad to have lost Torben, who had been his best friend ever since he arrived at the juvenile prison six months ago. Brian was a friend too, but not like Torben.

Gunnar sighed and walked back to his cell, feeling a mixture of anger and helplessness. He knew Torben didn't deserve what happened to him, he had done nothing to those guys from the East Wing, and he never did anything to bother anyone, unless someone told him to, of course. But he didn't do drugs so he couldn't have owed them, and he didn't sell it either. No matter how hard he tried Gunnar couldn't - by the love of God - see why it was Torben who had to be killed. Was it to scare Brian? To let him know they were coming for him? Were they just moving in on them or trying to get Brian to give over the control of the West Wing? Was there something Brian had kept from Gunnar? Had they given Brian a warning earlier, or was this the warning?

Gunnar didn't understand. But most of all he didn't like the emotions he felt because of Torben's death. Gunnar didn't have a story like the others. He didn't have an abusive father or a drunk for mother. No, his childhood had been happy and stable, with a mom and dad who loved each other - until he turned nine.

He remembered it very well, even if he rarely thought of it anymore, simply because it made him sad and he didn't care much for feeling sad. Gunnar knew that everyone was responsible for their own happiness, and even if he never was very happy, he made sure he wasn't very sad either.

His mother had suffered from a deep depression from that horrible day and hadn't been able to snap out of it again. The day - when he last remembered his mother being happy, was a Saturday in April. Spring had arrived, it was Easter and Gunnar was off from school for a whole week. His parents had taken off as well and they had rented a summer-cabin on Enoe, the island outside of Karrebaeksminde where they lived in an apartment. They didn't have much, but they had enough to be happy. Gunnar remembered his mother decided they were going to go for a walk on the beach after lunch. They were going to eat outside even if the breeze still was chilly, with a sweater on it felt nice to sit outside and be in the sun again after months and months of darkness and playing inside. Gunnar studied a caterpillar while his mother prepared lunch for all of them. The smell of fried eggs still made him sick to this day and he still couldn't stand the taste of rye bread. Gunnar remembered the caterpillar crawling across the tiles outside and he picked it up and let it crawl across his hand and arm. He still sometimes felt that tickling sensation of the caterpillar crawling on him. His mother’s voice telling his dad to go to the grocery store and pick up a few things, still haunted him at night in his dreams.

If he closed his eyes, Gunnar could often replay a video in his mind of his father getting into the Toyota and waving as he drove off with a big smile, making grimaces at Gunnar making him laugh like a small child, which he at that point didn't feel like he was anymore, not until about half an hour later.

The sound of the tires screeching, his mother coming out, looking worried, concerned, almost panicking. Then the screaming, his mother running down the street, Gunnar running after her, yelling "What's wrong, Mom? What's wrong?"

The sound of his own voice echoed still in Gunnar's head now when the guards yelled that the doors were closing and he was yet again locked up with his own solitude and now his new companion, the sadness.

Gunnar threw himself on the bed and cried for the first time in many years. Cried for poor Torben who had bled to death, cried for his dad who had been killed in a stupid car accident where a drunk driver had blasted into the side of his car and killed him instantly on that nice spring morning in April. But most of all he cried for himself, for having to grow up without the dad he had idolized. He cried even more for having to live through his teenage years with a depressed mother who was unable to do the simplest things and whom he constantly tried to cheer up and be happy for even if his heart was crushed and he felt like he was broken on the inside, even if he felt like staying in bed crying all day too. A mother he constantly feared to find dead, feared that she would kill herself while he was in school, a mother who once told him that she wasn't sure he was enough to live for.

Gunnar knew why he had gotten into trouble. He knew very well why he started fighting in school, getting himself thrown out, why he hooked up with the wrong crowd and started fighting and later was arrested for beating someone half to death. He knew why and he recognized the anger at the world for taking his dad and his family away. He just didn't know how to stop.

Right before he fell asleep on this night he knew he didn't want to stop anymore. He wanted badly to hurt those guys and make them pay.

14

So the boy had died. It was most unfortunate, yes, and not part of the man's plan. No, the plan was to save the boy from himself as well as the innocents on the outside that he might end up hurting. No one was supposed to die.

But wasn't it so, that in all good deeds there were losses? Didn’t the famous World War I French Marshal Ferdinand Foch say that it takes fifteen thousand casualties to train a major general? The man thought it was. He was also the man who said that the most powerful weapon on earth was the human soul on fire. He was so right. The man knew that very well. He was on fire; his soul was on fire for this cause. Somehow this death would eventually turn out to not be in vain, it would eventually serve its purpose which was to teach these youngsters a lesson. This death would scare them and make them sorry for what they did. It might even end up scaring them from doing anything bad again. No it wasn't in vain at all. The boy had died with a purpose.

The man nodded while pointing at the doors and counting. "Eenie, meenie, miny, moe ..."

The man hadn't planned on acting again this soon, but it was with this as it was with so many other things in this world. If you were thrown of the horse you had to get back up.

The finger ended on door number seven. Gunnar Thorkildsen. The man pulled down the ski mask remembering what he knew about this boy. A fighter. Arrested and convicted for beating a bouncer at a local club in Naestved half to death even if the guy was twice his size. Motive? Well the bouncer made racists remarks towards Gunnar's friend who was from Pakistan and refused to let him inside his club. Gunnar Thorkildsen attacked him and sent the bouncer to the hospital where he had to have twelve stitches. He had beaten him with his bare hands. The man was impressed. He closed his eyes for a second and braced himself for the fight. This was going to be a difficult one, but the man knew how to deal with those as well. There hadn't been any to this day that he couldn’t handle. This little midget wasn't an exception.

The man found the key and opened the door, careful not to make too much noise. A boy like Gunnar needed to be taken by surprise.

But as soon as the man entered, he realized that he was the one in for a surprise. Gunnar was waiting behind the door and swung his fist at the man and hit him so hard, he actually stumbled a step backwards.

Startled he touched his jaw and felt the blood through the mask. He slammed the door shut behind him and while anger took the best of him, walked towards Gunnar with the stun gun in front of him.

The gun crackled in his hand and he reached out and touched Gunnar with it, leaving his body to shiver, his eyes to grow wide in shock. But in his spasms, Gunnar's leg kicked the gun out of the man's hand and caused it to fly up into the air and land in the corner. Gunnar was fast, as fast as anyone the man had ever attacked. He sprang for the gun and grabbed it before the man could. Now Gunnar was holding it in his hand and turning it on. The blue light flickered before the man's eyes and suddenly he felt the grip of anxiety. Gunnar grinned as he walked closer and the man stumbled towards the door. But Gunnar was faster. He blocked the door and stood with the stun gun sizzling and sparkling in his hand looking like the devil himself. The man calmed himself down, knowing he was much stronger than the boy. He walked slowly towards him, chuckling, letting him know he knew he would never use it. But he was wrong. The man was so very wrong. Gunnar stuck the stun gun right into the man's throat and held it while gritting his teeth, showing the man that he enjoyed this, that he - just as the man expected, liked to hurt people. The man felt the shock waves go through his body and soon the muscle spasms took control. The man managed to grab the boy’s wrists and yank them so hard he heard the bones break. The boy screamed and dropped the stun gun to the floor, where the man picked it up. The boy was on the floor, crying in pain, staring at his hands that looked like they were backwards. His screaming was so loud; the man knew it would only be a matter of minutes before the guards heard him. Perplexed by the sudden turn of events, but yet still satisfied that he managed to somehow give the boy the punishment he so deserved, the man unlocked the door with his key, and then sneaked outside without making a sound. He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the door lock automatically behind him.

The man was long gone before the screams finally forced the guards to leave their coffee and cake behind in the guardroom.

15

"I know who is behind the attacks."

It was morning and Brian had just gotten his oatmeal and sat down, when Johnny came and sat next to him. Brian was happy to see that he was finally out. He had never himself gone to ISO, as they called the isolation cell, but he knew it was tough on most people.

"Where are the others?" Johnny asked looking around as if he expected them to be sitting somewhere else or maybe still waiting in line for their food.

"Torben is gone. Gunnar was attacked last night. Spent the night in the hospital. They broke his wrists, but otherwise, he's okay, rumors say."

"What do you mean 'gone'?" Johnny asked.

"Dead," Brian said swallowing hard to keep the tears of fear and anxiety in place.

"Dead?"

Brian nodded. He woke in the middle of the night and recognized the screams as Gunnar's and was relieved that he at least was able to scream, which meant he wasn't dead. Brian hadn't slept anymore that night and as soon as their doors were opened he found the guy he knew Gunnar usually got his information from, the guy who knew everything that went on in this place before everyone else, for the simple reason that he gave one of the guards a blowjob from time to time in exchange for information. In a place like this, information was king. So were cigarettes by the way, which he also got for his services and sold for a cheap price to the rest of them.

He told Brian that Gunnar was in the hospital with two broken wrists. Brian paid him for his information while feeling relieved that it wasn't worse than that, but still furious that the guys from the East Wing once again had managed to hurt him.

"Torben was killed in his cell the other night. Bled to death."

"Wow," Johnny said.

"I know. We're planning his revenge, and now Gunnar's too for what they did to him."

"You afraid you might be next?" Johnny said with his mouth full of cereal and milk.

Brian sniffled, and then spat on the floor. "I'm ready for them if they dare coming near."

"I don't think it's the East Wing guys, man," Johnny said and ate some more cereal.

Brian looked at him. "What do you mean?"

"I had a lot of time to think in ISO, and I don't think it's them."

Brian scoffed. "Who else could it be?"

"The warden, man. I tell you, he creeps me out."

Brian laughed and shook his head. "You're insane," he said.

"I don't think I am," Johnny said. "There was something he said. When I was in his office and he decided to keep me in ISO for a few more days just for the fun of it, just to teach me a lesson."

"And what was that?"

"He talked about the Muslim countries. How they punished their criminals and then he said that they had a way here to make people understand, to make them never do wrong things again. He asked me if I knew how they punished criminals in the Muslim countries and then said something about us understanding each other."

"I don't understand," Brian said feeling confused.

Johnny looked behind his back and then to the sides to make sure no one was listening in, and then he leaned over to Brian and spoke with a low voice:

"I think he likes to punish the inmates by doing it the 'Muslim way' if you understand."

"Like cutting off the hands if they steal?"

"And put acid in their eyes if they lust after women like Jon, and castrate them if they rape like Ali."

"And cut off someone's fingers if they steal like Torben," Brian continued. "And break their wrists if they fight like Gunnar."

Johnny shrugged. "You get the picture."

Brian sat back in the chair feeling like the entire room was spinning. Could it be? Was the warden really that sick? All he knew was that the warden used to be a professional boxer and that he was a sadistic bastard who liked to see them suffer and put them in ISO even for minor things. Yes, he was probably sick enough, Brian concluded.

"What do we do?" Brian said, feeling sick to his stomach. If this was true, then none of them were safe in their cells at night.

"We reveal him," Johnny said.

"Nobody will ever believe us, if we try and tell," Brian said.

"Then we tell him we'll keep his secret if he leaves us alone."

16

Gunnar came back later that afternoon with a cast on each hand. Johnny told him about their theory and was happy when Gunnar confirmed that there had been only one attacker in his cell last night and that he seemed to be working alone. He could also confirm that the attacker had in fact grey eyes - like steel, and not brown eyes like the boys from the East Wing all had. Johnny was sure of his theory and determined to save himself from being the next victim.

"So exactly how are we supposed to reveal the warden?" Brian said when they were sitting in the courtyard at the bench, smoking cigarettes.

"I might know something," Gunnar said and nodded towards Brian who lifted the cigarette and helped Gunnar smoke. He inhaled and Brian withdrew the cigarette and smoked it himself. Gunnar blew out the smoke and the wind carried it across the courtyard through the air.

"Like what?" Johnny asked.

"Well, the thing is, I hurt him. I managed to get the stun gun from him and put it to his throat. It paralyzed him for a few seconds but not enough apparently. I thought about it in the hospital while they put the casts on my hands." Gunnar nodded towards Brian again and the cigarette was placed between his lips.

"I didn't know this, but a stun gun actually leaves a mark," he continued. He looked at Brian. "Lift up my shirt," he said.

Brian grabbed his t-shirt on the side and lifted it. Gunnar was badly bruised, but between the purple marks was another one, one that looked completely different. It was a bunch of small holes with a red ring around them.

"The ring and the small holes. That's from the stun gun. A nurse told me that."

"So what you're saying is we need to look for a mark like that on the warden's throat?" Johnny said and killed the cigarette under his sneakers.

"If it left a mark like this on me, it must have left at least something like it on him as well."

Brian agreed to be the one to do it. Gunnar said he would have volunteered as well, but with both hands in a cast he felt kind of handicapped. After four days in ISO Johnny was afraid to go back. Brian said he didn't mind, he could take it if it came to that.

It wasn't often they saw the warden, but every day at four o'clock, just before he went home to his wife and kids, he would stroll through the hallways to make sure everything was in place, always flanked by at least two prison guards who would act even more viciously towards the inmates than usual, just to show off to the warden. Often they would yell at them and tell them to behave, even sometimes pick someone innocent and beat him with their truncheons if they felt like it. Normally they hid from this parade, but not today. Today they were planning on being first in line as the warden walked by. This afternoon, Johnny, Brian and Gunnar were going to be taking an extra careful look at the warden's neck.

They all stood outside Brian's cell when the clock struck four and the warden began his stroll. The guards were already talking loudly and yelling at the inmates, telling them to watch out, to go back to their cells and not stand around doing nothing. Most of the inmates crept back inside and sat on their beds while the warden passed, strolled like a king in his parade, Brian thought to himself. Like the naked Emperor who thought everyone was admiring his new clothes.

The comparison made Brian chuckle as the warden came closer. The warden suddenly looked at him. Their eyes locked for a second and Brian was certain he detected just the right amount of viciousness he would expect from this person who had been hurting his friends. Brian stopped laughing as their eyes locked. He felt a chill of anger and breathed heavily to calm himself down, to restrain himself from throwing himself at the warden and killing him with his bare hands. He thought of Torben for a second and clenched his fists hard. The warden walked while staring into Brian's eyes. At that moment Brian was certain the warden could feel his hatred towards him. At least he must have detected something in him, or else he wouldn't have approached him instead of just passing by.

Brian stared wildly at the warden's throat as he came closer. He was wearing a turtleneck, probably to cover up the bruises, Brian thought and kept staring at it. Brian bit his lip to keep from saying something.

Not yet. Not just yet. Let him come a little closer.

The warden walked even closer, now with a smirk on his face, making it even harder on Brian to restrain himself.

"And what do we have here?" the warden said. He walked up to Brian and patted him on the cheek. "Such a pretty boy," he added. "Such a shame it will go to waste in here." The warden held on to Brian's chin and then squeezed it hard like he was angry about something. His nostrils were moving heavily, like he was excited. Brian felt a wave of disgust run through his body. The warden let go of his chin and then started laughing like a mad man, turning his head to look at the guards. As he did, Brian reached up and pulled down the turtleneck.

Brian stepped backwards startled as the warden turned and grabbed his hand and held on to it tight, speaking through gritted teeth.

"Careful what you do, boy."

Brian stared frantically at the bared neck. There was nothing there. There was no mark!

Brian shook his head and felt the desperation arise on the inside. The warden was hurting his wrist. "It has to be you," Brian whispered. "I just know it is you." Not knowing what else to do, Brian clenched his fist and slammed it into the warden's face, wanting to hurt him, wanting to get the revenge he had longed for so long. But Brian couldn't stop. He kept hitting the warden till he fell backwards. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the guards spring towards them in slow-motion, but before they could grab him, he managed to throw in a couple of more punches and a kick.

Then he felt a pain in the back of his head and everything went black.

17

"Forgive me father, for I have sinned."

Johnny chose his words carefully, imitating what he had seen in movies which were the only place he had ever seen a confessional before. Actually Johnny had never been to church before in his entire life so this was all very new. But today he felt like he needed it somehow. He needed to talk to someone.

The priest behind the curtain was quiet for a second, and Johnny wondered if he had done it wrong somehow. Then he spoke.

"How can I help you, son?"

"I don't really know how to do this, but I thought I'd give it a try. So what do I do?" Johnny asked.

"There is no right or wrong way, child. You are new here?"

"Yes."

"Is it your first time in prison?"

Johnny bit his lip. He considered lying, but then thought it kind of messed up the entire point of it all. He was here to be honest, to tell the truth to someone who would have to keep his mouth shut about it.

"No. It's my third. But this time I didn't do it."

The priest went quiet for a second.

"I guess you hear that a lot," Johnny said.

"Well, yes," the priest answered. "But we are not here to talk about others. We are here to talk about you. What did you have on your mind child?"

Johnny drew in a deep breath. This was an unusual situation for him and he suddenly wasn't sure he was ready for it yet. He wasn't quite sure if he could trust this priest to not pass on everything he said. "This is confidential, right?"

"Yes. I'm not allowed to tell anyone what you tell me."

"Okay. That's good."

Johnny considered once again leaving and maybe trying again another day, but there was something that worried him. Something he needed to get off his chest.

"I fear I might be in danger. I fear I might get hurt," he said.

"Okay. Why is that?"

"Well there has been all these attacks on the inmates and ... well I'm afraid I might be next."

"Life is dangerous my child, this prison isn't a safe haven for anyone."

It was a strange answer; Johnny thought and wondered if he dared telling the priest about Brian and what happened to him. Johnny hadn't slept all night since the incident with the warden, afraid that the warden would come after him next. He had to know that they were buddies.

"I'm worried about a friend of mine," he said instead. "He's in danger," Johnny said. "He's done some stupid stuff and I'm afraid he's going to get himself killed or seriously hurt."

"So you feel like you should be protecting him, is that it?"

"Yes. But I can't ..."

The priest went quiet for a little while and Johnny suddenly wondered why he had come in here at all. What did he expect the priest to be able to do? Even if he told him about the warden, he couldn't stop him.

"Do you want to talk about what you did to get two years in here?"

"No." Johnny felt suddenly an eerie feeling. How did the priest know how much time he had gotten?

"Okay. But it is your third time inside and you're how old?" The priest asked.

"Eighteen."

"And how old is your brother?" The priest asked.

Johnny paused. What was this? Did the priest know about his brother?

"Sixteen."

"And you worry about him too?"

"He's more like a twelve-year-old, you know. Mentally he's not very bright. He doesn't know how to take care of himself."

"What about you?" the Priest asked.

Johnny shook his head. "What about me?"

"Who takes care of you? Who protects you?"

"What do you mean? I do. I take care of myself and my brother. I always have and always will."

"Is that why you lied to the police and told them you had stabbed that man, when it was really your brother?"

"What the hell are you talking about? I thought you didn't know anything about me!" Johnny said feeling the anger rise inside of him.

"Does it matter if I know you or not?"

Johnny shrugged. "I don't know. I guess not. I am just a little confused ..."

The priest cleared his throat before he spoke. "But I do feel like it is my obligation to tell you that you committed a grave sin when you lied."

"It was to help my brother."

"Yes," the priest said. "But now your brother is out there in trouble and you can't protect him. He should be the one in here. He should be the one who was punished for his deeds."

Johnny felt infuriated. Why did the priest suddenly meddle in his affairs? This wasn't why Johnny had come to the confessional at all.

"You need to tell the police the truth," the priest continued. "God will know it if you lie. It's wrong to lie, and protecting a criminal won't make up for it. There is no excuse for lying."

"It's hardly the worst thing you can do," Johnny grumbled, but the priest no longer seemed to be listening to what he said.

"A lying tongue is one of the mortal sins, you know," he said. "It's one of the things the Lord hates according to the Book of Proverbs. A lying tongue should be cut off. In Matthew five it says - 'so if your eye - even your good eye - causes you to lust, gouge it out and throw it away. It is better for you to lose one part of your body than your whole body to be thrown into hell. And if your hand - even your stronger hand - causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away.'"

That was it, Johnny thought. "Go to Hell," he said, then got up from the chair. He wanted to leave, he really did and that might even have saved him from what happened next. But he didn't leave. No it was like there was something that pulled in him, a curiosity, a feeling, call it what you want, but it was something strong enough to make him grab the curtain instead and pull it aside.

The sight of the priest's grinning face wasn't what alarmed him. It was what was on his neck, behind the collar that Johnny could only see when he moved.

"What is it my son?" the priest asked.

In another wing of the prison, Johnny woke many hours later. He opened his eyes feeling his heart beat hard. He couldn't remember what had happened after he had seen the red marks and the ring surrounding them on the priest's throat. After a few seconds he realized he was back in the isolation cell. He had a terrible headache and what felt like a swollen throat. Then an indescribable pain in his mouth rolled over him and he let out a sound he thought was a word but it sounded nothing like he had intended it to. He couldn't seem to form the sounds properly. Then he was struck by a most terrifying thought.

My tongue, oh good God, where is my tongue?

THE END

Nibble, Nibble, Crunch

Willow Rose

1

"Could you please just get out of my way?" Agnete said with irritation to her voice. Her six–year-old daughter Emma did as she was told and got up from the couch so Agnete could vacuum where she had been sitting and watching her favorite show on TV. The Powerpuff Girls whined from the flat screen on the wall and Emma stared at it as if paralyzed. Agnete sighed. Sometimes her daughter reminded her so much of a teenager already.

"Can I have some chocolate milk?" Emma asked without her eyes leaving the screen.

Agnete shook her head. "Not now. You know Mommy's busy. I have this entire house to clean before the guests arrive.

Emma turned her head and stared at her with big eyes. "Please?"

"No. Emma. It's only ten o'clock. It's too early for chocolate milk." Agnete lifted the pillows and vacuumed underneath them. Cheerios and crumbs. It was only two days since their cleaning lady Michelle had been there, still the house looked terrible. Agnete regretted not calling her to come again today, but she thought she could fix the place up herself, like she normally did before her girlfriends arrived, but the last couple of days hadn't quite turned out the way she wanted them to. The teachers in the entire country were on strike due to some disagreement about their salary and how many hours they were supposed to work a week. Agnete didn't care much about the details in the conflict; she only knew it meant her daughter had to be home instead of in school. And it meant she had to be home today of all days when Agnete held her yearly lunch for her girlfriends from the boarding school.

It wasn't very often they could meet since most of them no longer lived in Denmark anymore and if they did, they travelled most of the year with their busy careers. Yes, they had all made it very well for themselves; they all had big careers and played a big role in the corporate life of Denmark. Agnete was the only of them who had also married and had a child still while maintaining her career as head of her own PR company. (She was her unique in the group, but it also made it even harder for her to maintain the façade of the perfect life.) Yes, her marriage suffered due to her many work hours, and so did her husband because she was the one pulling home the money. She made it possible for them to buy this small mansion just outside of Karrebaeksminde, close to the forest and with view over the ocean, Smaalandsfarvandet to the other side.

Agnete paused for a second and enjoyed the beauty from her windows feeling good about herself and her life’s accomplishments. Meanwhile Emma was still pleading for the chocolate milk. Agnete looked at her and sighed deeply. She had chubby cheeks and a very round face with small eyes that were staring up at her mother. Agnete bit her lip. Emma's recent weight gain irritated her. It was a constant reminder that she wasn't a perfect mother that she had somehow failed. Now that her girlfriends were about to arrive Agnete felt an urge to hide her away. She really didn't need them to see her chubby and imperfect daughter. The absent husband who was probably cheating (not that Agnete cared) she could hide from her friends. She could tell them they were doing wonderful, she could tell them that they were going to the Maldives this spring and they were as happy as ever and no one would question it. Well maybe they would, but they would never say it out loud. They weren't that kind of friends; it wasn't that kind of lunch.

"Pleeease Mom?"

"No!" Agnete said firmly. She decided it was time to get a handle on this problem and not ignore it anymore. Her daughter was eating too much unhealthy food and Agnete needed to stop it. If she didn't, then this would continue the rest of their lives and be a constant reminder of how Agnete’s failures. Agnete had always been slim and at forty-three she was still well-fit thanks to daily visits to the gym during her lunch break. Emma was old enough to learn self-discipline. It was all about controlling herself, restraining herself and not giving in to what the body wanted. Agnete had learned it at a young age as well. If you want to stay beautiful and have the world admire you, then you have to work for it and if something isn't perfect, then you make it perfect.

Everything can be changed and molded. That was what Agnete's own mother had taught her and that was what she was going to teach her daughter beginning today. So what if she went to bed hungry, so what if Agnete hadn't eaten lunch the last three years, so what if she had to pull yourself through hours and hours of spin-classes and suffer from dizziness and nagging hunger. It was all worth it in the end. Why? Because she was admired, because people looked at her and asked: "How do you do it?" That's when she smiled casually and answered with a shrug, pretending it took no effort at all.

"Please Mom? Just one cup?" Emma said again touching her mother's arm.

Agnete turned her head and looked at her daughter feeling a slight repulsion with her small chubby hands. "No!" she said with a loud voice. Emma's eyes filled with tears and she pulled back.

"Now go to your room and stay there."

With a small whimper Emma obeyed and walked up the stairs. Agnete shook her head and rolled the vacuum cleaner back into the closet where she put it neatly back to its place. She paused and gazed inside the closet to make sure everything looked perfect in there as well in case any of the guests would open it by a mistake, thinking it was the door to the bathroom. She closed the door with a sigh. She scanned the house quickly to double check everything was in place and ready for the guests. The clock on the wall said ten fifteen. She still had an hour before the caterers arrived with the food. Now all she had to do was to make sure Emma stayed in her room and didn't make another mess.

Agnete poured herself a cup of coffee and closed her eyes while drinking it. She rolled her shoulders to loosen them up. Oh she had been so tense lately. Those stupid teachers and their strike. It was all their fault. They caused this stress. She’d been forced to take Emma with her everywhere she went the last couple of days. To think that Agnete had to bring her with her to work was horrendous. It had been hard to focus in the meetings with her sitting in the corner drawing with those fat little fingers of hers, constantly reminding Agnete that she was there, on display for everybody to see her imperfection. It felt like a breach, a fracture in Agnete's character. She didn't want all her employees and her business associates to stare at her fat little face and know that thing had come out of Agnete's lean and tall body. It was simply too humiliating. And now? Now she had to show her to her girlfriends from the boarding school, just because of those ... those stupid, lazy teachers. When Agnete planned the event, she deliberately picked a weekday so both Emma and her husband would be out of the house. But now this ... this infamous strike and Agnete had no way of getting rid of the little fatling. She had even tried to get her nanny to come and take her somewhere, but she had classes (she was trying to finally finish high school that she had dropped out of five years ago - yeah like that was ever gonna happen!). Of course the teachers at the adult learning centers weren't on strike. Only those taking care of kids. Why anyone should strike was beyond Agnete’s comprehension. Those good-for-nothing-lazy teachers should be glad they even had a job with their attitude and this economy. Now no one could even tell when this thing, this awful strike was going to be over. When this nightmare was to end.

Agnete shook her head again and opened her eyes slowly. She drank from her cup and almost choked as she looked out the kitchen window views towards the forest. She coughed and put the cup down. Could it be? Were the gods not done mocking her? She stepped closer to the window and looked up at the heavy grey sky above. Thick white snowflakes were dropping and landing on the new tiles and the perfectly sculptured waterfall with pots of Japanese cold-climate bonsai trees in the backyard, and they didn't melt as they touched the ground. Agnete knew what that meant. It meant the roads would soon be white and slippery and the traffic in Denmark would stop as it always happened. It also meant her guests would probably be late and maybe ... just maybe, so would the caterers. But worst of all; it also meant she wasn't going to be able to show her girlfriends the new garden that her landscaper had prepared just for this event. With the speed those snowflakes were descending it would be completely covered within the next hour, making one of Agnete's favorite songs by Prince Sometimes it snows in April literally true.

"Damn this stupid country and its long winters," she said out loud, stomping her foot onto the very clean hardwood floors.

2

Emma peeked out of the window in her room. "It's snowing!" she shrieked. She jumped down from her bed. "I wanna go play in the snow," she sang while pulling out her snowsuit from a shelf in her closet where her mother had put it after washing it, thinking there would be no use of it anymore this season.

"Winter is over," her mother exclaimed with satisfaction while Emma hoped in her quiet mind that she wasn't right. Emma loved snow. She simply loooved playing in the snow.  There was nothing better than rolling around on the ground, making snow angels and throwing snowballs. And uh ... oh ... the best part, making snowmen ... and of course snowwomen.

Emma started putting on her suit while thinking about all the fun she was going to have in the newly fallen white snow. Her mother didn't care much for it though; it was too messy for her taste. She didn't mind looking at it from inside, stating it looked pretty and all, but jumping around in it, throwing it in the air, getting sweaty and warm inside your suit while throwing snowballs at each other and building an igloo, wasn't for her. That was for Emma and her dad. Oh how Emma suddenly wished her dad would come home early today and they would get to play together. He hadn't been home much lately and Emma missed him. Especially on the long, boring days she spent with her mother while school was closed due to the teachers stretching themselves or something. Emma knew she probably never would understand why her school was closed, but it left her sad since she loved going to school. Not so much because she loved the school, but she loved being away from her mother all day. She enjoyed not having to listen to the small hints and constant comments about her size and weight and not seeing the disapproving look in her mother's eyes every time she ate something. Even if the other kids in school from time to time mocked her for her size, she still preferred that over her mother. Their disapproval wasn't as bad as her mother’s. It didn't hurt as bad.

Emma pulled the suit over her shoulders and pulled the zipper to close it. Then she found her gloves in the drawer and put them on. With a huge smile, she ran down the stairs.

"Mom! Mom! It's snowing," she screamed while almost tripping over her own feet. She ran to the kitchen where she found her mother staring with an empty look through the window. (If Agnete knew it wasn't going to leave a finger print on the glass, she would have touched it in despair.) Emma paused when she saw the look in her mother's eyes while she stared at the falling snowflakes and the yard that was already almost covered.

"Can I go out and play? Can I Mommy? Can I?"

Her mother didn't answer. Emma pulled her skirt. That usually did the trick when she wanted her attention. It would annoy the mother and make her look at Emma with those angry eyes, so she only did it when it was important. This was very, very important, urgent even.

Her mother turned her head and looked at Emma. "What have I told you about pulling my skirt?"

"To not do it?"

Her mother looked at Emma's hand still holding the fabric, a look as if the fabric was made from pure gold. As her mother's eyes fell on Emma's hand, she let go and bowed her head.

"Sorry," she said. "But can I?"

"Can you what?"

"Can I go out and play in the snow?"

"Right now? Just before the guests arrive? I don't think that's such a good idea," she said. "You'll get your hair all messed up, plus you know how you always smell when you come back in from wearing that suit. I don't have time to give you a bath."

"But?"

Her mother waved her hand distractedly. "No buts. I'm busy here; I have enough on my mind. Go back to your room and try not to make a mess."

"But I'll get fresh air and get a lot of exercise. You always tell me to get more exercise." Emma said pronouncing the word the best she could without spitting. "Plus I'll be out of your way for a long time and you can get all the work done that you need to," Emma continued, looking around not understanding what exactly it could be her mother was so busy doing. The house was spotless and she knew her mother had ordered the food from someone and they were bringing it to her.

Emma tried to give her mother the most persuasive look, she knew how to. She called it her "cutie eyes."

Finally her mother sighed. "Okay then. But remember, don't go beyond the hedge, don't go out of the yard, okay? And come back in when I call for you."

Emma found it hard not to jump with joy. "Yay! Thank you, thank you, Mommy. You're the best mother in the world!"

Emma hugged her mother's leg before she sprang for the door.

3

Emma ran as fast as she could into the inviting white snow and threw herself on the ground. She rolled in the cold snow laughing and shrieking in joy. She lay on her back and stared into the sky at the falling snow. She let it fall on her face, stuck out her tongue and caught a snowflake that melted right away. Then she spread her arms and legs out and began moving them, shaping a snow angel. She got up and examined her work with great pleasure. Perfect, she thought. Then she threw herself in a new spot next to it and began shaping a new angel. After making a few angels, as many as there was room for on the small area of grass that she was allowed to play on since she couldn't ruin anything there, she began throwing snow in the air and shaping balls and throwing them at things. She hit one of her mother's precious, almost snow-covered bonsai trees. Then she threw herself on the ground laughing. This was turning out to be the best day yet of her involuntary days off from school. It was even better than going to school.

Snowflakes hit her face and she licked those off that she could catch with her tongue. Then she grabbed a handful of snow and put it in her mouth. It felt cold and didn't taste of anything, but she did it anyway. Eating snow was just something she had to do.

Emma got up again and stared in direction of the forest behind the hedge. She walked closer to an opening leading to the trail that went into the forest. She looked out at the opening in the hedge that always appeared during wintertime when the leaves fell off the hedge and left nothing but thin branches or trees sticking up from the ground. It was easy for a child to push herself through at this time of year. She turned and looked back at the house to see if her mother was watching from a window. Emma didn't see her. Behind the hedge was a big area before the forest began, in the summertime it was a small field of grass, in the winter it formed the perfect place to make a dozen more snow angels. She could make an entire army of angels out there, she thought with delight. She looked at the house once again to see if she could spot her mother in one of the windows, but saw nothing. Then she turned and looked at the perfect area, completely untouched. Not a footprint in it yet.

She thought about for a second or two, then shrugged and pushed herself through the hedge. Once through with only one scratch in her snowsuit from a branch, Emma sprang for the untouched area and threw herself on her back beginning the magnificent practice of creating heavenly creatures on the ground. Emma laughed and squealed with glee as she formed her army. Once it was done, Emma got on her legs and studied her work. It was glorious. Each one was perfectly shaped, Emma thought to herself. If only she could have shown them to her dad. He would have seen the beauty in them. Emma smiled, thinking she would have to drag him out here once he got home tonight. But it would probably be dark by that time. Well they would just have to bring a flashlight; Emma thought and looked up at the snowy sky. The flakes danced in front of her face and she enjoyed the spectacle for a little while wondering if the snow would cover her army of angels before her dad came home. When she lowered her head again to look at the angels, she noticed a small snowball rolling towards her in the snow. It stopped right in front of her feet. Emma smiled and bent down to look at it. It was so perfectly shaped, she thought. Maybe the most beautiful snowball she had ever seen. Where had it come from? she wondered. She looked in the direction of the forest where the snowball had rolled from. There was no one there. There were no footprints in the snow, and no people in sight. Had someone thrown it from the forest? Was someone out here with her in this wonderful weather? Emma took a few steps towards the forest, looking curiously between the trees. Could it be a friend? A friend she could play with?

She took another step and felt a presence. She turned her and stared directly into the face of a small snowman. Emma smiled and tilted her head slightly to better look at it. It had a yellow scarf around its neck, a black hat on his head, two buttons for eyes and a carrot for nose. Its mouth was a piece of black string.

"Now look at you," Emma chirped walking around it. "You're chubby just like me!"

Emma laughed and danced around it while singing the nursery rhyme Ms. Madsen in her kindergarten-class had taught her while gesticulating like they had done back then:

A chubby little snowman

Had a carrot nose

Along came a bunny

And what do you suppose?

That hungry little bunny

Looking for his lunch

Ate that snowman's carrot nose

Nibble, nibble, crunch!

Emma laughed and pretended to take off the snowman's nose and eat it. It seemed to her that the snowman was smiling now. Maybe he liked the song? Emma sang it again while dancing around the snowman, not wondering where it had come from, not noticing that it had begun moving the sticks that were the arms and hands. Emma closed her eyes while dancing and singing, making up her own words for the song.

"Little chubby snowman, I wish I wish, I wish you were alive. I wish you could rescue me from my mother. Little chubby snowman I wish I could play with you all day long. Lalalala."

"Emma?" Her mother’s voice cut through the frosty air. She stopped singing and looked at her new friend. "That's the evil witch," she whispered.

"Emma! Where are you? You need to come in now!" Her mother yelled with that choleric voice that Emma hated so much.

"I better go now," she whispered to the snowman, blew him a kiss before she ran towards the house.

4

"Where were you?" Agnete asked as she opened the door and let Emma inside of the house.

"Stay on the mat. I don't want all that snow inside the house," she said and found a towel. She put it on the floor for Emma to stand on while she took off the snowsuit. Agnete then found another towel and dried Emma's hair. How on earth Emma managed to get so wet just from playing outside in the snow, she didn't understand.

Agnete exhaled, then took the wet snowsuit and carried it down in the basement. When she got back up, Emma had stepped onto the floor and was leaving dirty marks with her winter boots.

"For Christ sake, Emma," Agnete said tiredly. "I told you to stand still."

"Sorry Mom," Emma said with her head bowed.

Agnete smiled. "It's okay, Emma. Just be careful, okay?"

Emma lifted her head and looked into Agnete's eyes.

"Did you have fun out there?" she asked.

"Yes, I did Mommy. I made lots of angels; I threw snowballs and ate snow. And uh ... uh ... I met a snowman."

"A snowman, huh?" Agnete asked. "Where did you see him?"

"Outside, on the other side of the hedge ..." Emma stopped herself.

Agnete looked at her disapprovingly. Then she sighed. "Did you go outside of the yard?"

Emma bowed her head again.

"You know I don't want you to go out there alone."

"I know. I'm sorry Mom. I stayed close to the house, though. I really wanted to make more snow angels and there was a perfect spot on the other side of the hedge."

"A snowman, huh? Who made him?" Agnete asked, knowing her daughter wouldn't be able to make one all by herself.

Emma shrugged. "I don't know."

Agnete looked at her. Then she walked into the kitchen and stared out into the yard. There, on the small hill behind the hedge was a snowman alright. It was facing the house like it was looking at them, it felt almost like it was looking at her.

"Well someone must have made it," she said and dried her fingers in the towel. "Snowmen don't just appear out of nowhere." Agnete stared at the snowman in the distance while wondering. It hadn't been snowing more than an hour and she hadn't seen anyone out there all day. Who had made a snowman this quick?

Agnete shook her head. There was no time for all this right now. She was in a hurry. The food was about to arrive and shortly after the guests were going to be here as well. She turned and looked at Emma. Her hair was wet and unruly, her cheeks red from the cold, she even had a little snot running from her nose.

"We need to clean you up," Agnete said and pushed Emma up the stairs. "Wash your face and put on a nice dress. And for the love of God, try and tame those unruly curls!" she yelled after her.

The guests were right on time despite the harsh conditions for driving. At exactly one p.m. they all arrived in their big cars and fur coats. Agnete greeted them by the door and showed them inside. She hadn't seen Emma since she rushed her upstairs to clean herself up, but figured that she would be down as soon as she was done. As long as she looked decent Agnete didn't care how long it took. She just hoped Emma didn't leave a mess in the bathroom.

"Agnete! Dearest!" exclaimed Frederikke Lyngholm as she approached Agnete. She wore a full-length mink coat and high-heeled leather boots. In her hand she held a basket with flowers and champagne.

"Darling," Agnete said and they pretended kiss each other on the cheeks but in reality just kissed into open air.

Meanwhile more of her old friends drove up the gravel driveway and stepped out of their highly expensive cars. Last to arrive was Irene Gyldenfeldt, Agnete's biggest rival. Irene Gyldenfeldt parked her Mercedes and got out of the car. She too was wearing a long fur coat and high-heeled shoes.

"Oh great. She brought the puppy," Agnete mumbled as Irene came closer, the little white dog under her arm.

"Agnete, darling!" she exclaimed as she approached and they air-kissed. "You look stunning. With a child and career and everything, I don't know how you do it. See I'm more of a simple liver. It's just me and Von Herbert here." She patted the dog on the head. Then she looked at Agnete with a huge smile looking even better than last year. Botox and plastic-surgery, Agnete thought as she greeted the dog.

"Say hello to the nice lady, Von Herbert," Irene said to the dog, but it hardly reacted. "Can Mommy's boy say hellooo?"

The dog replied by licking Irene Gyldenfeldt’s face. "There's my boy," she whined with delight. Then she looked at Agnete. "Well you can't expect a prizewinning purebred to mingle with the common people now can we?"

Agnete laughed aristocratically while showing Irene inside the house. Irene was born to a noble family and felt superior to the rest of the group. It annoyed Agnete immensely and always made her want to show off even more when they met. It had from time to time caused her to tell a lie or five about her own life, but how would Irene ever know?

"Oh it's that kind of a house," Irene said now as she entered. Then she turned and looked at Agnete. "I thought it would be much bigger. But what do you know. At least it’s nice and cozy, am I right?"

Irene Gyldenfeldt turned her head and looked at Agnete. Just as Agnete thought it couldn't get any worse, it happened. Emma walked down the stairs wearing a dress she had outgrown several pounds ago. Her hairbrush was stuck on top of her head and her hair messier than ever.

"Help, Mom," she said and looked at Agnete.

"Now who do we have here?" cackled Irene Gyldenfeldt and looked at Emma. Agnete closed her eyes.

"Just go upstairs sweetheart and I'll come up and help you," she said through gritted teeth.

"Is this Emma?" Irene Gyldenfeldt asked in a high pitched voice.

Agnete exhaled. "Yes that's my Emma," she said and pulled the brush out of Emma's hair, while Emma whined in pain.

"Isn't she adorable?" Irene Gyldenfeldt said and pinched Emma's cheek. "You could just eat her."

"She is and you could," Agnete said and signaled Emma to go upstairs.

"You know what?" Irene Gyldenfeldt said addressing Emma. "I have an idea. Von Herbert here has been cooped up an awful long time and would love to get a little exercise. Maybe you could take him out in your backyard?"

Emma's face lit up. She had wanted a dog for what seemed like forever.

"Can I, Mom?" she asked, jumping up and down, hardly able to restrain herself.

"I think that's a wonderful idea," Agnete said thinking it would give her more time to talk to her old friends.

"Can I show him to my new friend, the snowman?" Emma asked.

"Of course, sweetheart," Agnete said thinking it would be okay as long as she stayed close to the house.

Irene gave Von Herbert to Emma and gave her the leash in her hand.

"Keep an eye on him all the time," she said to Emma. "Never take him off the leash, can you promise me that?"

Emma smiled widely. "I promise. I promise," she said with great joy.

Agnete retrieved the snowsuit from the basement and helped her get back inside of it.

Then Agnete opened the door and kissed Emma on the forehead as she jumped outside, leash in her hand and the dog after her.

5

Emma didn't waste another minute. She ran as fast as she could towards the hedge dragging the small white dog behind her. She pushed herself through the hedge and pulled the dog with her. It whined slightly from being scratched by the branches but soon appeared on the other side. Emma glanced in direction of the forest and spotted the snowman.

"Come on Von Herbert, I have someone I want you to meet."

The dog didn't make a sound but seemed to shiver in the cold as Emma pulled the leash once again and dragged the dog towards her new friend. She waved and called out to him.

"Here I am again, chubby little snowman. I brought someone with me this time." She pulled the dog closer. "This is Von Herbert," she said and looked down at the small white dog that was no bigger than the big rat Emma once had seen in the stables behind her friend Sara's house where she had gone one day to see her new horse. Come to think of it, it kind of reminded her of the rat, only it was white of course.

The dog sniffed the snowman, growled at it, and backed away while baring his teeth. Emma shook her head. "Stupid dog," she said. "It's nothing but a snowman. I'm just pretending it's alive."

What happened next was strange even for a very imaginative child like Emma who constantly lived in her daydreams of giants and dragons and who believed she was in fact a fairy princess and her real mother and father could come any day now and claim her from the evil witch who called herself her mother.

The dog sniffed the snowman once again, then turned and lifted his leg and peed on it.

"Don't do that, Von Herbert," Emma exclaimed and tried to pull it away from the snowman whose bottom was now turning yellow. That was when she realized the snowman was actually wearing shoes. Shiny black leather shoes that the dog was now wetting with its pee.

The snowman suddenly moved its stick-arms and while Emma watched with wide eyes, it bent over, picked up the dog, opened its mouth hugely and swallowed it.

Still with the leash in her hand Emma stared at the snowman. Her body shivered.

" ... Von .... Herbert?" she stuttered.

The snowman's mouth was moving and she could hear something. Oh dear God, dear Jesus, she thought. It sounded, it sounded like teeth, like teeth chewing, crushing the poor dog's bones.

Emma took a step backwards. The leash was still connected to the chewing snowman's mouth, but soon it was cut off and now Emma stood with an empty leash in her hand.

Whimpering she turned around and ran for the house.

"Mom! Mom!" she yelled as she sprang for the door and opened it. Quickly she closed it behind her and locked it. She was gasping for air while still trying to call for her mother. "Mooom!!"

Since her mother never reacted Emma walked across the floor, through the kitchen with her wet dirty boots, dripping on the floor, leaving black marks all over, still holding the chewed off leash in her hand.

In the kitchen she stopped and looked out through the sliding glass doors leading to the yard. She gasped once again when she spotted the snowman thinking about poor Von Herbert. It hadn't moved since she had left it, she was relieved to realize since she was afraid it would run after her and swallow all of them like it had swallowed the dog.

"Mom?" she called again.

She found her in the formal dining room with the guests. They had finished the first course and were getting ready for the next one. Her mother was already slightly tipsy from the champagne they had before the dinner started and the white wine she inhaled during the meal she hardly touched. Emma could tell she was getting drunk by the look in her eyes, a look she had seen so many times before. Especially on days when Daddy didn't come home. It happened sometimes that he would stay away for several nights in a row. That was when Emma knew her mother would get that look in her eyes for sure. Emma didn't mind too much. It just meant her mother would be quieter and not notice Emma as much and then she would fall asleep on the couch, sometimes while crying.

"Mom?"

Her mother closed her eyes and bit her lip. She looked at Emma and at her feet and the dirt she dragged in. Emma fought back her tears.

"Yes, Emma?" her mother said, restraining herself from yelling at her. "What is it, Emma?"

"It's ... It was ..." Emma tried to say.

"Where is Von Herbert?" Irene Gyldenfeldt asked. She got up with an anxious look and glanced around the place where Emma stood. "Where are you boy?" She whistled. "Here lil' Herbert, here little boy."

"Emma?" her mother said with an anxious voice. "Emma where is Ms. Gyldenfeldt's dog? Is it not with you?"

Emma shook her head, whimpering.

Her mother got on her feet. "Emma! Answer me Goddammit. Where is the dog?"

"I ... It ... It was ..."

Her mother approached her with angry steps. "Emma Hermansen. Tell me right now where that dog is!"

"But ... But ..."

"Where is the dog?!" her mother yelled. She stood in front of Emma, steaming with anger.

Emma swallowed hard, before she spoke with shivering voice. "The ... the snowman ... the snowman ate it."

A burning sensation was planted in her face as her mother slapped her across the cheek. Emma felt the tears piling up.

"Emma Hermansen. You tell me the truth now, you hear me? Where is the dog?"

Emma lifted the leash and showed the ladies where it had been bitten off. They all gasped.

"What happened to it?" Her mother repeated. "Did you let go of it? No more lies. You tell me the truth young lady!"

"I was telling the truth. The dog peed on the snowman's feet and then it ate him."

"The snowman ..." her mother said. "The snowman ate the dog? Now that has to be the stupidest thing you have ever come up with. Of all the lies ..."

"But it's the truth!" Emma said stomping her feet in anger.

Another slap across her cheek made Emma cry. "How could you let this happen, you fat little monster?!" her mother yelled. "How could you do this to me?"

"Why won't you believe me?" Emma pleaded while her mother grabbed her arm and dragged her out of the dining room. As they left, Emma heard Irene Gyldenfeldt moan and whine.

"My poor Herbert. I have to find him," she said. "Oh my God he must be so scared out there in this horrific snow. I have to find my Herbie before he is lost in that awful big forest."

As she was pushed upstairs Emma heard the other women agree, but she never heard any of them offer to help.

6

He was a bastard. He knew it and so did the many women who had screamed it at him over the years. But Michael didn't mind. It was just who he was. He was the type who would park his car in a handicap-space because he didn't think they should have the best spots or be in any way favored. He had even once fought a crippled guy for the last table at McDonalds. He got there first, why should he move just because the guy couldn't walk? After all it wasn't Michael's fault the guy was crippled. No, they had to learn the same way we all did, just like the rest of us, he thought to himself while kicking the snow on the trail in the forest where he was walking with Liv. This world wasn't for the weak; it was for people like Michael who understood how things worked.

Michael walked slowly while smoking his cigarette, constantly looking behind them to see if anyone would spot him, spot them walking together.

Liv was pushing a baby carriage in front of her. Inside a baby was babbling. Every now and then Michael would glance at the baby's face as it was about to fall asleep. Nope, still didn't look anything like him. Liv claimed the baby was his, but he refused to believe her. She called him at City Hall where he worked as a Press Coordinator earlier today and asked him to come to her house and talk about his role in all this, in the baby's and her life, but Michael refused.

"I'm not coming, since the baby is not mine. How many times do I have to tell you?" he said and slammed the phone down.

But Liv hadn't given up. She called again and then again and when he didn't answer she called his secretary and since she also used to sleep with Michael she had let her through. Liv pleaded him to at least meet with her and see the baby.

"We can go for a walk," he said as his final offer. He chose the forest because he knew no one would be out in this weather, so they wouldn't be seen. Then he told her where and when.

Now he was walking with her missing out on a great lunch with his colleagues at the restaurant next to City Hall where he normally picked up women in the bar after work. Yes, he knew his lifestyle would someday eventually come back to haunt him, but what did he care? Liv had no proof that he was the father. The child didn't even look like him. Was that small, wrinkly prune supposed to be his son? He didn't think so. If he ever had a son he would be handsome and have a lot more hair than this one.

"I want to have a test taken," she said. "A test to determine that you are his father."

"A paternity-test?" Michael smoked again and shook his head. This was too much. There was no way he was ever going to do such a thing.

Liv nodded.

"Nope," he said and blew out smoke. "I'm not doing it."

She stopped walking. The baby whined and she gave him his pacifier. Two months old and already too demanding for Michael's taste. Too much work.

"Why?" she asked.

"Cause I don't want anything to do with this," he said and pointed in circles around the baby carriage where the baby sucked on the pacifier. "Not with any of it. I don't want to be the kid's father, I don't want to have it visiting me every other weekend, and I don't want it to know who I am. Hell, I don't even want to know that it exists."

Liv turned her head and looked at him with contempt. "How can you talk like this? It's a baby for crying out loud. It's not an 'it' it's a 'he', and he is your son and his name is Jonathan."

Michael gesticulated resignedly. "See I don't care. I really don't. And I'm telling you again; he is not mine!"

"That's why I want you to take the test, so you can see it for yourself," Liv said and began rocking the carriage to calm down the baby who was now fussing.

"But why?" Michael asked. "I don't want to be a part of it. So why even bother? Is it money? Do you need money? Cause I'll pay you to shut up, if you'd like that. I already offered you a boatload of money that you can take now and go somewhere and live happily with the ... with that ... thing in there," he said and pointed at the baby. "You can scream and yell at me all you want to but I'm not going to be the father of this child. Not of any child for that matter."

Liv sighed. "I don't want your stupid money. It's not like I'm asking much here, Michael. Just a little responsibility, that's all. A little grown-up sense of responsibility for your actions."

"And what, what do you suppose I should tell Pernille, huh? Just how am I supposed to explain that to my wife, who by the way can't have children? Do you want me to come home tonight and tell her, that oops, I hate to rub this in your face, honey, but since I couldn't make you pregnant, I went on and did it to someone else? Is that what I should tell her?"

Liv snorted and shook her head. "I don't care what you tell her or what happens to you. I want you to accept your responsibility, I want you to be a father to the child you created."

Michael killed his cigarette under his Italian leather shoes. Then he put his hands in the pockets of his black single-breasted Armani coat. "Well that's not what I want."

"Who cares what you want, Michael? All I care about is my child, our child. I care that he will grow up knowing who his father is, even if he is a prick."

On that last note, Liv sped up and walked with angry steps. Michael found a new cigarette and lit it. Then he walked fast and almost caught up with her. He rubbed his forehead, smoking the cigarette while walking a few steps behind. A few seconds later they left the forest and stood in a clearing with a few big houses to their right. It was a nice neighborhood, one of those Michael always wanted to live in. The forest on one side and the ocean on the other. It was gorgeous.

Liv stopped suddenly, then turned and looked at Michael with fury. "You know what?" she said.

"No, but I have a feeling you're gonna tell me," he said with a smirk.

"You don't even get to be a part of Jonathan's life. You don't deserve it."

Michael shrugged. "Then we agree," he said and puffed his cigarette again. "You don't want me in your kid's life and I don't ..."

Michael didn't finish his sentence before something hit him in the face. Something wet. It hurt his cheek and he lifted his hand to touch it. Snow. Had someone thrown a snowball in his face?

"What the hell ...?" he growled and turned to see who it could have been, ready to give them a piece of his mind. But no one was there. The area was empty. All he could see was a small chubby snowman a few steps away. He looked down and spotted footprints - half covered in new snow - surrounding the snowman. They looked small like they belonged to a child, probably some annoying kid who was now hiding fearing his anger. And what was that paw prints? It looked like they belonged to a small dog. Michael lifted his head and looked at the snowman again. Then he laughed. Some kid - probably the same one who had thrown the snowball - had built a small snow-dog next to it. It looked very real; he thought and smoked his cigarette again while walking closer to study the two snow-sculptures.  This was really well made, could hardly be by a child, he thought. The dog was way too detailed. Michael stared at the snowman while blowing smoke at it. There was something about it that had him keep staring, something weird, something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

"Have you seen this?" he asked Liv. "It's quite remarkable. It has to have been made by some artist or something, maybe it's a gimmick of some sort. But this snowman looks real and so does the dog. It's almost ... it's almost like he's looking at me." Michael turned his head and looked at Liv.

She was frowning. "Could we get back to real life now?" she said. "We were kind of in the middle of something."

"You have to come and see this," he said. "It's truly amazing."

"I don't want to look at some stupid snowman or the dog for that matter. I'm freezing. I want to get back to the car and go home."

Michael stared at the snowman and studied its details; he couldn't take his eyes off of it now. He moved his head from side to side and what was that? It looked like it followed him with the eyes. Did it just move its eyes?

Startled, Michael stepped backwards. "Did you see that?"

"See what?"

"It moved. The eyes moved!"

Liv sighed. "It did not move," she said with a tired voice. "You're being ridiculous. You're such a child."

"No, I'm not kidding. This thing looked at me. It's kind of eerie when you think about it." Michael smoked one last time, and then killed the cigarette in the snow. When he lifted his head, he was certain the snowman moved his head too.

"Did you see that?" Michael said.

"What?" Liv asked.

"It moved its head! While I was bending down it moved its head and looked at me, then when I lifted my head, he returned his back to the same position. I'm certain, Liv. I'm not lying. It moved!"

"So you have no problem calling a snowman 'he' do you?"

Michael stepped a little backwards. Liv stared at him.

"You're shivering, Michael."

"Well it is kind of creepy, don't you think?"

"It's just a snowman, Michael. Are you sure you're feeling alright?"

Michael shook his head. "I'm not sure. Maybe we should leave."

Liv burst out laughing. "Do you mean to tell me that you are seriously afraid of a snowman and his little snow-dog? Really? The big City Hall Press Coordinator Michael Larsen is afraid of a little snow," she said and still while laughing she walked towards the snowman and put her face close to it to better study it. Michael took another step away from the snowman, he wanted to tell Liv to get away too, but he couldn't get the words across his lips. Instead he whimpered something that made no sense.

Liv turned her head and looked at him, and then she tilted her head and chuckled. "You're really scared of this thing, aren't yo ..."

As she spoke the snowman suddenly moved. A face grew out of it and it lifted his branch for hands and grabbed Liv by the ponytail. Michael watched while the snowman pulled it and Liv screamed. Then a terrible noise followed as he watched the snowman open its mouth and reveal a row of spiky teeth.

Suddenly Michael's whimper turned into something useful. Suddenly he was able to scream. He screamed and screamed while watching Liv's head disappear into the snowman. She was still alive; her arms were moving while Michael heard the sounds of someone chewing, of bones being crushed. Oh my God, it was her skull! Michael wanted to move, he really did. He wanted to do something to help her, but his body was frozen. His legs wouldn't move. And when they finally did it was too late. He jumped towards her and grabbed her leg and began to pull. But this force, whatever it was, this force of the devil was stronger than he. It was sucking in Liv's body, crunching her bones; blood was spurting in the air and landing on the white snow, coloring it. Some of it even hit Michael in the face and he cried and pulled on Liv's leg, screaming her name, but no matter how much he fought for her life, it was too late. Crying, sulking, he had to let go of her. He understood in that terrifying moment, that she was already dead. He fell into the snow while staring at this scene and the legs of Liv moving while being swallowed when a moment of clarity came over him:

You have to get away from here. You have to make a run for it.

So he did. He got up, turned and looked at the baby carriage. The baby! I have to save my son!

The snowman was grumbling and growling as it greedily swallowed the rest of Liv. Shrieking and screaming Michael grabbed the handle of the carriage and began to run. Pushing the baby in front of him he ran for his life.

7

Irene Gyldenfeldt was an important woman. Born into aristocracy she lived a rich life and was used to everyone listening carefully when she spoke. People would usually jump if she told them to. It was therefore with great surprise she realized that even though she did find herself in a very unpleasant situation, her old friends from boarding school had no intention of helping her out in her time of need. They all agreed it was terrible that her dog had run off, oh yes how they agreed it was indeed unfortunate - no one proposed to help her go out and find him. One of them even had the audacity to tell her that Herbert probably would come back to the house on his own, if we gave him some time.

So Irene Gyldenfeldt had to do it alone. She put on her full-length mink-coat and walked out in the backyard of her friend's house with cautious steps. She was wearing high-heeled boots that sank into the snow that was coming down so fast, it was now knee-deep.

She stepped out and tried to walk through the snow while feeling the icy snow touch her legs through the thin stockings underneath her dress. Irene Gyldenfeldt wasn't the type of woman who cursed, but had she been, this would have been the time to do it.

Now where did that little plump girl take her dog? Irene knew she had gone behind the hedge, since she had said they went to that silly snowman on the other side that Irene now spotted on the hill. If she knew her little Herbert well he had sprung for the forest as soon as she had let go of the leash. Who knew what kind of atrocities he would encounter in there? Oh he had to be so scared, the poor thing. All alone in those dark trees. What if he had gotten hurt somehow? Broken a leg, maybe and couldn't walk? Maybe that was why he didn't come back to her? Irene let out a small shriek at the thought. Nature was no place for a purebred.

"Von Herbeeeert?" she called out. The sound of her voice was dampened by the thick snow. "Heeeerrbiiieee!"

Irene Gyldenfeldt crossed the backyard with much difficulty in her high heels, but managed to make it to the hedge. She peeked out from over the top and scanned the area. She could see the snowman on top of the hill, but no Herbert. She called again.

"Come here Herbie, come to Mommy."

Irene grew anxious. Herbert had to be hurt, that was the only explanation. He always came when she called. Just like everybody else in Irene's life. Even if it was the men, all she had to do was to say the word, give the call and they were there, ready to service her. It was part of the reason she had never married. There were just too many nice men out there, to settle for just one. Many had tried, yes, they sure had, but none were chosen. Irene had no time for love, nor marriage. She was way too important to have that kind of burden. No, she didn't want it and never would. She was as free as a bird and did whatever she darn well pleased. Marriage and children were only a burden, chains to hold you down. Irene figured that out many years ago. That was after her first - and only - real long-term relationship. Christopher was his name. He had pulled a number on her. The only man she had ever loved turned out to be a phony. The police had told her. While floating on her pink cloud of happiness they came to her house to let her know that Christopher wasn't who he claimed to be. Actually Christopher wasn't even his real name. He was a German player named Hans, known to get rich women to fall in love with him and then get them to sponsor all kinds of impossible projects before her ran off with the money.

Irene hadn't believed them at first, but they had evidence. Pictures of him with other women and a warrant for his arrest. They asked if she would help them get to him. Dizzy by this kick of reality in her guts she had accepted. Three years and she had never seen this coming, she hadn't suspected a thing. After that she never trusted a man again. She was right not to do so. They were all just liars and bastards and the only way to control them and not get hurt was to be the one using them. So that was what Irene had done ever since. Used them and thrown them away. She had many lovers all over the world, in her apartment in Singapore, in her house in Spain, on her favorite island in Greece. She didn't need anyone else. Kids? Well, she had Von Herbert, didn't she? He was so much easier than any child she had met. Even if Irene did look at Agnete with a hint of jealousy, she would never admit it. But she was actually impressed with her. Irene actually meant it when she said; "I don't know how you do it." She really didn't. Juggling both family and career this successfully was quite impressive. And that daughter of hers was truly adorable.

Irene stared at the forest, then at the hill again. Could he have run over the hill? Then she tilted her head slightly. What was that? Were there two snowmen? Yes, so it seemed. Had they been there all the time? Didn't there used to be only one? Irene shook her head. She didn't see well without her glasses. She was shortsighted. No, they had probably both been there all the time. What was next to the two snowmen? That small thing sitting by their feet? Could it be? Could it possibly be her Herbie?

8

Emma watched everything from her window upstairs. Determined to never let the snowman out of sight again, she watched as a man and a woman with a carriage had argued in front of it. Then she saw the snowman shape a snowball and throw it in the guy’s face, and then the man looking closely at it, like her father would do when he saw a car he thought was nice.

Emma had also noticed that the snowman now was accompanied by a snow-dog very similar to Von Herbert in size. Emma tried to knock on the window and warn the couple once she saw how close the man got to it, but they hadn't heard her. With her fist clenched she screamed and yelled to warn them. Desperately she tried to open the window, but her mom had long ago child-proofed the locks so no matter how smart Emma was, she could only open them enough to stick a couple of fingers out. She tried to yell through the crack, but no one heard her. When she saw the snowman pull the woman's ponytail, Emma gasped and sprang for the door wanting to run to them and warn them. But her mom had locked the door to her room as a punishment. Banging on it didn't seem to help.

So there was nothing Emma could do to help the couple with the baby and she was forced to watch as the snowman slowly ate the woman while the man tried to pull her out of its huge jaws that seemed as deep as the pit of hell. Emma cried and screamed, until she finally saw the man run off with the baby. Then she threw herself on the bed and cried in both terror and relief.

Now she stared at the hill and watched as another snowman grew out next to the first one and the dog. She grabbed her child-size binoculars and gasped when she noticed that the second one wasn't a snowman, but a snowwoman. It had a ponytail made from yellow string and was wearing a dress. Emma sobbed while touching the window with the palm of her hand.

That poor woman, that poor dog.

Then she spotted Irene Gyldenfeldt in the backyard. She was walking towards the hedge, fighting her way through the snow in her fur coat and high heels. Emma noticed Irene Gyldenfeldt staring at the snowmen on the hill. Fearing Irene might go too close; Emma began knocking frantically on the window once again.

"Ms. Gyldenfeldt! Ms. Gyldenfeldt!"

Emma crawled close to the crack in the window and put her lips as close in as possible, and then she yelled.

"Stop, Ms. Gyldenfeldt! Don't go to the snowmen. Don't go closer! The snowman is not nice. It's a monster!"

But Ms. Gyldenfeldt didn't hear her. Full of dread, Emma watched as Irene Gyldenfeldt pushed herself through the hedge and came out on the other side. Then she walked up the hill towards the snowmen.

"No! No! Don't go there," Emma yelled while hammering on the window. "Don't go up there. The snowmen are bad. They are evil! They'll eat you. Please don't go up there. Pleeeaasse!"

But nothing helped, Ms. Gyldenfeldt walked slowly through the snow, directly towards the snowmen. Emma grabbed her hair and pulled it. What could she do? There had to be something she could do to prevent this from happening. But what?

Emma stopped. What would the Powerpuff Girls do? They fought monsters like the snowman all the time. They wouldn't just sit in the windowsill and watch. They would do something!

Emma jumped down from the windowsill and ran to the closet. She pulled out several teddy bears and summer dresses before she finally found what she was looking for. She pulled out the big red thing that mommy had put in there in case of a fire. The extinguisher, she called it when she instructed Emma what to do in case of a fire and in case everybody else in the house was hurt or dead. The very thought that her parents might get hurt or die had left Emma traumatized for life, but now finally the fire extinguisher could prove to be as useful as she claimed it was.

It was time for Blossom, Bubbles and Buttercup to unite their powers and fight back.

While screaming out the theme song of her favorite show, Emma now gathered all her supernatural powers and lifted the fire extinguisher and hammered it again and again into the door leaving a huge crack just big enough for her to crawl out of.

9

Officer Johansen wasn't superstitious. He didn't believe in God, Buddha or Allah or what-not, he didn't believe in anything supernatural. In fact he wasn't a man who believed in anything he couldn't see our touch or that could be somehow scientifically proven. His experience as an investigator told him that everything had an explanation.

So when an agitated man came running into his station early in the afternoon with a baby in a carriage telling him that a snowman had eaten the child's mother, he took the news with the utmost calmness. Now Officer Johansen wasn't a man who took reports of a crime lightly or even frowned upon anyone telling him about a possible crime being committed. It wasn't so unusual that someone reporting a crime would claim something supernatural happened to the victim. In fact in most cases that was their first respond when asked what happened. Officer Johansen had numerous cases every year when someone used the excuse that the victim had been abducted by aliens or killed by someone possessed by the devil. It wasn't that unusual. But a snowman? That was a first.

"You need to come," said the man who Officer Johansen knew very well as the City Hall Press Coordinator. His eyes were wide and flickering. He kept blinking as he spoke in a weird high-pitched tone. His usually very nice hair was messed up and from his expression; the officer knew he was out of it. He had seen it before in people who had committed a crime, but still couldn't believe what they had done. Michael Larsen had clearly lost it. The question left now was if he had in fact hurt the girl or if he just imagined she had been hurt. That was the distinction between someone going to jail and someone going to a mental institution.

"You need to come," he repeated. "You need to stop it before it kills more people."

Officer Johansen nodded, looked at the baby, that Michael Larsen had taken out of the carriage and now was holding gently in his arms. Officer Johansen couldn't get the thought out of his mind how natural it looked for Michael Larsen to carry a child. One might even say it became him. Too bad they would have to take it away from him if he had hurt the girl.

"First, let's make sure the baby is safe," he said and signaled one of his female colleagues. "Just give the baby to Louise here and she will take good care of him." Officer Johansen looked at Michael Larsen with his most empathic look, trying to win his trust, enough for him to hand over the baby. If Michael Larsen had hurt the girl, who knew what he might end up doing to the kid.

Michael Larsen looked down at the baby. "He's my son," he told Louise. "His name is Jonathan."

Louise smiled and nodded. "I'll make sure to take good care of Jonathan," she said gently.

"You did the right thing coming here," Officer Johansen said calmly. "We'll take care of you and the baby."

"So will you go the forest?" Michael Larsen asked. "Someone needs to stop that snowman before it kills again. It might be a child the next time."

Officer Johansen nodded while closing his eyes. When he opened them he noticed Michael Larsen's hands were shaking. "Just hand over the baby and then we'll go and take a look at the scene of crime. Can you take us there?" he said. "Maybe you would like to show us?"

Michael Larsen gasped before answering. He drew in a deep breath while Officer Johansen observed him. He braced himself for what was waiting at the scene. By the look of Michael Larsen's face and the dread in his eyes it was ugly. Officer Johansen thought for a second about asking for the forensic team to stand by and maybe have a couple of colleagues go with them. But looking at Michael Larsen he realized he also risked frightening him and then he might never talk or even show them to the scene of crime. He couldn't risk scaring him off. Michael Larsen didn't seem dangerous now; he was much smaller than Johansen and didn't pose a threat. The crime had probably been committed in the heat of the moment, maybe in jealousy, and the instant of insanity had passed. No it would be better to have his colleagues stand by to step in as soon as he led Officer Johansen to the scene of the alleged murder and then they could arrest him. Yes that would be the plan; he thought as he smiled at Michael Larsen who was now slowly handing over the baby to the female officer who took him in her arms, then walked out of the room.

"Now let's go and have a look, shall we?" he said.

10

Irene Gyldenfeldt was tired of snow. Tired of fighting her way through it, tired of it falling in her face and hair soaking it and making her new one-thousand dollar hairdo made by her hairdresser this morning especially for this event, a complete waste of money.

"Oh for the love of  ..." she exclaimed when a big lock fell and hit her in the face. In the distance she could see the snowman on the hill, had it moved since she saw it first? Or was it her imagination? She wished she had her glasses, but she never wanted to wear them since they made her look old. She didn't want to admit her sight was slipping so she only wore them when absolutely necessary and preferably when no one was looking. She would rather be completely blind than be caught with those things on. She had tried contacts at one point, but couldn't stand poking herself in the eye every morning.

She was getting closer now and soon she could see the small dog next to the snowman much clearer. Yes it had to be her Herbie, there was no doubt in her mind any longer that it was her sweet little dog sitting there in the cold snow next to the two snowmen. Why he refused to come to her when she called was beyond her. She would have to give him a hard time about that later. Now all she wanted was to get to the top of the hill, grab the dog and bring them both back to the car and drive back home. She could call Agnete from the car and let her know that they had left. That way she didn't have to show her wet face in front of her friends and suffer the humiliation of them realizing that her hair wasn't her own. It was fake, extensions, and you could tell when it wasn't set nicely on top of her head. Her real hair had fallen off in big lumps since the last chemotherapy and there was hardly anything left to have the extensions hold on to, the hairdresser had said, but damn it if Irene would cave in and begin wearing one of those awful wigs that the rest of the patients at the hospital wore. She was nothing like them, she thought to herself. No, she was the one who was going to make it. She was the one who wouldn't lose all of her hair. She would beat cancer and survive this like she had overcome everything else in this life. Parents who never loved her and a brother who beat her senseless when she was thirteen so she knew her place in the family. A boarding school where the only way to survive was to be the meanest, the cruelest towards others, beating them up, burning them with cigarettes to make sure they obeyed her and never sold her out. Yes the life of aristocracy hadn't always been an easy one, but she survived it, she fought her way through it, step by step, like she was fighting her way through the snow trying to save the life of the only creature in this world Irene Gyldenfeldt ever trusted.

"Von Herbert, you come here!" she yelled not very ladylike through the icy howling wind. "COME HERE!"

But the dog never moved. Irene growled and pushed herself forward while cursing. Spoiled dog who never listened.

As she neared the dog and the snowmen, she thought she heard someone call her name and turned to look, but the heavy snow made it almost impossible to see anything at all. She listened once again, but heard nothing, she turned and walked again. Five more big steps and she was there. "Herbie, mommy's coming," she said. "Almost there now."

The last couple of steps were really hard to take, since the snow had gotten very deep. "Herbie, Mommy's almost there now," she repeated with concern. She didn't quite understand why the dog didn't move at all. It sat by the foot of the chubby snowman, not moving at all. Not even his tail, which always wagged at the sound of Mommy's voice. A dread filled Irene Gyldenfeldt once again. Could he be hurt after all? Was there a reason he wasn't moving?

"Ms. Gyldenfeldt!" A voice shattered through the snow. Irene Gyldenfeldt turned once again and squinted. She recognized the voice as Agnete's little girl Emma, but she might have been wrong.  What would she be doing outside in this weather? Irene wasn't sure, but she thought she saw someone moving across the yard. The voice was yelling her name again.

Irene Gyldenfeldt snorted. That little ... irresponsible ... she was the reason for all of this. She was to blame. Why was she suddenly running after her? She was only going to cause more trouble.

"Stop Ms. Gyldenfeldt!" she yelled.

But Irene didn't stop. She shook her head, then turned and took the last step. Now she was standing in front of the chubby snowman. She stepped to the side and squatted in front of Herbie.

"Sweetie, Mommy's here now," she said, then felt everything inside of her stop. She studied the dog. This wasn't her Herbie. This wasn't even a dog at all. This was a snow sculpture - one that was very well made, very detailed, indeed, but it sure wasn't her Von Herbert. Irene Gyldenfeldt exhaled, disappointed. Nothing but a cruel joke.

As she was about to get up again, she heard a growl. She looked at the snowdog. It sounded like it was coming from the snowdog. Could Herbie be behind it? Irene lifted her head and looked. No, no dog there. A thought too strange to even think out loud hit her. Could Herbie be inside of the snow? Was he covered somehow by the snow and couldn't see, couldn't hear?

Irene reached out her hand to wipe some of it off its face, when the voice screamed behind her.

"NOOOOO! Don't touch it."

But it was too late. Irene Gyldenfeldt felt a huge pain as the snowdog bit into her hand. The sound of its teeth going through her flesh and bones was terrifying. Irene stared in horror as she saw the pointy teeth stuck out in her palm. The teeth had gone straight through.

Irene Gyldenfeldt screamed. The dog pulled its teeth out of her hand. Startled, she stepped back. Blood was running, pulsing out of the holes. Soon it hit the snow and colored it red. Irene Gyldenfeldt was whimpering while staring at her bloody hand. She took another step backwards as the dog began to bark at her, sounding very much like her once beloved Herbert. Irene started crying while staring in terror at the dog.

"Why?" she barely managed to ask, before the dog jumped through the air and sank its teeth into her throat.

Irene felt her body hit the snow and wondered why it didn't feel cold against her cheek, why she didn't feel anything at all anymore. Red curtains in her eyes blurred her vision.

In the distance she heard Agnete's daughter scream her name one last time, before she was flushed away by a rushing red river.

11

Officer Johansen had been very patient, he thought as he parked the car between houses in the nice neighborhood situated close to the forest. All the way there he had listened to Michael Larsen tell the story of the allegedly murderous snowman who had eaten the mother of his child. And all the way he had smiled and nodded with a "Yes, yes ... I see ... I understand," even if he really didn't get why Michael Larsen would spend so much energy on making up a story this ludicrous, when it was obvious to any man - investigator or not - that he had been mad at the girl for wanting him to be a dad when he didn't want to, and then killed her in anger. The question now was how he had done it and where was the body. Johansen hoped he was going to get an answer to both of those questions soon.

"You ready?" he asked, looking at Michael Larsen one last time before they left the car. It was obvious it was difficult for Michael Larsen to return to the scene and Johansen noticed his hands were shaking even worse now. Johansen had been so kind to let him smoke in the car, by an open window even if it meant they were freezing in the car. Michael Larsen was smoking desperately now, rubbing his face nervously. Then he nodded.

"Okay, let's do it."

They stepped out of the car and closed the doors. Johansen looked at the huge mansions he with his low paycheck would never be able to afford and felt a pinch of envy in his heart. His wife Anna would certainly have enjoyed living like this, he thought to himself while zipping his police jacket. Maybe, just maybe if he had chosen another profession, one that could have paid enough for him to be able to afford living here, then maybe she would have stayed with him, maybe she wouldn't have left him for that player at work who drove a Mercedes and had a summer cabin on the island of Enoe. Johansen snorted at the thought of them together having sex in the cabin while laughing at Johansen for being out in the cold with crazy people claiming snowmen could come alive and possessed a threat. Well we all had a job to do, didn't we? We all had a calling, something we were good at, something that made us feel good about ourselves. Johansen did feel good about himself when he caught the criminals, when he locked them up and saw justice be done. It was a frustrating but sometimes very fulfilling job and he had so wished that Anna could see that, could see how happy it made him to help the citizens of his town. "Money isn't everything," he had told her.

"It certainly isn't nothing either," she had replied and that was when he knew they wanted different things in their lives. Johansen was perfectly happy living where he did, doing what he did, but Anna wasn't. Anna wanted the sweet life with trips to Spain and the Riviera; she wanted a boat and apparently a summer cabin.

"The kids have left home, there really is no reason to keep annoying each other anymore," she said on the day she left.

"You never annoyed me," he wanted to say. But instead of actually uttering the words he stared at her, not knowing what to say to make her stay. He thought about "I love you, and I don't know how to live without you," but Johansen didn't know how to get the words across his lips. He wasn't a man of many words and especially not a man who expressed his emotions much. He didn't know why that was. It just didn't feel natural to do so. Not to him at least. Anna on the other hand was an expert in saying what she felt, how she felt and when she felt it at any point of the day or at night. It made her so angry that Johansen never shared his feelings, but mostly it was because he didn't have any. He was happy with the way things were and had no desire for it to change. But it did anyway. If there was one thing Johansen had learned in life, it was that things changed, no matter if he wanted them to or not.

He sighed deeply and let Michael Larsen show the way. After a few steps the air was shattered by a scream so terrifying it made the hairs rise on his back. Not so much the scream itself, but because it belonged to a child.

12

Emma was screaming. The terror of watching Ms. Gyldenfeldt killed by the snowdog made her do it and now she couldn't stop. She screamed and screamed only to stop and get her breath every now and then before she could continue.

She was paralyzed in shock. Ms. Gyldenfeldt was lying in the snow, while the dog gnawed its way through her chest, ripping off the flesh, revealing the ribs underneath. Blood was running like a river into the snow. The dog was growling, making slurping and smacking sounds as it ate its way through her body. Emma wanted to do something, but she couldn't. She couldn't move, and she had no idea what to do, or how to do it. She thought about kicking the dog, but was too afraid. The snowman and snowwoman looked at her while she was screaming and she began to slowly back up, thinking it felt like they were getting ready to take her down as well. But she couldn't just leave Ms. Gyldenfeldt here, could she? She looked like she was dead, Emma thought. Her eyes were still open, but they didn't move, they didn't look at her.

She heard voices and that made her stop screaming. She turned to see a policeman running towards her between the houses. He was yelling while running. Behind him was the man Emma remembered had run off with the baby carriage.

"What's going on here?" the policeman asked as soon as he was close enough. "Why are you screaming little girl?"

"It's ... it ... the ..." she stuttered, realizing her words wouldn't come back soon enough and instead she stepped aside so the nice policeman could see for himself.

He gasped and held a hand to his face in disgust when he saw the half-eaten body of Ms. Gyldenfeldt on the ground. Emma gasped as she realized the dog was no longer eating the body but was now sitting nicely at the foot of the chubby snowman again. All of them looked like ordinary sculptures again.

"But ... but ..." Emma stuttered.

The policeman squatted next to Ms. Gyldenfeldt. "What on earth happened here?" he asked.

Emma looked at the other man and suddenly realized that the policeman, nice as he was, would never believe either of them. Just like her mother hadn't believed her.

"Little girl?" the policeman asked. "What's your name?"

Emma's hands were shaking, her voice trembling as she spoke. "E ... eee ... Emma."

The policeman nodded. "Okay then Emma. Could you please tell me what happened to this woman? Did you see it happen?"

Emma nodded while sobbing.

"Okay, now please tell me what you saw."

Emma took in a deep breath. The policeman was examining the body closer now, walking around it, turning his back at the snowmen. Emma saw the chubby one move behind him. She gasped.

"Don't go too close," she said.

"What was that?" the police officer said, stepping even closer.

"Don't go near them," the man in the long black coat said.

"Go near what?" the policeman asked.

"The bad snowmen ... even the woman and the dog," Emma said. "They look nice, but they're really not."

The policeman shook his head. "I don't understand. Did you see the snowmen move too, Emma?"

She nodded fast praying that the policeman wouldn't go any closer. The chubby snowman was now stretching his arms out, towards the policeman. Emma whimpered. "Please," she said crying. "Don't go too close."

The policeman turned quickly and the chubby snowman returned to its position. Emma was certain she saw a grin on its face, but maybe she was the only that saw it, since the policeman didn't seem to be intimidated by them at all. He smiled and walked even closer, causing Emma to shiver in fear.

"Don't ... it will eat you," she said.

The policeman laughed. "These things? Do you mean to tell me these small snowmen, sorry, man, woman and dog, do you mean to tell me that they are dangerous? Vicious man-eating monsters? I do believe your parents have let you see too many scary movies, little girl. But you do have a great imagination, I’ll give you that. Learn how to use it wisely and some day you might be a famous writer."

If I ever write about this no one would ever believe me, Emma thought.

"Now I need to know what really happened here," the policeman said. He looked at the man in the black coat. His eyes were as terrified as Emma's. "Is this the woman who is also the mother of your child?" he asked.

The man in the black coat shook his head. His cigarette was burning in his hand.

"Then who is she?" the policeman asked.

Emma could detect that he was getting slightly annoyed with all this. He sounded like her mother when she had too much of Emma's chatting about dragons and fairies that she believed lived on their roof. Emma could use a little fairy magic by now. A little fairy dust to change the course of things.

The man in the black coat shrugged. "I've never seen her before."

"Ms. Gyldenfeldt," Emma said. "She was looking for her dog, when she was attacked by ... by that thing," she said and pointed at the snow-dog that now looked like an innocent as any snow sculpture.

"She was looking for her dog?" the policeman asked. He rubbed his beard. "What dog? Where is the dog now?"

"The chubby snowman ate it."

The policeman exhaled deeply. "Okay. Let's try something else. Michael. Where is the body of Liv?"

Michael's hand with the cigarette was shaking heavily as he lifted it and pointed at the snowwoman. "That's her," he said. "It looks just like her. Hair and everything."

The policeman turned and looked. Then he stepped closer while both Michael and Emma gasped. "Oh come on," the policeman said. "I admit it is a very well done sculpture, but it is still ... nothing  ... but just that. A snowman," he said and reached out his hand to poke the snow and show them that it was nothing more than snow. But as soon as his finger touched the cheek of the snowwoman, the policeman's facial expression changed drastically.

He pulled the finger back and stared at it. Then he screamed in pain.

"Aaaarrgghhh..."

He was still staring at the finger that was now turning pitch black. "Frostbite," he said. "I have frostbite. It hurts like hell."

Emma and Michael simultaneously stepped backwards while hyperventilating as the policeman started jumping in the snow, yelling all kinds of bad words Emma wasn't allowed to hear, in pain. Emma watched as the finger turned more and more black and the bite seemed to spread to his other fingers. It was like touching the snow had infected him with something, she thought. Something really bad. Soon his entire hand had turned black. Then a cracking sound followed as the fingers began falling off one by one. The policeman screamed in pain as his entire hand soon fell off and the blackness from the snow spread to the arm, the elbow and soon his shoulder. Next his arm broke off and Emma began screaming again. The blackness ate its way towards his face and as soon as his mouth was covered he stopped screaming and so did Emma. Paralyzed she watched as the blackness spread into the policeman's eyes and shut them down one by one.

Emma was certain she saw all of the snow sculptures grin as seconds later he fell forward face first into the snow.

13

Michael acted quickly. As soon as Officer Johansen had fallen, he ran towards him and grabbed the gun out of his holster. He lifted it and fired three shots at the chubby snowman.

"This is for Liv and this is for making Jonathan motherless," he screamed while shooting at the snowman.

The bullets went straight through and left three holes in the snow. Michael lowered the gun, panting. He stared at the snowman, but nothing happened. It didn't move but it didn't fall apart either.

He looked at the little girl. "Emma was it?" he asked.

She nodded without answering.

"Okay, Emma. You and I are the only ones to know about this, the only ones to live and tell about it. We need to figure out a way to eliminate these snowmen. Now where did they come from? You live nearby? Have you ever seen them before?" Michael spoke without removing his eyes from the vicious snow sculptures. No snow figure should ever creep up on him or anyone else again for that matter. He was determined to stop them by any means possible.

The girl nodded. "I live right down there," she said without letting her eyes drift away from the sculptures either. Like Michael she knew that once you turned your back on them, they would attack. She had seen it too. To be honest he was slightly relieved that he wasn't the only one, since there had been moments - especially at the police station - where he had the feeling that he might have just lost it, that he might have finally gone completely insane. He knew the police officer thought he was just covering up a murder very poorly, but if that made him take action, then so be it.

"When did you first see the snowman?" Michael asked.

"This morning," she answered. "I was out playing in the snow and saw it. It seemed nice at first but then it ate Ms. Gyldenfeldt's dog and that wasn't a nice thing to do."

"I bet you went back and told everybody about it, didn't you. And they didn't believe you?"

"No. My mom thought it was just another of my stories."

"So Ms. Gyldenfeldt came out here alone to find the dog and she was attacked?"

"Yes." Emma paused. "I watched what happened to your wife. I saw it from my window. I tried to yell, but you couldn't hear me."

"Friend," Michael said with grief. The sad truth was that he had actually cared about Liv. A lot even. It was just that his home situation right now prevented him from being with her. Even if he did want to. Even if he did - deep down inside - want to be with her instead of Pernille. He couldn't leave his wife. Who did that? Who left a wife when she had just learned that she couldn't have children? Everyone would think that was the reason, he left because she was barren. But there were so many reasons that he had planned on telling her just before she had the news, but he kept postponing it and now that she had this thing to fight with, he could barely do it, could he? Maybe he wasn't that much of a bastard after all, he thought to himself, regretting having been so mean to Liv. Now he would never get the chance to explain to her that he did it to protect her, to protect Pernille.

"What?"

"She isn't my wife. She ... was just my friend."

"Oh, okay," Emma said, then looked down at the half-eaten body of Ms. Gyldenfeldt. "I couldn't save her," she said. "Just like you couldn't save your friend."

Michael was still panting heavily. Thinking of what happened to Liv made him almost hyperventilate. He tried to calm himself down by taking in a couple of big breaths.

"So what do you propose we do now?" she asked.

Michael stared at the chubby snowman. It still hadn't moved, but the bullet holes didn't seem to have caused any damage either. He debated within himself as to what that meant. He wanted so badly to believe that he had hurt it, that he could hurt the snowmen by shooting them. If not, then he had no idea how else to kill them.

A voice in the distance startled him and for the first time since he shot the snowman he looked away. Someone was approaching. He saw her running through a backyard beneath the hill yelling. The voice was pitchy and sounded alarmed, almost petrified.

"EMMA!!!"

14

She was screaming her heart out. Terrified to the bone by the things she was imagining could have happened to her daughter, Agnete yelled and ran across the yard wearing nothing but her expensive silk-shirt and the skirt she loved so much her daughter was forbidden to pull it.

"EMMAAA!!!" she cried out again.

The sound of three gunshots had startled her, ripped her out of her gentle, slightly tipsy conversation about the newest collection from Manolo Blahnik shoes and the pros and cons of custom-sewn silk underwear. When she heard the first shot she thought it came from somewhere else, but when the second slammed through the air, she got up and ran to the stairs calling for Emma who she thought was still upstairs. The third shot rang out as she stood in her daughter's room with the broken door and stared out the window at a strange man with a gun pointing at her daughter.

That was when she began running. Down the stairs, through the front door not caring one bit about her guests or the fact that she was hardly dressed for outside adventures. The only things she had managed to yell at her startled friends were the words:

"Call Thomas now! Make him come home!"

Without knowing if anyone caught it, she was out of the door, running through the icy snow towards her daughter and the strange man.

"Emma, Mommy is coming," she yelled as she left the yard and came to the foot of the hill.

The snow slowed her down, but never tired her. Her sudden almost supernatural powers came from the maternal instincts that had been awakened inside of her and now fed her muscles with adrenaline to keep going, no matter how steep, no matter how high the snow became. If there was one thing Agnete feared more than Emma getting fat - it was losing Emma to some vile stranger with a horrible childhood and a screwed up relationship to sex and children thinking those two belonged together. There was a reason why Agnete feared that more than anything else in this world.

At only eleven years old, she had met one. On her bike on her way home from the farm where she took riding lessons, she drove past some man walking on the biking trail, some man who apparently had a thing for young girls wearing breeches. As Agnete passed him he lifted his hand and hit his fist directly into her face, causing her to fall off the bike and onto the hard asphalt. She still remembered how it scraped her cheek. The man then came closer and once again drove his fist into Agnete's face causing her to black out. When she woke up she was tied to a tree deep in a forest she didn't recognize even if she knew all the forests surrounding her childhood neighborhood and the farm since she often went horseback riding in them. The man had tied her to a tree and now he was standing in front of her with his dick in front of her face. As soon as she opened her eyes he stuffed it into her mouth and began moving back and forth, while Agnete thought she was choking and felt like throwing up.

For several hours he had used her for all kinds of atrocities that she denied herself the right to think about ever since, before he finally decided to kill her. He put a knife to her throat when he heard voices nearby. Startled, he ran off instead. Afraid he might return and finish the job Agnete hadn't said a word, not even when some nice people found her and took her to the hospital. Not to the police, nor to her parents. The shame and the guilt made her lose the ability to speak for several months and finally her parents had decided to send her away. They picked a boarding school at the other end of the country for her to get as far away as possible from what happened to her. They hoped that she would be able to somehow forget and move on. Soon Agnete started talking again (with a little help from some good friends she made and a nice emphatic teacher) and eventually she did move on. But she never forgot.

"EMMAAAA!"

She was close now and could almost reach out and touch her. Emma hadn't turned her head much to Agnete's concern. She still stood with her back turned and stared at the two snowmen ... two? There were two now? And what was that? A dog?

Agnete froze as she put her hand on her daughter's shoulder and witnessed just what it was Emma was staring at with paralyzed eyes.

In the snow lay two bodies. One was half eaten and looked very much like ... could it be?

"Irene?" she stuttered.

And who was that lying a few feet to her left? Was it a man in uniform?

"Emma. What's going on here?" she said and looked at the strange man relieved to know that he wasn't pointing the gun towards Emma or her, but at the snow sculptures. "Emma?"

"Don't come too close to them, Mommy," she answered without turning her head.

"Too close to what?" Agnete sighed. "Emma, will you please just explain to me what is going on here?"

"It's the snow sculptures," the man suddenly said.

Agnete looked at him. The gun was shaking in his hands. He was sweating even in this cold wind.

"I don't understand."

"I don't expect you to," the man said. "But your daughter and I have both seen it, seen them. And we're waiting for their next move."

Agnete stared at the man in the black Armani coat. She thought she recognized him from somewhere. It took a few seconds before she knew where from. Then she blushed. She had known him, once many years ago. They had met in the restaurant close to City Hall, he had offered her a drink, and she had accepted, then spent the night with him. The next day she had expected him to call, but he never did. A month later she ran into Thomas at a concert and the rest was history. Michael was his name. Nothing but a bump in the road on her way to the life she had now, she thought.

"What do you mean next move?" Agnete said more confused than ever. "Do you mean to tell me the snowmen have moved?"

"They can more than just move, Mommy," Emma said.

Agnete noticed a change in her daughter's tone of voice. She suddenly sounded so adult, so grown up.

"They attack when you turn your back to them," she said like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Agnete's heart was racing now. She couldn't figure out if this was part of her daughter's vivid imagination and a crazy man believing them, or if they were in fact telling the truth. The Michael she had known back in the day didn't seem crazy enough at least not back then, but who knows what might have happened to him since. People could go crazy from one day to the next, she had read. It could be latent, just waiting to be brought to the surface. Agnete decided to give them the benefit of the doubt. There was after all two bodies on the ground.

"Are you telling me that those three snow sculptures killed those two people?"

Michael sniffed. "I tried to shoot the snowman, but made nothing but holes in it. Don't think it did any real damage, though."

Agnete rubbed her forehead. She stared at the body of Irene, then at the police officer in the snow. "We need to call the police," she said. She grabbed Emma by the shoulder. "Come on sweetheart, we need to get you inside. I don't know what happened here, but I do know that I need to get you to safety."

Michael nodded. "That's a good idea. Get out of here, while you can."

Emma turned her head and stared at Michael. "But what about you?" she asked.

Agnete was shivering in cold now; she grabbed her daughter's hand. "Just come with me. I'm sure the man will be fine."

Emma still didn't move. "We can't leave him here. They'll attack; they'll eat him like they ate the dog and his wife."

"Friend," Michael corrected her. "She was just my friend."

Agnete felt frustration rise inside of her. She had an eerie feeling inside that wouldn't go away. It no longer mattered to her what really happened out there in the snow, all she cared about was getting her daughter and herself back in safely. She stepped in front of Emma and squatted in front of her. Emma stared at her with great terror in her eyes.

"Mom, you're too CLOSE!" she yelled.

Agnete didn't even get on her feet before she felt something grab her throat. She sputtered while being choked and tried to scream, to tell her daughter to run, but only spitting sounds left her mouth as she was slowly dragged backwards.

15

"It's got Mommy! The snowman has got MOMMY!"

Emma was screaming from the top of her lungs while the nice man in the black coat stepped forward.

"SHOOT IT!" Emma screamed as she watched her mommy being dragged backwards. "SHOOT!"

The man fired a shot that made such a noise Emma had to cover her ears. The man was blown backwards while the bullet went straight through the snowman's head and left a big hole in its forehead. But that didn't stop it. It still had its long branches wrapped around Emma's mother's throat, dragging her through the snow while choking her. Emma was desperate now. She knew that as soon as her mother touched the snow that the sculptures were made of, she was doomed, killed by the blackness like the policeman. Either that or the snow sculptures would eat her mother, nibble on her skin and crunch her bones. She had seen them do all of those things and she wasn't going to just stand and watch while they did it again. Not to her Mommy.

Michael shot again and made another hole, this time in the snowwoman who looked very much like his friend, but didn't act at all like a friend should. Emma was so scared, her lips started shaking, while she was sulking, calling for her mother. Then she stepped out and grabbed a hold of her mother's waist, but she was too light to stop them from dragging her and now she was being pulled as well. Her mother gasped for air and sounded nothing like her mother was supposed to.

"Mommy?" she cried. "Don't take my mommy! Please Mr. Snowman, please don't eat my mommy."

Her mother was fighting trying to pull out from the branches' grip of her throat, but every time she touched them, they tightened further around her throat and Emma shrieked as she heard her mother sputter and gasp for air. Her head was all red now, like when she got really mad at Emma, like the time she had cut her own hair to look more like a tiger, that kind of red.

"Emma?" The gentle voice of her father came up behind her and for a second she thought it was only wishful thinking, but turned her head anyway and saw him running up the hill.

"Emma, let go of your mother!" he yelled.

Emma didn't obey. She didn't want to let go of her. She wanted to hold her closer than ever, she wanted to hold on to her even if it meant she had to die along with her.

"Emma, let go!"

Emma sulked and whined but didn't let go. Her father came closer and closer until she saw what he was holding in his right hand, something that she suddenly realized might be able to save them all. She smiled and looked up at her mother.

"Daddy's going to save you, Mommy," she whispered, then let go. Emma cried as she watched her mother be dragged away from her, and then threw herself in the snow crying, regretting having let go.

Her dad sprang past her and stopped. He lifted the blowtorch in the air, and then lit it. The flames blew through the air with a whooshing sound. Emma got up on her knees and watched with relief as the snowman's face started to melt. At first it became all crooked, then all the buttons fell off, and then its arms let go of her mother. The long sneaky branches of the snowwoman were still holding on, until Emma's dad turned the blowtorch towards it and blew fire at it, causing its stomach to melt and the head to fall. He even set fire to the branches and cut them off, so they no longer held on to Emma's mother who fell into the snow, gasping for air. Emma ran to her while the dog started running towards Emma's dad, getting ready to jump him in an ambush, when Emma screamed like the Powerpuff Girl she was, and at that instant her dad turned and blew fire into the air melting the dog while it was still in the air. As the snow sculptures slowly melted Emma heard them scream, sounding like what Emma always thought witches would sound like when they died. The water left from their bodies ran across the snow looking much like the goo she often played with, Emma thought. Except it seemed to be smoking, fuming.

"Careful not to touch it," her dad said and Emma stepped back to get further away from it.

It looked like water, only thicker and it had a slight silver tone to it. Emma threw herself in her mother's arms, as they all watched the goo-like water run away and disappear into a sewer-grate.

Emma held on to her mother feeling like she never wanted to let go again and soon she felt her dad pick them both up in his strong welder-arms and carry them back towards the house.

Emma opened her eyes one last time and stared back at the hill and saw the man in the black coat throw the gun in the snow, then turn and run. Emma closed her eyes again and held her mother even tighter.

16

They were out playing in the snow. Peter and his dad hadn't seen each other in a month since the separation from Peter's mother. It wasn't that his dad didn't want to see him; Peter knew that, no it was his mother who had denied them the permission to see each other.

"Yeah like I need your permission to see my own dad," Peter had wanted to say to her. But he never dared to talk to her like that. She was way too scary for that. She had the right to destroy his life if she wanted to. She had proven that on more than one occasion. She could deprive him of his right to watch TV, to play computer or even worse, his beloved Xbox and lastly she was the one who decided if he ever got to see his daddy again. Peter missed him terribly, now that Peter was the only man in the house. It hurt that he had left him with her like that. It hurt that he was no longer there to defend Peter or to do guy-stuff with him, like build things and fight just for fun in the yard.

But now he was finally here. For the first time in a month and Peter was determined to enjoy every moment of it, take it all in. Even if his mother had told him that his father was a prick, a mean bastard and practically done all she could to make Peter think less of him, Peter thought of his dad as a hero. He idolized him. Peter didn't know what it meant to be cheating, all he knew was that he often himself cheated in card-games or when they played memory and his mother always let him do it. So what was the big deal? He thought when his mother told him how his father had been cheating on her. So what?

Peter felt something wet hit his cheek and smiled. His dad was standing a few feet away laughing.

"I'll get you back for that one, Daddy," Peter yelled and bent down to pick up a small handful of snow that he shaped into a ball, careful to keep pressing it from the sides in order to make it as hard as possible.

Then he threw it at his dad, but he ducked and the snowball flew past him and hit a tree behind him.

"Missed me, gotta kiss me," his dad yelled and stuck his tongue out.

Peter growled, then picked up more snow between his gloves and molded another snowball. This time the snow felt much better. It was heavier and easier to shape. Peter stared at it between his gloved hands. It seemed almost like it was glowing, like silver in the sun. When he molded the ball he thought it felt almost like playing with goo.

In the meantime his dad had made another snowball and now threw it at Peter. Luckily Peter ducked and returned the attack with a counterstrike, throwing the ball through the air. The ball whistled as it cut through the icy wind and yes! hit his dad right on the cheek, causing him to fall backwards in the snow. Peter laughed.

"Gotcha!"

He waited, expecting his dad to get up and strike back, but he didn't. Instead he started screaming in terror. Startled Peter ran towards him, thinking at first he was joking, but as he came closer realized that something was really wrong. His father's cheek had turned pitch-black and it was like the skin was cracking, while the blackness spread across his face. Peter was scared and backed up. As he did, he felt something behind him and turned to look directly into the face of a chubby little snowman.

Much to his surprise all Peter could think about in those last terrifying seconds of his life was the nursery rhyme from his kindergarten class ending with the words:

NIBBLE, NIBBLE, CRUNCH!

THE END

Humpty, Dumpty

Willow Rose

1

"I'm not doing it," Ella said and crossed her arms in front of her chest.

Her mother sighed and rubbed her head with her eyes closed. "You have to Ella," she said. "It's not up for discussion."

Ella looked at her mother defiantly. She was biting her lip and felt her cheeks begin to redden.

Her mother looked at her, and then slapped her across her face. "Stop that," she said. "It's going to happen whether you like it or not. You're doing as I tell you, end of discussion."

Ella groaned. The old house sighed as the winds picked up outside. Ella's mother hurried to the window of the kitchen where they were standing and closed it. As she did, she saw black clouds gather in the sky above. The wind caused the house to shake. A vase fell from the top of a shelf and shattered all over the floor. Her mother sighed deeply.

"I have to clean this up. Go to your room. You're doing as I told you and I will hear no more of it."

Ella growled as she walked past her mother and stepped on pieces of the broken vase with her bare feet on her way out, crushing them further and making more of a mess.

Her mother picked up the broom and ran after her, chasing her out the door. "Get out you ... you ... Humpty Dumpty!"

That was what they called Ella. Humpty Dumpty. Everyone did, even her own parents. Why? Well first of all she was clumsy. Always tripping over her own two feet, or walking into corners of tables or hammering her feet into things. It all came down to her sight, really. Ella didn't see very well. She had been born with a defect in both her eyes forcing her to wear brick-thick glasses just to be able to see anything. But even while wearing them, she would constantly bump into things - and people. Sometimes things broke even when she didn't touch them, but simply because she was near. Light bulbs popped, shelves fell down, and windows suddenly blew open and smashed into walls.

Second of all it wasn't just her clumsiness that earned her the nickname. It was also the way she looked that made everyone - even those nice kids in school who tried really hard not to - think of the character from the silly nursery rhyme. See Ella was fat. But not like other kids were fat. She was so round she had no neck at all, it was like her body was one big oval lump, looking just like an egg, making her so similar to Humpty Dumpty himself that it almost hurt. It didn't matter how nice the kids were, they couldn't help but giggle when she passed by in the hallway of the school, and some couldn't help but hum or even sing out loud:

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

All the king's horses and all the king's men

Couldn't put Humpty together again

It's easy to imagine Humpty Dumpty, or Ella as her real name was, having a hard time accepting this as a part of her life and even if it quickly became a natural part of the other kids' daily lives - she suffered tremendously and dreaded every day she woke up in her bed.

Ella wasn't alone in life. She had a family. She had a mother, a father, an older sister named Louise and then there was Jacob. Jacob was her baby brother who Ella loved more than anything in this world. He was the first thing on her mind when she opened her eyes and the last thing she thought about before going to sleep in the old house on Enoe just outside the town of Karrebaeksminde. They lived on an island, a place where only a dozen people lived all year around since most houses were summer cabins and hotels. The island was packed at summertime but desolate and empty in the winter. Ella preferred the winters when she could take Jacob in her arms and walk to the beach and watch the big angry ocean throw its waves up on the sand and leave beautiful seashells for her to pick up. Ella liked the darkness that fell on Denmark at wintertime; she liked the heavy grey clouds and strong icy winds that kept the tourists away. She liked that no people were around to stare at her or make strange facial expressions because of her hideousness.

"You're so ugly people are afraid of you," her mother said with disgust, not wanting to look at her own daughter because she repulsed her so much, because she couldn't understand how such a strange creature could have come out of her graceful body.

At first her parents had thought that something was very wrong with their daughter. She was a normal child at birth, but as soon as she turned a year her body had started to mutate. They did all they could to prevent it from happening. They restricted her diet till she was given nothing but vegetables, but still her body kept growing. On the doctor's orders they tried to give her more exercise. They ran with her at the beach, took long walks in the forest and they even bought her a trampoline so she could try and jump some of that extra fat off. But no matter how hard her parents tried, they couldn't stop the inevitable. Ella was getting fat. It didn't matter that both her parents were skinny, it didn't matter that her older sister was as gorgeous as any model seen in a magazine.

In her room Ella looked out at the ocean from her window. The strong winds made the waves even angrier, she loved how they foamed and splashed onto the shore. The black clouds made the day even darker much to her enjoyment. It suited her mood. She clenched her fist hard and the nails left small white half-moons in her palm. Then she felt tears behind her eyes. Just the very thought of what her mother had told her was going to happen stirred her up inside and forced her to strongly restrain her anger.

She jumped down from the window and walked to her baby brother's room next to hers. The old house moaned and sighed in the wind as she walked on the red carpet in the long hallway. A light bulb popped as she passed it. When she came closer she heard her brother’s gentle babbling and it immediately calmed her down. She opened the door and looked inside. Then she smiled. Jacob was sitting in his crib playing with a small dinosaur making noises with his mouth while gnawing on the pacifier. When he saw her he whined in joy, then stood up holding on the edge of the crib and started jumping with glee.

"What are you doing, you silly goose?" Ella asked as she approached.

Jacob reached up his arms signaling he wanted her to pick him up. "You want out of your jail, don't you?" she said and took him in her arms. Jacob hugged her tenderly with a small shriek. Then he pointed at the window. "You wanna have a look?" Ella asked. "There is a storm coming. I bet you want to look at that, huh?"

She brought him to the window and while standing behind him and holding his hands she sat him down in the windowsill to let him look out. He put the palm of his hand on the glass.

"Feels cold, right? It's because the wind is so cold outside."

Jacob looked up at her and grinned. Then he pointed at Ella. She laughed and nodded. "Ella. Can you say Ella?"

But Jacob hadn't started speaking yet. More than two years old and still not a word only babbling sounds. It annoyed their mother, but Ella enjoyed it. She wanted Jacob to stay the way he was. She enjoyed being the only one who understood everything he told her with his gestures and noises.

"Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere. I'm not leaving you here alone with them," Ella said and kissed Jacob's small nose. "They don't even understand anything you say. I'm the only one who knows that when you touch your throat it means you're thirsty or when you point into the air it's because you've heard an airplane. Mom and Dad are way too busy to notice those little things. If they send me away you'll have to learn how to speak." Jacob looked at her, and then tilted his head. Ella laughed again, and then she became serious. "Just promise me one thing; never ever become like everybody else. Promise me that?"

Jacob grinned and Ella took that as a yes.  The wind had gotten a strong hold on the big birch tree outside the window. Its long, bare branches scraped against the house. The sky above the ocean looked pitch-black and threatening.

Ella lifted Jacob up in her arms again. "Better get you back to bed," she said. "This storm looks like it could be a bad one."

2

They were messing around. None of them really believed in this shit, well maybe except for Peter. He was the one who had brought the Ouija board to their secret meeting place above the gym. Now all four of them were putting their fingers on the planchette and Peter was asking it a question:

"Is there a spirit in the room?"

The planchette didn't move. Michael giggled. Peter looked at Ivan and the rest of the group. "Come on guys, it only works if you're serious about it."

Michael giggled again. Peter gave him a look.

"Come one, man," Michael said. "It's hard not to laugh."

Ivan stared at both of them and fought his own desire to giggle. But Peter would be furious and Ivan feared his anger more than anything. Peter had invited Ivan to be a part of the group, something Ivan had wanted for so long. To be accepted, to be a part of the secret order he had only heard rumors about. It was widely known among the students at Herlufsholm boarding school as the most exclusive group, one you had to be specially chosen to become a part of. Ivan had accepted Peter's invitation and gone through all the initiation rituals that cost him a trip to the hospital and several broken ribs, but that was well worth it now that he had the honor of becoming a full-blown member tonight.

"Let's try again," Peter said and they all put their fingers on the planchette. Peter closed his eyes and focused. "Is there a spirit in the room?"

They all stared at the board. Nothing happened. "We're not doing it right," Peter growled. "My brother used to use this and always received an answer."

Mads was Peter's older brother, the one who had introduced the secret order to his baby brother and passed down the keys to the secret place, thereby making him the leader. He had taught him all he knew, Peter always said. He had even helped him make his first kill. Tonight it was Ivan's first time and Peter had promised to help him follow through, to take his virginity, as they called it.

Peter closed his eyes again. "Is there a spirit in the room?" he asked.

"I don't know about this ..." Michael said.

He barely finished the sentence before Peter leaned over and slammed his fist into his face. Dazed Michael felt his nose and got blood on his hand. Then he grinned and bumped fists with Peter.

"Thanks man."

When they grabbed the planchette again it suddenly moved. Ivan gasped and watched as it moved towards "yes". Peter jumped excitedly from his chair. "We've got one!"

Ivan felt his heart rate go up. He had never seen anything like this before. His background was very academic and he had always been taught that anything not proven by science was bogus and for feeble women who were so bored in their lives that they had to believe that there was more to it than just this forsaken world. To him it was all fairy tales that stupid people (or stupid children) believed in. And if there was one thing Ivan wasn't, then it was just that. Stupid. He was smart. Top of his class. He opened his eyes widely as Peter spoke again:

"Tell us, spirit. Are you good or evil?"

A pause followed where they stared at the board. Then the planchette moved again and they all gasped simultaneously. It moved across the letters spelling out words that Peter put together.

"I ... am ... the ... spirit ... that ... was ... within ... Cain."

Peter smiled and nodded. "Cain killed Abel. That'll do," he said.

Ivan felt a chill crawl down his back. The wind was picking up outside the room and throwing leaves on the windows in the roof above them.

"Dear spirit that was within Cain, we worship you on this evening when we go and do our kill, but tell us evil spirit, where should we go. Who should we kill tonight?"

They all stared at the planchette in excitement as it spelled out a name.

"Lucas," Peter said out loud with a grin. "Who the hell is Lucas?"

"Maybe it means the Lucas family," Michael said. "They live on the island, by the beach. They have that girl; you know that fat little one who looks like an egg."

They all nodded and laughed. Ivan had only seen her once when he and his friends had spend their weekend in a summer cabin on the island of Enoe and he saw her bouncing on a trampoline in her yard as they passed it on their way to the beach. He shivered in disgust.

"Guess it's time to crack the egg," Peter said.

3

"What were you doing in your brother's room?"

Ella's father looked at her menacingly. He had seen her come out of Jacob's room after she had put the baby back in his bed. "You know we don't want you to go in there after he is put to bed."

Ella didn't even feel the pain on her behind when her father hit her once again with his belt on her bare skin. Her mother came upstairs and stood in front of Ella looking at her while she was lying across her father's lap with her pants pulled down to her knees.

"She is doing something to him, Frederik, I just know she is. He’s going to turn out just like her. We have to get her way from him. I'm afraid she has already cursed him somehow and that’s why he's not speaking. Oh, the horror, what if he never speaks? What if she has somehow taken away his ability to talk?"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Marie," her father replied, then swung the belt again feeling a wave of pleasure course through his body.

It left a bleeding mark, but Ella hardly moved. She stared defiantly at her mother while biting her lip.

Her mother turned her head away. "I don't like the way she looks at me," she said to her husband. "She does that all the time. I mean if looks could kill ..."

Ella's father sighed. "I agree that she has been defying us a lot lately, but she is still ..."

"What? Our daughter?" Marie snorted. She pointed at Ella. "That ... thing has never been my daughter." She turned around and walked towards the door. Then she stopped. "Besides you know beating her won't help one bit," she said before she left the room.

Ella's father sighed again then threw the belt away. He grabbed Ella by the shoulders then helped her get up. Their eyes locked for a second. Ella saw how he pulled backwards as if he was afraid of her. Then smiled and caressed her round cheek. "You know I have to punish you when you do not obey us, right?"

Ella didn't even blink. Her panties had fallen to the ground. Her dad stared at her privates. Then he reached over and cupped it with his hand. "You seem perfectly normal to me," he groaned. "Soon you'll grow taller and have breasts like any other girl," he said and lifted her shirt. He touched her chest and squeezed her nipples. Then he kissed them and licked her across the stomach down to her privates. Ella stared at him motionless while the wind picked up outside the windows. In the distance she could hear the waves as they hit the shore. They sounded angrier and more aggressive than ever.

"A storm is coming," Ella said.

Her father lifted his head and looked at her. She looked down and their eyes met once again. He pulled away with a gasp.

"It's going to be bad," she continued.

An anxiety grew in her father's eyes, and then he slapped her across the cheek. She hardly moved. "Go to your room," he said. "And put those pants on, you filthy monster."

But Ella didn't go to her room. Instead she ran to the end of the hallway, found the hatch to the attic and opened it by pulling the string. She pulled down the ladder and climbed it while fighting her tears. As soon as she was up, she pulled the hatch closed. The attic was her favorite place to hide from her mom and dad, since they never thought to look for her there. They would never admit to it, but they were both scared to death of the place. Her mom claimed she had once seen a black man standing in the attic wearing clothes from the eighteenth century and her dad couldn't go up there without feeling a strange, unbearable pressure in both his ears.

Ella never saw or felt any of all that, on the contrary she quite enjoyed hanging out up there, isolated from the world. She went to an old red velvet chair that belonged to the previous owners of the house and sat down. From there she could look out the small window and still see the ocean and the beach. The waves were white with frothy foam. Ella sighed and wished she could bring Jacob with her up there, and then she would definitely live up here between the old paintings and furniture. Why the previous owner hadn't brought their stuff with them when they left the house, Ella didn't know, but she enjoyed going through all their strange things. She took special delight in rummaging through the wooden chest and looking at all the old pictures and clothes in it. It was cool the way a fog always overflowed out of it when she opened the lid and it sounded like it took in a deep sigh.

Ella got up from the chair and knelt beside the chest. Carefully she opened the lid. The fog came and went and afterwards she peeked inside. There seemed to be more stuff every time, she never got to the bottom of it. She picked up some pictures and looked through them. Pictures of a little girl about the same age as Ella. The picture was in black and white. Ella touched it gently. The girl looked back at her. Emma put it back in the chest, and then found a small jewelry box. She remembered having opened it once before. Now she did it again and stared at the pair of earrings on the bottom of it. Green beautiful stones in each of them. Ella picked them up and put them on. Then she went to the old body-sized mirror and looked at herself. But it wasn't her own reflection looking back. It was that of the little girl from the picture wearing the same earrings.

Ella smiled and waved. She had seen her in there before. The girl waved back. Then Ella put her hand on the mirror like she had done once before and as soon as she saw the girl do the same, she closed her eyes. Her body started shaking and she felt how she was slowly filled with something, she opened her eyes and looked at the white smoke oozing through into her hand and through her body. When it was over she lifted her eyes and stared in the mirror only to realize the little girl was gone.

4

They were drinking heavily. Drinking, smoking pot and doing coke while yelling and screaming volatile words at each other. The music was hard-core rap. Lil Wayne sang:

We cop a whip and drop a brick - that's how we do it

Weed, liquor, money, and guns how we do it

Freak bitch to swallow cum like fluid

Then they pulled off their school uniforms and circled each other with naked torsos while grunting and growling.

Peter was the first to make a move. He stepped towards Michael and punched him in the face where he had hit him earlier. Michael was squirming in pain. More blood ran out of his nose. He wiped it off on his bare arm, then went towards Peter and punched his fist into his abdomen that despite of all of Peter's many hours in the boarding school's gym caved to the hit. He groaned and bent forward in pain. Then Michael lifted his leg and kicked him in the face, causing him to fall backwards.

Peter was in pain, but nevertheless quickly back on his legs, delivering a punch at one of the other boys, Ole, blowing the air out of him immediately. Once back up, Ole threw a punch at Ivan and Ivan threw one back at Michael. Soon they were all sweating, panting, catching their breath, and bleeding on the floor.

Peter raised his hand to stop them. Then he took the bottle of vodka from the table and passed it around. They all drank from it. Ivan panted and grinned. He enjoyed this immensely. It left him with a great feeling of being alive, finally for the first time since he had been sent to this school.

It had been hard on Ivan to leave his home and his old school. But since his parents had died in a helicopter crash his aunt who now had custody didn't know what else to do with him. Travelling was her life and she could hardly drag a seventeen-year-old boy with her. Besides he had to finish high-school. It wasn't that it was bad enough to have to leave the house he had grown up in and say goodbye to his old life, it was the fact that he had also lost his girlfriend. Not because he had to leave but right before the fatal crash that killed his parents, Amanda had been taken from him. Not by another boy from school that she had fallen in love with, no by Ivan's own big brother who was home on vacation from business school in Switzerland. Over dinner he flirted heavily with Amanda and later he had Ivan in a closet of his room, seduced Amanda and had sex with her against her will in his bed forcing Ivan to listen to them all night long, moaning and breathing and Amanda crying for help.

The experience had left Ivan numb, emotionless. He wanted to be angry; he wanted to at least feel furious, something, but there was nothing. Not even when the police came to his door one afternoon a few days later and told him that his parents had died, did he show any emotions. When his aunt sent him off to boarding school with the words: at least you'll be someone else's problem, he never even blinked.

But now. In this forum, his life suddenly had new meaning. For the first time he actually felt something. A thrill, an excitement, whatever. It felt good. He was exhilarated, almost electrified.

Peter handed him the bottle and Ivan drank greedily. He could feel the alcohol as it entered his body and dazed his sense of judgment. Then he roared with his new friends, like animals getting ready for their hunt, warning any prey out there, that they were coming.

"Are we ready?!" Peter shouted.

"We're ready!" they shouted back.

"What are we ready for?"

"Ready for the kill!" they answered.

"I can't hear you brothers!" Peter yelled.

"Kill, kill, kill, kill!" they chanted while hammering their fists into the table.

5

Ella felt happy, happy and strong. It was the same thing every time she had been with the little girl from the picture. When they touched each other through the mirror it was like their strengths were gathered, like she gave her something, some kind of power that filled Ella with joy. What the girl did to her, she didn't know, but she liked it. She liked that the girl seemed to like her as well. Most people stayed away from Ella and she never had any friends except for Jacob. The little girl had been her only friend as long as Ella could remember.

She had seen her the first time when she was no more than about a year old and her mother had climbed to the attic (that was back when she wasn't afraid of going up there - before the man and strange footsteps she often claimed she heard) Ella had climbed after her up there without her knowing it and hid behind a big painting. Not knowing her baby was up there, her mother had left again once she found the box she was looking for and shut the hatch. Emma spent two nights in the attic before they finally found her. Her mother used to say that she hardly recognized Ella once she was brought down from there. Marie still claimed she was somehow exchanged with another baby while up there, that the child who came down wasn't the same as went up.

Now Ella heard her mother call for her and decided to come down. Carefully not to be seen she opened the hatch and climbed down the ladder. As soon as she was down, she pushed the hatch back in place and sprang for her room. She barely made it inside before her mother stood in the door.

"You need to take your bath. It's almost time for bed," she said her eyes avoiding Ella's. "I've filled the tub for you."

Ella tried to smile. "Thanks," she said searching for just a small glimpse of affection in her mother's eyes, something she hadn't seen since that day she was found in the attic. Why she hadn't cried or seemed dehydrated was a mystery to everybody in the house, but the doctor assured her mother that there was nothing wrong with her daughter and that she probably just enjoyed herself going through all the fun stuff up there.

"But the swelling?" her mother had asked. "She seems so bloated ever since she was up there."

"It's probably nothing," the doctor said. "Watch what she eats, maybe it'll disappear once she grows a little more. She'll be fine. Don't you worry Mrs. Lucas."

But Ella's mother worried, a lot. She worried that this baby wasn't her daughter that something terrible happened to her real daughter and they were left with this ... this monster. Most of all she worried about what this monster was about to do to them all.

Ella knew all that, she could see it in her mother's eyes. So many times she wanted to tell her that she was still her daughter, that there was nothing wrong with her, but she knew she couldn't convince her mother about something she had to feel in her heart. She couldn't force her to love her.

"You're welcome," her mother now said with a sigh. "Better hurry up, it's getting late."

"There is a storm coming," Ella said again.

Her mother nodded still without looking at her and then closed the door.

Ella undressed, and then ran towards the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel. Her big sister Louise was standing in front of the mirror plucking her eyebrows.

She stared at her little sister in the mirror, and then continued plucking. It looked painful, Ella thought.

"You should do something about yours as well," Louise said. "It would open up your eyes. Yours are so bushy they are almost grown together in a unibrow."

Ella looked at herself in the mirror. Her sister sized her. "Well you need a lot of work, don't you?" she said with a grin.

Ella stuck her tongue out, then turned and pulled the shower curtain revealing the filled bathtub behind it. Then she dropped the towel and put her foot inside of the water. Her sister made a grimace behind her naked body, she thought Ella didn't see. Ella pretended to not have and sunk her tired, heavy body into the warm water.

"Do you want me to set a timer for when you're boiled?" her sister said with a grin. Then she laughed as she returned to plucking. Emma looked at her while biting her lip. She felt her cheeks turn red.

Louise let out a scream as the mirror cracked in front of her.

6

Peter drove the BMW. Ivan sat in the backseat with Michael while Ole sat in the front. They had all put on blue blazer jackets and Freddy Krueger masks they bought online. Ivan's heart beat fast with adrenalin while singing along with Tyler, The Creator's lyrics:

"This is what the devil plays before he goes to sleep ... Some food for thought some food for death, go 'head and fuckin' eat," he sang while nodding along to the music.

The other guys sang along as well. Ivan felt the thrill of excitement as he uttered the words. "I'm tall, dark, skinny; my ears are big as fuck ... Drunk white girls the only way I'll get my dick sucked."

Peter was speeding and ran a red light. He lifted his head and looked at Ivan in the rearview mirror. Ivan grinned. Peter could look like he was completely mad, a true maniac. Ivan loved that. In his hand Ivan was holding The Glove. He felt proud as he stared at it and turned it a couple of times to better study it. He touched the blades with his fingertips and made a small scratch that bled on his forefinger. He sucked the blood off still while staring in awe at The Glove. It had such a history. Ivan had been almost speechless when Peter had handed it to him and asked him to wear it tonight. It was almost too great an honor.

The Glove had been made by some students back in the eighties. They founded the order and came up with the entire idea. Since then it had been passed on from student to student. The glove with blades for fingers, just like the one Freddy Krueger wore in those scary, old movies.

Now it was sitting in Ivan's hands. According to the stories it wasn't the original one since that had been lost many years ago, but a new one had been made. The original students who started the game challenged each other to rape someone wearing a complete Freddy Krueger outfit. They hadn't passed the glove on to the next generation, since it wasn't their intention to make it into an order or a club. It was the students following them once they had graduated who started everything. Hearing the rumors about what the group had done, the next generation of seniors formed the order in their honor and had a new glove made. Every year since then people had been raped and slaughtered by students using this glorious glove. Never had anyone suspected the students at the prestigious boarding school of the heinous crimes. Who would ever suspect the fruit of Denmark's richest families for spreading horror and terrorizing people? No, of course they didn't. And if they did, if someone suspected a student of a rape? Well, it had happened once or twice. But they had the money to pay them off, and they always took the money since they knew they would never stand a chance in court against the boarding school boy's well-paid lawyers.

So the game had lived on for nearly thirty years now and still the order was a well kept secret that only a few chosen ever knew about. Part of the instructions given to any new member was how to make sure to cover their actions up, to clean up after themselves. Therefore many of the killings were covered as a simple fire, tragically costing the lives of the people who were sleeping inside. Or sometimes people - especially women - would disappear mysteriously and were never seen again. No body, no crime, was the mantra. Ivan had heard that the order was good at covering up their tracks, and he was very excited to finally see them in action, to finally be a part of the fun.

"Somebody call the pastor, this bastard is so possessed ... This meetin' just begun, nigga I'm Satan's son," they all sang along.

Peter ran another red light, then honked at a car and passed it with full speed. "Fuckin' women, they don't know how to drive. I should slap her hard across her face with my dick before I stuff it in her throat till she chokes, am I right?"

Everyone in the car nodded.

"I would give it to her in the ass!" Michael yelled. "Booyah! Just like that. She'll scream for her life while I kiss her with my fist. I bet she'll enjoy that, huh?" Michael said and stuck his tongue out while pretending to lick something.

Peter laughed manically while they sped across the bridge towards Enoe Island. It looked dark in the distance, since most people were sleeping at this hour. Ivan couldn't help laughing either. He had never done any of this before, but he was looking forward for once to be the one watching and enjoying the terror in someone else's eyes. Up until now Ivan had been the victim, he had been the one terrorized by his older brother his entire life, but now it was finally his time to shine.

The Lucas family was never going to know what hit them.

7

Marie Lucas was a tired woman. Tired from working all day making sure her kids had all they needed, feeding them, washing their clothes, bathing them. She was exhausted from keeping the big old house clean. It was like shoveling snow while it was still snowing. Every time she was done in one room, she would move on to the next, only to return to the first room afterwards and find it completely ruined again. Exactly where all this dirt came from, she didn't understand, but there were days she was about to give up, before she even begun. She had begged her husband for a cleaning lady, but there wasn't enough money ever since they had bought this expensive, old house at the beach. Marie had often grumbled about it, murmured that if this house was so damn expensive then why is it in such a bad shape, but her husband had told her that it was the location they had paid for.

Marie Lucas hadn't accepted that as more than another of his many excuses for not getting her the help. The truth was that he was stingy and never wanted to spend any money on her or the children. And with the way the housing market was going they were stuck in this place. But Marie never felt good about the house, she never felt comfortable. The house didn't seem to like her either and she was certain it somehow got messed up and dirty on purpose. She had no way of proving this and yes, she knew perfectly well how insane it sounded, but it was as if it made sure to mess up the rooms as soon as she left them, just to annoy her. There was something about this house that made her feel very, very uncomfortable.

But of course her husband Frederik wouldn't listen. He thought Marie was making excuses for being lazy when he came home after a hard day of work and found it a filthy mess. When Marie told him about that terrifying man she had seen in the attic, he laughed and patted her cheek like she was a superstitious child.

But it wasn't superstition. Frederik knew it too, he just wouldn't admit it. He felt it on several occasions, plus he knew very well that Marie never believed in anything beyond what was able to be proven by science. Not until she moved into the house on Lungskyst that her husband bought without even telling her about it.

It was back in the days when Ella was a newborn and Louise was seven, or maybe eight, Marie didn't remember anymore. They had been so happy in their small townhouse in the middle of Karrebaeksminde. Oh how Marie loved that house with its high ceilings and stucco, wooden floors that never were dirty and light white tiles in the kitchen that were so easy to clean, even after the baby smeared mashed potato all over it. Talking about location. Marie always thought their former house had the perfect location especially for a woman on maternity leave from her job as a nurse. She could walk to almost everything. With Ella in the baby-carriage she could go anywhere while Ella napped and she would have time to shop or go to a café with one of her friends and have a coffee and a sandwich.

But then one day - out of the blue, her husband came home one day and told her they were moving. Those were his exact words. "Pack your bags, we're moving."

Startled Marie asked what he meant since she didn't remember discussing moving anywhere. Had he gotten a new job? Had they fired him from the paper or even better maybe promoted him so he had to live in another place, maybe even another city?

But it was none of those. No, he had simply walked past the real estate agency and seen the house in the window. He hadn't been able to take his eyes of it and knew he just had to see it in real life. So he contacted the realtor and she brought him there. Then without even mentioning it or calling his wife to discuss it he signed the papers right there on the spot.

"It was like the house spoke to me," he told Marie afterwards. "The house wanted me to buy it."

Marie cried and cried and begged him to reverse the deal, but she couldn’t change his mind. He always dreamt of living at the beach and that was what they were going to do now.

Marie will remember the day when Frederik first took her to see it till the day she dies. It had without a doubt been very beautiful once, but that was many years ago. Now it was crooked and slightly tilted to the side. The trees and bushes surrounding it were overgrown and it appeared abandoned. It was isolated from the rest of the houses on the island and built closer to the beach than what was allowed now. Marie took one glimpse inside of the hallway, then turned and looked at her husband.

"Please take me home," she begged him. "Please take me back to our own house."

But Frederik would do no such thing. "This is our home now," he said with a gigantic smile. Sometimes she thought he saw something completely different when looking at the house than she did. It was like he couldn't see how awful this place really was.

Now that Marie was staring at the wooden ceilings while her husband slept heavily next to her she realized they should have stayed in that other house, she shouldn't have given in this easily. If they hadn't moved into this godforsaken house she would still have her daughter, and she wouldn't have to be so tired all the time from lying awake all night listening to the sounds of the winds and the house sighing like it was talking to them, like it was warning them.

No Marie was sick and tired of living in this dirty old house, but that wasn't why she was lying awake this night like so many before it. Her eyes refused to shut because she was afraid. Afraid of what this house was going to do to them all if they stayed in it.

A few seconds after the thought left her mind, she got her answer. A sound, a huge crash startled her and she sat up in bed. She shook her husband's shoulder.

He grumbled. "What?"

"There is someone in the house," she whispered.

Frederik moaned. "Oh, not again. I told you sweetie there is no one in the attic, it's just the wind or thunder. There is a storm coming, remember? This is an old house. It's only natural that it has strange sounds coming from the roof. Go back to sleep."

Marie breathed heavily. "But these sounds didn't come from the roof. They came from downstairs."

8

Peter kicked in the door with a loud crash. Ivan had been afraid it was too loud and that the noise would alarm the neighbors, but Peter assured him the place was way too isolated for anyone to hear it.

"Plus the winds are really strong tonight, so if anyone heard anything they would just think it was the wind tossing around a garbage can or something. Don't worry your pretty little head," he said with a big grin. "It's time to paaartay!"

Ivan felt the heaviness of the glove on his hand as he lifted it up and prepared himself for what he was about to do. He still had a nice buzz going from the coke and the booze and it removed the slight feeling of doubt left inside of him, if there had even been any. Ivan was ready for this, it was time.

"Showtime," he said and lifted the glove in the air.

The other boys howled like wolves, and then they walked inside the hall. The house had been beautiful once, no doubt about it, Ivan thought, but it was many years ago. Now it seemed disgustingly dirty and messy. The people living there had to be too lazy to clean it and if there was one thing Ivan loathed it were lazy people. They were all that was wrong with this world, if you asked him (or his late father).

"You do know the story of this house, right?" Michael said.

Ivan looked at him. He didn't.

"Yeah the one about the girl who died?" Peter said and stepped ahead. He was pointing his gun in front of him as they walked. Michael and Ole walked behind Ivan smashing vases and lamps with their baseball bats.

"What girl?" Ivan asked.

"Nothing but folktales and myths my friend," Peter replied.

"But what happened?" Ivan asked. "Was she murdered?"

Peter laughed. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? No it was something about her being really fat and not being able to stop eating. So her parents locked her in the attic to keep her away from food and starve her a little. Just till she lost the weight, you know. It was a long time ago. Maybe fifty or sixty years or something."

"Then what?"

"They forgot about her. Allegedly she starved to death up there."

"They say her soul never left the attic," Michael said making his voice sound creepy.

"So you mean she's still up there?" Ivan asked and stared up the long stairs leading to all the bedrooms. Peter stopped and turned to face Ivan.

"Are you scared little brother?" he asked. He grabbed Ivan by the neck and put the gun under his chin and pressed it against the skin till it started to hurt Ivan. "Cause we can't have scaredypants among us."

Ivan swallowed hard and shook his head, whimpering. "No. Of course I'm not scared."

Peter stared at him, scrutinizing his eyes. Then he smiled and let the gun down. He loosened his grip on Ivan's neck, and then patted him on the back of his head.

"That-a-boy," he said. He started walking towards the kitchen. Michael and Ole continued smashing things behind Ivan. Michael pulled out a knife and stuck it into a painting and ripped the canvas open. Ole took a framed family portrait and smashed it into the floor, then hit it with the bat.

"Feels good, huh boys?" Peter said. "Let out some steam, right?"

"Right!" Michael roared as he ripped open another painting.

Peter stopped at the end of the stairwell. He glanced up, then turned and looked at the people he referred to as his brothers. Ivan moved the knives in the glove, trying to get used to how it felt and trying to imagine what it would feel like once he ripped someone's chest open.

Peter grinned again. "Let's do this," he said.

9

Louise Lucas was sound asleep when someone broke into her room. She was in the middle of some weird dream about the big love of her life, Marcus on a motorcycle who she was about to run away with, and she didn't want it to stop. So when the lights were suddenly turned on in her room and the door slammed open, she pulled her covers over her head with a complaining sound, thinking it was her mother telling her it was time to get up.

But it wasn't her mother's gentle hypocritical voice that spoke to her from the door. And it wasn't her soft arm that touched her shoulder and shook her lightly to get her to wake up. No this was much different and at first it seemed more like her dream was taking a strange and unpleasant turn than rough reality.

"Mom?" she said and turned her head.

"No, not mommy," the voice said.

Louise lifted her head and covered her eyes. A flashlight was aimed directly at her and the beam hurt her eyes. "Who are you?" she asked.

The person approached. When close enough the flashlight was turned and a face was revealed. A face covered by a Freddy Krueger mask.

Louise screamed but not for long. An arm stretched out and a gloved hand grabbed her around the throat. She was pushed backwards on the pillow and she felt the weight of the man on top of her.

"Feisty, huh?" he said.

Louise was kicking and tried to find a way to throw a punch that would knock him off. Her head pounded, her lungs screamed but hardly a sound left her body. Nothing but sputtering. It felt like her entire body had become jelly.

Help me, she screamed inside her head. Mom and Dad, please hear me, please run to help me.

But no one came. In those fatal seconds, Louise even wished for her little sister to come for her rescue. Anyone would do at this crucial point.

While she was still gasping for air, the intruder put his masked face real close to hers. She heard him moan close to her ear, the same way her father moaned so many times when he came to her room at night. Louise stared at the mask with terror, feeling her life running out of her. Was this it? Was this all there was for her? Sixteen years of torture? She had been so close, she thought. Only two years from now she could leave home and never have to look back ever again. Louise felt tears in the corner of her eyes. This was not how her life was supposed to end; this was not how it was supposed to go down. She had it all planned out. Sure her mother would grieve for her and that made her sad, but Louise had to get as far away as possible from this house and especially from her father.

She still looked back with dread at the day he came to her room and gave her a pack of birth control pills. At only thirteen she hardly knew what it was and naturally she asked.

"Just to make sure we can still be close without making any mistakes," he said. Later that night he had come to her room like he always did, but this time it was different. This time he didn't just touch her; he didn't just kiss and lick her places, no this time he did the thing. It had hurt like nothing she had ever experienced.

"Lay still you bitch," the voice said in her ear.

Louise struggled while she felt the grip on her throat tighten. "Pl  ... ea ... se," she sputtered.

Then she felt the grip loosen a little and she drew in as much air as possible, while coughing and slowly catching her breath. Afraid he might try and choke her again, Louise stopped fighting. The intruder moved his body on top of hers and rubbed himself against her.  "I'm not going to kill you ... not yet," he whispered. "You and me. We're going to have some fun first, just the two of us. Would you like that, huh?"

After years of abuse and listening to her father talk like that, Louise knew the only way to be left alone was to play along with their games. She whimpered slightly, and then nodded.

10

Between clashes of thunder and the sounds of the hard pouring rain, Marie Lucas listened to the footsteps below and heard the wooden floors creaking. First she heard them in the hallway, and then she was certain they entered the kitchen. There were sounds of things being smashed blended with voices. But now it was very quiet except for the footsteps. It sounded like they were in the hallway now. Marie felt her knees became wobbly under her body. A flash of light from a lightening lit up the room momentarily.

Marie had gotten out of bed and was standing by the door, leaning her ear against it to better hear. Looking down she realized her hands were shaking.

"Frederik. I'm serious. There is someone in the house. I hear them talking downstairs, they’re smashing things. It sounds like they're tearing the house apart. You have to do something Frederik."

"Mmm," he groaned.

"Frederik listen to me. I know you never believe anything I say, but this isn't about steps coming from the attic or about strange men in old-fashioned clothes. Someone is in the HOUSE!"

Her husband became alert all of a sudden, not because of Marie raising her voice at him, but because they both heard a door slam open followed by their oldest daughter scream shortly before she went quiet. Marie didn't know what was worse. The scream or the silence that followed.

"Louise," Frederik said, his voice trembling.

He jumped out of bed, ran to the door, past his wife and opened it. Marie followed behind him.

"Going somewhere?" a voice said as they went into the hallway. In front of them stood two intruders wearing masks, which Marie recognized from the movies she used to watch as a teenager without her parent's permission. Their empty expression caused a shiver to crawl down her spine. Frederik stopped and looked at the gun one of them was holding.

"What do you want?" he asked. "Money?"

The intruders looked at one another.

"I have money," Frederik Lucas continued. "I have money stashed away that I can give to you. As long as you leave us alone, leave my daughter alone."

Marie stared at her husband. "You have money?" she asked. "You've been hiding money from me?"

Frederik gave her a look that told her to shut up. "Not now, Marie, okay? I'm trying to get them to not hurt Louise."

The two intruders laughed.

"That's very nice and all," the one with the gun said. "But the thing is, we can't promise you that. As a matter of fact we can only promise you the complete opposite. We will hurt her, a lot, and we will certainly hurt you too." He titled his head and looked at Marie.

Looking into the mask's empty eyes made her gasp.

"What ... what are you going to do?" she asked. "What ... What ... What will happen to us?"

She sensed the face behind the expressionless mask smiled. Then the other intruder stepped towards them, lifted his baseball bat and smashed it into the side of Frederik's head.

Marie shrieked as her husband fell to the ground next to her, bleeding heavily from the head wound from the bat. She gasped and whined:

"Frederik?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Looks like Frederik's out," the voice behind the mask said.

Marie kneeled next to her husband, feeling his neck and luckily found a pulse. Relieved she looked up at the faceless intruders.

"You sick bastards," she said. "You'll pay for this. Mark my words; you're going to roast in hell for this."

Then she felt someone pull her hair hard and then nothing but pain in a sea of too bright stars as the bat smashed into the back of her skull.

11

When Frederik Lucas opened his eyes he was looking directly at his oldest daughter. They had all been brought down to the kitchen, he realized as soon as he was able to focus again. Then he wished he was blind.

In front of him, on the kitchen table lay his daughter Louise with her legs spread and someone was on top of her, yanking, pushing himself against her, raping her while someone else held her down with a glove of knives next to her throat. Around her stood what appeared to be three guys wearing the same masks and was cheering the one on top of Louise on.

Frederik growled, wanted to yell and scream, but realized he had been gagged with a pair of his own socks in his mouth and duct tape across his lips. He had the taste of blood in his mouth and his head hurt like crazy. His hands were tied behind his back with what felt like more duct tape. His eyes were fixated on his poor daughter being molested in front of him. He felt paralyzed, struck by shock and the terror of this situation.

Louise cried and screamed while the men laughed and beat her. Frederik Lucas felt helpless. Listening to her cries for help, made him cry as well. Tears ran down his cheeks as he watched his beloved daughter hurt by these monsters.

Frederik Lucas loved his daughter. He truly did. He truly regretted all the pain he had imposed upon her. Frederik Lucas had tried again and again to stop, but every time he had slipped and fallen of the wagon. It was a drug, really. He was addicted to her, to having his way with her. But he hated himself for it, every day he looked in the mirror and loathed himself for what he had done to her.

It had begun when she was no more than a few years old. Bathing her in the tub had become a special event for Frederik, being close to his beloved daughter was something he found difficult to live without. He would hold her naked body close to his and then put her in the water where he would wash her thoroughly. To his surprise he found that he liked it. He liked to touch her. The bathing continued for years but eventually she grew too big to be washed and he had to find other ways to be close to his daughter in the same manner as he had gotten used to, almost addicted to. He simply couldn't stop. So he had begun coming to her room to tuck her in at night and in the beginning told her that he needed to make sure she was clean, that she had washed herself properly. Soon he would tell her it wasn't good enough, and then he would use his own cloth to rinse her off. In time he got more and more comfortable with her and as she seemed to like it as well, he had continued. He had asked her if he could kiss her and then lick her places and she hadn't said no.

The rest was history. Now lying on this dirty kitchen floor looking at her being molested he felt the horrifying feeling of remorse and regret. He now realized what he already knew, but never wanted to admit, that he had in fact hurt his daughter in the worst way possible. He had damaged her for life and there was no way he could repent himself. There was no way to make it up for her.

Frederik Lucas felt disgust towards himself and at that point didn't mind if these intruders would just kill him right away. Preferably first so he wouldn't have to watch this scene of pure horror any longer.

At that moment Frederik Lucas wept for himself, his soul that was going to burn in hell and for his daughter who would never get to know life, what it would be like without abuse.

What have I done? he thought, whimpering to himself. What have I done?

Turmoil seemed to have erupted between the intruders, but Frederik couldn't focus enough to figure out what it was about. Then he saw one of the intruders lift the glove into the air. The blades reflected the light as lightening struck nearby. Then his daughter's scream changed from incoherent to sounding like an animal getting hurt, and Frederik watched in terror as the faceless men ripped her chest open with the clawed glove. He closed his eyes in agony while everything was screaming inside of him.

Oh God, please, please God, don't. Don't force me to watch this. Please sweet Jesus, have mercy on her soul.

12

Ivan hesitated. Peter looked at him expectantly.

"Come on, do it," he said.

Ivan's heart was pounding so hard it almost hurt. His hands felt sweaty inside of the glove. He had lifted it in the air and was ready to stab the girl on the table with it, but then he stopped. He didn't understand why. He wanted this. He had wanted to go on with this killing, to finally do this. But at the moment when he had lifted the glove, the girl turned her head and looked at him. The pain in those eyes had stirred something up inside of him. Some kind of empathy he didn't want to feel.

"Do it, Ivan," the boys kept saying. Even Michael who was still on top of the girl, riding her. "Do it Ivan," he yelled. "Kill her while I fuck her. Do it!"

Ivan felt intrigued, enthralled. He really did. He really wanted to do as they said. After all that was why they had come, that was why they had broken into this house. To take his virginity, to help him make his first kill.

But something in her eyes made him hesitate. Doubt was creeping up on him like a thief in the night, stealing his courage, stealing his will to fulfill his mission. Ivan felt drops of sweat drip roll across his face as he stared at the girl.

"Do it, do it, do it," his order-brothers chanted endlessly. Their eyes stared at him, light sparkling in them, mouths grinning.

Peter put a hand on his shoulder. "The first time is the hardest. After that it gets easier every time," he whispered.

"Come on, man. Just do it," Michael growled. "I can't hold back much longer!"

Ivan's hand was shaking, causing the blades to rattle. He was breathing heavily, almost hyperventilating. He looked down at the girl again. Her face was torn in agony. Michael was holding his hand over her mouth. Her eyes begged Ivan to not do it. Then Ivan looked at the parents on the floor next to them. The mother was still unconscious, but the father seemed awake. His eyes were open for a short second, then he shut them again, then he opened them again, like he thought it would all go away if only he woke up from this nightmare. He didn't seem to fully understand what was going on around him.

"You have to do it," Peter said with firm voice. "The longer you wait the harder it gets. It's now, Ivan. Just lift the glove and slide it across her chest, rip her open."

"Rip, rip, rip, rip," the brothers chanted.

Ivan bit his lip till it bled and he tasted blood in his mouth. The room was spinning now. The coke, the alcohol was wearing off; it was losing its grip on him. He heard the voices become distant and now there was nothing but him and the girl. He looked into her begging eyes again. Then he breathed heavily moving the blades back and forth, preparing himself for the sensation of them going through the flesh, preparing himself for the screams, the blood, trying to imagine how it was going to feel. Was he going to like it? Did he have it in him to like it? Or was he as weak and feeble as his older brother always accused him of being? Would he feel bad? Would he dream about it night after night afterwards? Was he going to be scared of her ghost coming to haunt him, or of getting caught? No, that wasn't why he hesitated.

Peter shook his head disappointedly. Ivan licked off more blood from his lip. He had always thought he would enjoy killing, that he would enjoy having the power of life and death in his hands.

"There is really nothing to think about, Ivan," Peter continued. "You just do it. That's it. Just do it and it's all over."

"Yeah, what are you afraid of?" Ole said.

Peter stared at him, then took a step closer to him and threw a punch at his face. "Don't mock him just because he's a first timer. As far as I remember you weren't such a big shot when you had to do your first kill either."

Ole withdrew like a beaten dog. Peter had broken his lip and it was bleeding heavily. Ole found a towel and held it against the wound. Peter grinned and turned to look at Ivan again.

"So what's it gonna be?" he said. "Are you in or out?"

Ivan licked off pearls of sweat from his upper lip. The salt mingled well with the iron taste from the blood.

Ivan pictured his father's and mother's face before him, and how disappointed they would have been had they seen him like this. If there was a life after death, were they looking at him disapprovingly now?

Only his older brother would understand, he would even be proud of him, when he told him what he had done. Ivan's brother had never killed anyone, only raped the maids and their dad's secretary or an occasional girl he found at a local bar. That was his thing. To seduce girls and then rape them. But never kill. That far exceeded anything he had done. It would hopefully even impress him.

Ivan drew in a deep breath, swung the glove up high before he let all the knives come down in a shining arc and cut through the flesh of the girl's chest.

13

Marie Lucas opened her eyes when she heard her daughter scream.

"Louise?" she mumbled still in a daze, but the very thought of her daughter in danger made her come back to real life, fast. "Louise?" she said again a little louder and opened her eyes.

Then she screamed. Screamed in terror and fright. On the kitchen table, the very same they usually enjoyed their breakfast together before everybody went to school and work, lay her daughter. The realization of what she was actually looking at made Marie's stomach roll. She screamed till her lungs were burning. Her hands were tied up behind her back and she fought unsuccessfully to break loose. She had to stop screaming to inhale and being quiet - even if it was only for a few seconds - forced her to hear her daughter's half-choked screams. The sound of her blood dripping from the table onto the floor was so loud it threatened to burst her eardrums. Oh the pain, the agony of knowing, of watching this happen to her daughter and not being able to do anything about it.

So she did what she could do. She screamed again, screamed her daughter's name, screamed at the intruders to stop, and screamed to drown out every other sound.

"Oh, please, please don't hurt her. PLEASE!!"

A pair of legs turned around and walked towards her. A hand grabbed her by the hair and pulled her up. She was now standing on her tied up legs, and then dragged by the hair towards the kitchen table.

"Look," said the voice from the intruder holding her hair.

Marie Lucas did as she was told. Whimpering she stared at the two thousand dollar ellipse-table from Piet Hein and Arne Jacobsen that she had loved so dearly before this very night. It was now plastered in blood, red blood running in lines across the white table. Marie whimpered again and tried to turn her head away, but a hand forced her to face the atrocities in front of her.

The remains of her daughter's body didn't look human anymore. Her chest and stomach were ripped open and Marie stared directly at what she believed had to be her daughter's internal organs. The body continued to twitch and gasp as if she wanted to let her mother know that she was still alive.

Marie Lucas wasn't a woman who cried often, as a matter of fact she hadn't cried since the night her youngest daughter had come down from the attic and she realized it wasn't her daughter anymore.

Life had since then taught her to toughen up and close her eyes to things that she didn't need to know. Like the first time she saw blood in her eight-year-old daughter's underwear. Like the time when Louise came to her in confidence and told her that she thought her daddy was doing something wrong to her when they were alone. All those times, she resisted the urge to cry. She fought it with all she knew how to and closed her eyes to whatever might bring her to that place again, that place of sorrow where she found herself helpless and useless. Instead she washed the underwear telling herself that her daughter probably hurt herself on the playground and told her daughter seeking her help, that Daddy never did anything wrong.

Yes up until now Marie had closed her eyes to many things, in order to keep her marriage, to keep her life the only way she knew how to live. But not anymore. Now she lost the fight to hold back the tears. Marie was crying and not closing her eyes anymore.

"You like what you see, huh?" asked the faceless intruder holding her head.

"Please. Just kill her," she whispered. "Let her die."

The masked intruder placed a kitchen knife in her hand. Then he placed another on Marie's throat. "No, you do it," he said. She felt him cut her hands loose. The knife felt heavy in her hand. She was breathing heavily now feeling the other knife against her throat.

"All you have to do is stab her," the voice whispered in her ear. "Stab her in the heart, and then she'll surely be dead. It's either that or she can slowly bleed to death within a couple of hours, maybe less if she's lucky. It's up to you."

Marie felt her heart pound. She heard her husband's muffled screams behind her but didn't turn to look at him. She didn't want to look into his eyes just before she killed her own daughter.

Marie lifted the knife into the air, then as she was about to stab it into her daughter's heart she turned around and plunged the knife into the shoulder of the intruder holding her. As she did, he slit her throat.

14

Ivan was in a shock-like state. He hadn't thought he would be able to go through with it, but he had. He had lifted the gloved hand and cut straight through that girl's chest. The blood spurted everywhere. Even in his own face. He gasped once he realized that he had actually done it. The girl's body twisted and turned and the girl made a sound while gagging, like a half-choked scream while gulping up loads of thick blood. Ivan himself had remained quiet even when the mother woke and started screaming. He stared at the girl's body and as calm as a butcher filleting a piece of meat he pulled out the blades, lifted them again and sank them into her chest. That was what had shocked him. That he kept going. The first strokes left him feeling such a rush, arousal even that he had to keep going. He came back for more.  Like a drug addict looking for that first rush that he'll never get back again, Ivan kept ripping her flesh open just for the thrill of it. He had expected that he would like killing someone for the first time, but he hadn't expected that he would actually love it.

That hadn't been enough for him. The fear, the agony in the girl's eyes had caused his arousal and he wanted more of that same stuff. But the girl's eyes soon went numb and the thrill wore off. Now it was more like just stabbing a lifeless plastic doll and it didn't take many seconds before Ivan got bored. But he was still excited and wasn't ready to stop just yet, so once he had stopped ripping the chest of the girl, he turned and looked at the mother on the floor. She was screaming, begging them to stop and unintentionally she had aroused him even further.

That was why he came up with the idea of grabbing her and dragging her to the table so she could better watch what he had done to her daughter. He wanted to watch it through her eyes; he wanted to look at her face as she stared at her lifeless daughter. And as she did, he closed his eyes for just a second and smelled the fear coming from her, drew in a breath of her smell and drank from her anguish. This was it, he kept thinking. This was what life was all about. Finally he felt completely alive maybe for the first time in his life. But it wasn't going to be the last. He had crossed the barrier, he had gone to the other side where his new brothers were waiting for him, cheering him on as he held the mother tight and enjoyed her torment.

When he gave her the knife he had known that she would try and stab him with it, but he did it anyway. He thought it would be fun to force her to finish off her own daughter and then he would kill her afterwards, and if she tried anything he would just kill her anyway. It was a win-win situation for him. In either outcome he would get to kill again. So when she turned her head and looked at his masked face just before she stabbed him in the shoulder, he laughed out loud, from the excitement of the situation, seeing the pain in her eyes, the same pain that drove her to action. He realized that he wanted that in a victim, he wanted them to fight; he wanted them to have that small light of hope in their eyes. And he loved being the one to put it out. That was the most fun part of it all, the second he slit her throat and she realized it was all over. Ivan stared into her eyes as life oozed out of her. Their eyes locked in those important seconds before she was gone.

That felt like nothing he had ever tried in this world.

While the mother's body fell to the ground with a plump sound, Peter came closer. He put his hand on Ivan's shoulder. Ivan could sense his grin behind the Freddy Krueger mask.

"Welcome, my brother," he said.  "You are now truly one of ours."

Ivan panted and stared at the body on the ground, then at the other body on the kitchen table. Peter had been right, he thought to himself. The second time was so much easier.

"I'm glad to be in," he said.

Peter lifted his nose and sniffed in the air, pretending to be smell something.  "Do you smell that?" he asked.

"Smell what?" Michael asked.

"Egg," he said.

"Egg?" Ole asked.

"I'm hungry, boys," Peter continued. "And I'm in the mood for egg."

All the boys nodded in agreement.

"But where is she?" Michael asked. "We searched all the rooms upstairs and didn't find her in any of them."

"She must be hiding up there somewhere," Peter said and pulled out his gun from the belt.

"What do we do about him?" Ivan asked and pointed at the father, who lay curled up on the kitchen floor, crying behind the duct tape.

Peter took one quick look at the man, pointed the gun at his head. The man stared into the gun with panic in his eyes. Then Peter fired.

15

Ella jumped when she heard the gun being fired. She looked at her younger brother Jacob who was exploring the many treasures of the attic in the same manner as Ella had the first time she had been up there. The sound didn't scare him. Probably since he didn't know what it was and maybe even didn't hear it properly due to the thunder coming from outside. Ella stared out the window under the ceiling; she could see the ocean beneath them. It was raging wild, the waves flushing further up on the shore than she had ever seen before. Some of them even licked their wooden terrace in the back.

Ella had reacted fast. She was sleeping when she heard the  front door being knocked in. She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. Outside her window the wind whizzed and the waves sounded like they were calling her name, telling her to wake up.

Ella sat up feeling calm. She knew exactly what to do. She sprung for her little brother in the room next to hers. She had taken him in her arms and ran for the only place she ever felt safe.

From up there she had heard everything. She had heard her sister scream when they came to her room, she had heard her mother and father being ordered to go downstairs. Then she had heard her sister's screams again and again as they did something to her that Ella didn't even want to imagine. Ella cried when she had heard her mother scream her heart out and then she had grabbed her younger brother and held him tight when she became quiet. Now she wished so badly for someone to scream again, but she knew none of them would ever be able to say anything anymore. Ella knew in her heart that they had all been killed.

"Guess it's just you and me now," Ella said to Jacob who was crawling around on the old couch, causing clouds of dust to spring into the air every time he jumped on the cushion. Then he laughed before he tried to catch some of the dust and hold it in his hand. Ella watched him and smiled. "I won't let them get you. You can be certain of that," she said. "Even if I have to tear down the whole house I'll protect you from these monsters. You mark my words," she said imitating her mother's tone of voice.

But Jacob didn't mark anything, he just laughed and jumped some more. Ella was suddenly so happy that he was too young to understand.

Steps on the stairs underneath them. Ella froze. Then there were voices. "You two start the search by the two rooms at the end, Ivan and I will take the rooms to the right," someone said.

Ella looked at Jacob with her eyes wide open. Then she jumped towards Jacob and put her hand over his mouth to stop his babbling. He looked up at her with eyes smiling, like he thought this was a fun new game.

"Shh," she whispered. "They can't find us here."

Ella held her hand tight on his mouth, desperate to find a way out. The intruders were obviously looking for them. Desperately Ella looked around her, searching, scanning the room for any kind of weapon or maybe even another way to get down. But there was only one way up and one way down, and no weapons.

She gasped when she heard doors getting knocked in downstairs and voices, people searching the rooms.

Then someone sang that awful song, the one Ella had heard so many times in her life, the song she loathed for as long as she could remember:

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

All the king's horses and all the king's men

Couldn't put Humpty together again

Ella felt every fiber in her body seething with anger. The song always did that to her. She closed her eyes and felt her face become red; while she remembered all the times she had been humiliated in school by the very same song.

She bit her lips trying to calm herself down. When she opened her eyes again, she saw a candlestick in front of her. It was floating in the air, spinning fast.

Ella gasped and as she did, the candlestick fell to the ground with a bump. Ella's heart pounded in her chest. The voices had become quiet. Had they heard the bump?

Ella whimpered and pulled back towards the window holding Jacob tight in her arms.

16

Ivan found the hatch leading to the attic. There was a string, a piece of rope he could pull and soon it was open. A ladder was attached to it and he easily pulled that out as well.

He turned and looked at Peter. "After you," Ivan said grinning.

Still with the gun in his hand, Peter climbed the stairs and Ivan followed. Michael and Ole came right behind them. They began singing the song again.

"Is she up there?" Michael yelled while climbing the last steps.

"She's here," Ivan answered. He was looking directly at her. She was holding a younger child in her arms while staring at them defiantly. The sight of them filled Ivan with disgust. Especially her. She was repulsive. Fat, round, almost oval just like an egg. She looked even bigger than when Ivan had seen her on that trampoline almost a year ago.

Peter approached her, with the gun in his hand. "There you are, little girl," he said. "We've been looking for you."

The girl held the boy even closer and backed up till her back was against the wall. Outside Ivan could hear the winds pick up and the waves crashed against the shore. Lightening struck nearby and made a huge noise and lit up the room for a second. Ivan gasped when the light fell on the girl's face. Something in her eyes made him back up a few steps. Peter laughed.

"Scared of a little girl, are you?" he asked.

Ivan laughed to show he wasn't.

"Let's bring them downstairs," Peter said to Michael and Ole who right away threw themselves at the girl and the boy. They pulled the boy away from his sister and tied up the girl's arms and legs, before they dragged her downstairs pulling her by her hair.

What alarmed Ivan at that point was the fact that the girl never screamed.

They brought both children to the kitchen and put them on the kitchen table, swiping the remains of their older sister onto the floor first. The girl took one glance at her parents and her sister, but hardly blinked. Ivan found it both frightening and fascinating.

Michael grabbed the baseball bat and knocked her on the head with it. "Knock, knock," he said. "Time to crack the egg ..."

The girl didn't even look at him. Ivan studied her as she kept biting her lip.

"Look, her face is turning red," Ole said.

Michael swung the bat and hit her in the face. She hardly moved. Peter hit her with the gun, but still no reaction. Ivan's heart was pounding. This girl captivated him. He was going to look forward to killing her. He would definitely find a way to make her scream. Oh what a pleasure it was going to be to find what triggered her fear. Maybe she didn't react to the blows because the fat somehow protected her, maybe she didn't even feel it? Ivan wondered while sharpening the blades on the glove in the kitchen. Maybe she was mentally disabled somehow and that was why she didn't react to seeing her family brutally murdered. But there had to be something, some way to make her display fear, to give her that look in her eyes, which Ivan craved so desperately to see again.

Michael hit her in the face again with the baseball bat. Still no reaction. The girl simply stared ahead, avoiding even looking at them. It was mesmerizing.

Even Peter seemed to be struck by it. He kept hitting on the top of her head with the gun, while yelling at her.

"You're gonna die, bitch. Do you hear me? I'm gonna kill you, slowly, painfully and rip your internal organs out one by one. We're going to rip your chest open like we did to your sister, then you'll bleed to death, but only slowly, while we start pulling the fingers of your little brother here."

That was when something finally happened. A reaction from the girl. Like an owl she turned her head and stared at Peter. Then a window blew open while lightening struck outside so close it made all of them cover their ears.

17

Ella had never cared much about her parents or her sister, even if she had never wanted this to happen to any of them. But she couldn't focus on her sadness right now. It was all about staying alive and protecting her younger brother. She was hoping he didn't see his mother on the floor in the pool of blood, but she knew he had. She heard him whimper several times since they entered the kitchen. Ella wanted to take him in her arms and protect him from this awful sight that naturally had to be devastating for him.

They were keeping them apart and she couldn't see his face, but now she heard his small voice speak for the first time.

"Mommy?"

Ella swallowed hard, while the men answered in laughter and mockery. "Mommy's dead, little boy."

Ella tried all she could to stay calm even when the intruders hit her with their bats and guns, not that it bothered her much, since she had never been able to feel pain, something the doctor didn't have an explanation for either.

"Ella is apparently among a tiny number of people in the world known to have congenital insensitivity to pain with anhidrosis, or CIPA, a rare genetic disorder that makes her unable to feel pain," was all he could say. "Just keep an extra eye on her on the playground, since she will be fearless, and make sure her food isn't too hot because she'll gulp it down even if it's burning."

Those were the instructions that Ella's mother had gotten and since then learned to live with. The good part was that Ella never cried when she hurt herself nor did she whimper over small things. The bad part was that they never knew if something was wrong with her, if she hurt herself they wouldn't know until they saw the blood.

Right now Ella was glad she didn't feel pain; it seemed to be scaring the men that she hardly reacted to their blows. It was her plan to not react to their songs, to their words or them hitting her. Just like she learned to ignore the kids in school who bullied her, she was going to ignore these intruders, thinking it would make them leave her alone, like the teachers told her the kids would if she only ignored them long enough. Only that moment hadn't arrived yet.

But it was her only weapon, she thought. And it had worked so far. Until they mentioned her brother and threatened to hurt him as well. That was when she could ignore them no longer. Now she stared into the mask of one of the intruders, the one holding the gun, the one who told her he was going to hurt Jacob. She felt the rage rise inside of her, just as she felt it before when the kids bullied her in school. The intruder didn't seem intimidated by her look, so she forced the window to blow open. She had done that a million times to her mother when she got angry with her. It wasn't hard. All she had to do was to picture it happen, and it did. Then she pictured a lightning strike in the yard and it did. All the intruders gasped and held their hands to their ears. Then Ella giggled. They had no idea who they were messing with, she thought to herself. She had never used her powers much, since she was afraid to be locked up in a research facility somewhere for the rest of her life, and she was slightly afraid that she might accidentally kill one of her classmates, so she only done these small things to her mother or practiced it when alone.

One of the intruders sprang for the window and closed it, shutting out the strong winds. Ella grinned. The intruders became quiet. They stared at her like they didn't know what to do. It amused her and she laughed again.

"Shut up," the one with the gun yelled. "Shut the FUCK up!"

He lifted the gun and walked towards Ella, pointing it at her, but she just looked at it and giggled again.

"What's wrong with you?" he asked. "I swear to God I will kill you if you keep laughing."

Ella stopped. Still smiling she imagined the gun turning burning hot. She looked straight at the masked face and listened to his flesh sizzling as the metal burned its way through it. The intruder screamed and dropped the gun.

"Arrrgh!"

He stared at his hand and yelled at the others. "Do something you fuckers! Don't just stand there and watch!"

One of them found a small container and went to fill it with water. As he opened the tap, the faucet blew off and water splashed all over him. Under the sink a water pipe broke and water flushed out underneath it.

Ella giggled and smiled while the man with the gun jumped around holding his hand and the others fought to stop the water.

18

Ivan watched the scene with shock. His friends were fighting the water; Peter had burned his hand somehow on the gun and was now soaking it in the water splashing into the air from the broken faucet. It seemed like a scene from a movie all of a sudden, a crazy movie. The worst part was the girl sitting on the table, giggling. It left Ivan with an eerie feeling, a sense that she was somehow responsible for all these things happening at once. But how could she? He had watched it happen and she had been sitting on the table all this time. Her hands and legs tied up. She couldn't even move.

Ivan stared at the fat girl, and then remembered the reaction he had seen in her face, the drastic change of expression on her face when Peter had talked about her baby-brother. That was it, Ivan thought. The boy was her weak spot.

So to make her stop laughing he walked over and grabbed the boy in his arms. It worked like a charm. The girl froze. The smile disappeared immediately. Suddenly the PH-lamp fell from the ceiling and crashed onto the floor next to Ivan, giving a small flash of light as it hit the floor. Ivan felt it barely touch his shoulder on the way down. Then he gasped. All the cupboards hanging on the wall opened and plates started falling out, rolling onto the floor, some of them exploding in mid-air sounding like when they went skeet-shooting. Ivan ducked his head and moved away while plates and dishes, cups and vases came at him, some even flying over his head.

Ivan stared at the girl; her eyes were now black, with small flames of anger inside of them. Her cheeks had turned red. She was breathing heavily.

"Kill the boy," Peter said from the faucet. "KILL HIM!"

Ivan nodded. It was the only thing to do. He was apparently the only one she cared about, so to make her suffer, he had to die. Ivan swallowed hard and stared at the baby. Even if he had known all along that it would eventually come to this, he still somehow hoped that he wouldn't have to be the one to kill the baby. He looked at Peter. His face was strained in pain and anger. He was snorting and fuming. Ivan nodded again, and then went for the glove on the counter, that he had sharpened only a few minutes ago. Then he stared at the gun at the floor. It would be easier with a gun, he thought, but it seemed to have melted its way through the kitchen floor and become one with it. It was of no use. Ivan sighed and picked up the glove. The boy on his arm reached out for it playfully and instinctively he pulled it away so he wouldn't hurt himself. But then he paused. Now why not? He thought to himself. Why not let the boy play a little with the blades?

Ivan smiled and looked at the girl. Her eyes followed his every move. Then he gave the boy the glove.

19

Ella watched as her baby brother held the glove between his hands and started touching the sharp blades. He cut himself and blood was running down his arm now. He cried a little, but didn't give up the exciting shiny blades. Instead he leaned over and put one in his mouth.

Ella grunted and tried to move her body to get down from the table. But someone pulled her back and held her to force her to watch. It was the guy who burnt his hand. She could smell the burned flesh.

When Jacob cut his mouth accidentally and the blood started running out of his mouth down his chin and landed on his Winnie the Pooh pajama shirt, Ella couldn't control herself anymore. Finally she let go. Not knowing the strength of her own powers she yanked it all and let it loose.

So be it if we all die.

She closed her eyes and called the storm closer, luring it, telling it it was needed, that its strength was desired. As she heard the winds come even closer, she forced it to blow open all the windows in the house, and then she talked to the clouds and told them to throw a lightning strike onto the house. It shook like an earthquake hit. Lamps fell from the ceiling, more water pipes broke, the wooden planks in the floors bent and nails flew across the air, hit one of the intruders in the forehead and pinned him to the wall behind him, killing him instantly.

Another lightning bolt struck the house and it caught on fire, the curtains were soon aflame, licking the roof while ceiling panels fell on the intruder's heads. Every one of them panicked. As they sprang for the doors Ella jumped down from the table and reached out with her mind, she looked at the intruders, fighting their way to get to the doors first, throwing their masks, pulling each other's shoulders. Then she paused and took in a deep breath.

CLICK.

All the doors slammed shut and locked. The main entrance door, the two kitchen doors even the door leading to the terrace in the back. All were locked. The windows slammed shut as well.

Ella heard the intruders scream. They pulled and fought to open the doors, trying to kick them down, but with Ella's strength she had reinforced them, and it was easy to keep them strong enough to hold a couple of boys.

Ella focused on the duct tape on her legs and arms and soon felt it stretch and melt away, freeing her from its grasp. Then she walked to her brother and took the glove from his hands and threw it on the floor, melting it with her mind. Jacob was bleeding from his tongue and lip. She wiped the blood off with a paper towel while listening to the intruders whimper and cry for her to spare them, to let them go.

With her brother on her arm, she looked at them. She giggled again as another lightning bolt struck the house and caused it to shake. The entire floor and ground underneath them cracked open. Flames were licking at their pants. One of the intruders fell into the crack and held on by his finger tips. He screamed and cried for help while the crack grew bigger and bigger and soon it was like he was staring directly into the center of the earth beneath him. Ella walked towards him, then stepped on his fingertips until he let go and disappeared into the hole.

Giggling she looked at the two who were left. The one with the burnt hand was pleading for her mercy.

"Please," he said. "Please don't hurt me."

The other was crying, weeping on his knees next to her. But Ella didn't care. She closed her eyes and gathered all her strength. The house started spinning fast as if caught in a tornado. The only one standing still in the middle of it was Ella, holding Jacob tight in one arm, while the other was pointed towards the sky.

20

The house was disappearing underneath them. Ivan yelled and screamed as he watched the earth open beneath him and begin to suck everything into it. It was spinning like a whirlpool and sucking everything, the dead bodies, the kitchen table, the fallen lamps, planks, wood and soon Peter started slipping as well. Ivan grabbed his hand but soon realized that he would only drag him with him.

To the pit of hell.

Ivan held on to the door with the other hand while being pulled by Peter's weight. He knew it was a matter of seconds before he couldn't hold on any longer. He took one last look into Peter's eyes.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, but it was drowned in the loud sounds from the house crashing down around him.

Then he let go. Peter let out a small whimper as he was sucked into the black hole. Ivan reached up and was now holding on to the door handle with both hands, but still the force pulling his legs was stronger and he knew he would eventually have to let go.

In the middle of it all stood the girl, Humpty Dumpty with her brother on her arms and the other arm stretched into the air, like she was the one controlling it all. Ivan screamed in fear.

The force was too strong and he had to let go. The force pulled him into the air and spun him around, making him lose all sense of what was up and what was down. He felt sick to his stomach when suddenly he felt another wind grab a hold of him. It pulled him out the window and he landed with a bump on the asphalt outside. Dazed he got to his feet and stood in front of the house watching burn to the ground, leaving nothing but piles of charred wood behind.

In the middle of it all he saw the girl. She was walking slowly with her brother on her arm out of the house. Planks were flying around her, windows, doors, furniture was circling in the air before being sucked into the opening in the ground, but none of it ever hit her or the brother. Even the flames seemed to leave her alone, parting in front of her, leading her way.

As the house came down behind her, she suddenly stood in front of Ivan in the road.

She looked at him and Ivan felt his knees became wobbly. While the earth sucked down the rest of the house and left nothing but a few wooden planks and an old mirror left standing on the ground, Ivan feared for what she might do to him next. He whimpered and whined and prayed to whoever would care enough to listen.

Just as he did the air was filled with the sounds of sirens, blue light and cars. Four police cars, a fire truck and a couple of ambulances. Ivan's eyes were still locked with the girl's as he felt hands on his body and was put on a stretcher. He finally let go and lost consciousness.

21

Ivan was scared at first when the police officers came to his hospital bed the next day. He swallowed hard and braced himself for his fate. After all jail time was better than what had happened to the others.

But the officers were nice and smiling and told him that lightning had caused the fire and the old house collapsed. They also told him most of the house probably had been taken by the ocean, since the waves had been very high last night.

Ivan stared at them speechless, scared and confused at the same time.

"The girl," the officer said and looked at his notes.

Here we go.

"The girl, Ella Lucas and her brother Jacob are both well and now with their aunt."

She told them everything. She told them how you killed those poor people, how you slaughtered her parents and her sister, how you wanted to kill her and her brother. She told them what bastard you really are.

"Well here is the problem, Ivan," the officer continued.

This is it. This is the end. No expensive lawyer will ever get you out of this one. You'll rot in jail for the rest of your life, or be sentenced to a life in a mental institution. Your brother will laugh at you.

"The girl can't remember a thing about last night."

Ivan looked at the officer feeling his eyes become big and wide.

"They say it's caused by trauma to her head or something. But the fact is she can't remember a damn thing."

"That's where you come in," the other officer said.

"Yes," the first one took over again. "We know you've been through a lot, but want you to try and tell us what happened. Especially what happened to the rest of the family, if it's not too much to ask."

Ivan smiled, not too happily, naturally, but just friendly enough to show them how sympathetic he was with the poor family and the girl.

"Of course, officers. Whatever I can do to help the poor girl get over her loss."

"Splendid," the officer said. "First of all, if you wouldn't mind telling us what you were doing in the Lucas' house in the middle of the night?"

"Well of course I wouldn't mind," Ivan said and sat up in bed. He cleared his throat. "The thing is, I’ve been dating their daughter Louise for quite some time. Her parents knew nothing about us, so you could say we snuck around without them noticing it. Last night she had asked me to come over after her parents had gone to bed. She opened the door for me herself and led me to her bedroom, where we ... well I will not go into unnecessary details, but you get the picture."

The officer nodded slowly while writing on his pad. "No details needed. So you were in the house all night?"

"Yes. Well I fell asleep. We both did. I woke up around two o'clock, I think it was. I did not want her parents to find me in their daughter's room, so I snuck out. But just as I did, the lightning struck the house and set it on fire. I couldn't leave the family in there, so I sprang for the rooms upstairs and woke everybody up. The father then attacked me and yelled at me for sleeping with his daughter. He threatened to shoot me and found his shotgun under the bed, and that was when I ran for my life. Louise never made it out and neither did the parents."

"What about the girl and the boy?"

"I had reached the front door when I heard the roof collapse upstairs, and I decided I had to go back and help them even if it meant the father would kill me. So I ran up there, but it was too late. The parents and Louise were all crushed by the many bricks and tiles." Ivan paused for effect and pretended to be crying. "Then I heard someone scream and ran to the room next door. In there I found the girl and the boy. They were stuck under a pile of tiles, but they were still alive. I got them free and took them in my arms. Then I made it to the front door as the rest of the house came down behind me. We barely made it out in the street before it was gone."

Ivan paused again and sniffled. "Have you ... have you found their bodies?"

The officer looked seriously at Ivan, and then shook his head. "I'm sorry son. We believe the ocean took them, along with most of the furniture and most of the house. All we found were a few bricks, some planks and an old mirror."

"That's horrible," Ivan said.

"We'll at least you managed to save the girl and the boy. You're a true hero, boy. We'll make sure the world hears about your accomplishments. A true idol for the rest of us. Don't think many would have run back like you did."

"Well I only did what was necessary."

22

A week later Ivan was back at the boarding school receiving applause in the dining hall for his bravery.

"An example for us all to follow," the headmaster said and they all clapped. Then he lifted his glass and toasted Ivan.

Ivan was the talk of the school but so were his dead brothers. Everybody was wondering what had happened to them and the police had been at the school to ask all the students questions while he had been gone, a fellow classmate had told him. They never asked Ivan about them since no one knew Ivan had anything to do with them or the order. No one suspected that he would know what really happened to them, and Ivan decided it would be one of those things he would take with him to the grave. A search was going on for them all over the area, but so far no one had any idea where they could have disappeared to. Rumors went that they had taken off to Monaco to get away from their parents, others were that they had messed with the wrong people and had been killed and buried and would never be found again. To be honest most people didn't even care.

Neither did Ivan at that moment when they were all applauding him for his display of true heroism.

Ivan drank his wine that they had extraordinarily been allowed to have with the dinner, while the Headmaster kept talking. Ivan wasn't listening to most of his speech, not until the end of it, when suddenly he hung onto every word of it.

"So naturally Ivan will be as pleased as anyone to welcome her here at the school from this day on. Her brother is being taken care of by their aunt, but as it turned out her father had already paid for her to finish her school here at Herlufsholm before the unfortunate tragedy hit her family, and she was supposed to start here this month anyway. So if you'll all put your hands together and welcome ...”

... and there it was, that name, that face, those eyes.

"Ella Lucas."

Ivan let out a small shriek as he watched her waddle towards the Headmaster and he reached out his arms to give her a hug. Then she turned her head like an owl and Ivan's eyes locked with hers across the room.

Ivan wet his pants and the pee left a puddle next to his shoes.

In the distance someone dared to whisper:

Humpty, Dumpty sat on a wall

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall

All the king's horses and all the king's men

Couldn't put Humpty Dumpty back together again

THE END

Dear reader,

Thank you for purchasing my 4 Horror short stories. I hope you enjoyed it. They all take place in the Danish town of Karrebaeksminde.

Karrebaeksminde is also the town where my horror-series, the Rebekka Franck-series takes place beginning with the first book One, Two ... He is coming for you. I have put in an excerpt from the first book on the following pages.

Take care,

Willow Rose

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About the Author

Willow Rose is an international Best-selling author. She writes Mystery/Suspense/Horror, Paranormal Romance and fantasy. Originally from Denmark she now lives on Florida's Space Coast with her husband and two daughters. She is a huge fan of Stephen King, Anne Rice and Isabel Allende. When she is not writing or reading she enjoys watching the dolphins play in the waves of the Atlantic Ocean. Her books have been downloaded in more than 300.000 copies.

Books by the author:

Mystery/Horror Novels:

One, Two ... He is coming for you (Rebekka Frank #1) - http://www.amazon.com/One, two ...

Three, Four ... Better lock your door (Rebekka Frank #2) - http://www.amazon.com/Three, Four ...

Five, Six ... Grab your Crucifix (Rebekka Frank #3) - http://www.amazon.com/Five, Six ...

Seven, Eight ... Gonna stay up late (Rebekka Frank #4) - http://www.amazon.com/Seven, eight ...

Itsy Bitsy Spider (Emma Frost #1) - http://www.amazon.com/Itsy Bitsy Spider

Miss Dolly had a Dolly  (Emma Frost #2)- Coming out October 2013

Run Run as fast as you can (Emma Frost #3) - Coming out later this fall 2013

Edwina - http://www.amazon.com/Edwina

Horror Short stories:

Eenie, Meenie - http://www.amazon.com/Eenie, Meenie

Rock-A-Bye Baby- http://www.amazon.com/Rock-a-bye

Nibble, Nibble, Crunch - http://www.amazon.com/Nibble, Crunch

Humpty, Dumpty - http://www.amazon.com/Humpty, Dumpty

Chain Letter - http://www.amazon.com/Chain Letter

Paranormal Romance/Suspense/Fantasy Novels:

Beyond  (Afterlife #1) - http://www.amazon.com/Beyond

Serenity (Afterlife #2) - http://www.amazon.com/Serenity

Endurance (Afterlife #3) - http://www.amazon.com/Endurance

Courageous (Afterlife #4) - http://www.amazon.com/Courageous

Savage (Daughters of the Jaguar #1) - http://www.amazon.com/Savage

Broken (Daughters of the Jaguar #2) - http://www.amazon.com/Broken

A Gypsy Song (The Wolfboy Chronicles) - http://www.amazon.com/A Gypsy song

I am WOLF (The Wolfboy Chronicles) - http://www.amazon.com/I am WOLF

Box Sets:

Rebekka Franck Series - http://www.amazon.com/Rebekka Franck

Daughters of the Jaguar - http://www.amazon.com/Daughtersof the Jaguar

The Afterlife Series - http://www.amazon.com/Afterlife

Horror Stories from Denmark - http://www.amazon.com/Horror Stories

The Wolfboy Chronicles - http://www.amazon.com/THE WOLFBOY CHRONICLES

Connect with Willow online:

http://www.willowrose.blogspot.com
http://www.facebook.com/willowredrose
https://twitter.com/madamwillowrose
http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4804769.Willow_Rose

The following is an excerpt from Willow Rose's international Best Selling Novel: One, Two ... He is coming for you.

One, Two ...

He is coming for you

Prologue

One, two … the song in his head wouldn’t escape. Sure, he knew where it came from. It was that rhyme from the horror movies. The ones with the serial killer, that Freddy Krueger guy with a burned, disfigured face, red and dark green striped sweater, brown fedora hat, and a glove armed with razors to kill his victims in their dreams and take their souls, which would kill them in the real world. “A Nightmare on Elm Street,” that was the movie’s name. Yes, he knew its origin. And he had his reasons for singing that particular song in this exact moment. He knew why, and so would his future victims.

He lit a cigarette and stared out the window at a waiting bird in the bare treetop. Waiting for the sunlight to come back, just like the rest of the kingdom of Denmark at this time of the year. Waiting for spring with its explosion of colors, like a sea of promises of sunlight and a warmer wind. But still the winter had to go away. And it hadn’t. The trees were still naked, the sky gray as steel, the ground wet and cold. February always seemed the longest month in the little country though it was the shortest in the calendar. People talked about it every day as they showed up for work or school.

Every freaking day since Christmas.

Now, it wouldn’t be long before the light came back. But in reality it always took months of waiting and anticipating before spring finally appeared.

The man staring out the window didn’t pay much attention to the weather though. He stood with his cigarette between two fingers. To him, the time he had been waiting ages for  was finally here.

He kept humming the same song, the same line. One, two, he is coming for you .... The cigarette burned a hole in the parquet floor. He picked up the remains with his hands wearing white plastic gloves and carefully placed them in a small plastic bag that he put in his brown briefcase. He would leave no trace of being in the house where the body of another man was soon to be found.

He closed the briefcase and went into the hall, where he sat in a leather chair by the door to the main entrance.

Waiting for his victim to come home.

He glanced at himself in the mirror by the entrance door. He could see from where he was sitting how nicely he had dressed for the occasion.

He was outfitted in a blue blazer with the famous Trolle coat of arms on the chest, little yellow emblem with a red headless lion—the traditional blazer for a student of Herlufsholm boarding school. The school was located by the Susaa River in Naestved, about 80 kilometers south of Copenhagen, the capital of Denmark. As the oldest boarding school in Denmark, the school took pride in an array of unique traditions. Some of them the world outside never would want to know about.

The blazer was now too small, so he couldn’t close it, but otherwise he was looking almost like he had been back in 1986. He was, after all, still a fairly handsome man. And unlike the majority of the guys from back then, he had kept most of his hair.

His victim had done well for himself, he noticed. No surprise in that though, with parents who were multibillionaires. The old villa by the sea of Smaalandsfarvandet in the southern part of Zeeland was big and admirable. It could easily fit a couple of families. It was typical of his victim to have a place like this just as his holiday residence.

When he heard the Jaguar on the gravel outside, he took the glove out of the briefcase and put it on his right hand. He stretched his fingers and the metal claws followed.

He listened for voices but didn’t hear any to his satisfaction.

His victim was alone.

Chapter 1

“We’re going to be too late. Do you want me to be fired on my first day”? I yelled for the third time while gazing up the stairs for my six-year-old daughter, Julie.

“Go easy on her, Rebekka. It’s her first day too,” argued my father.

He stood in the doorway to the living room of my childhood home, leaning on his cane. I smiled to myself. How I had missed him all these years living in the other part of the country. Now he had gotten old, and I felt like I had missed out on so much and that he had missed out on so much of our lives too. It was fifteen years since I left the town to study journalism. I had only been back a few times since and then, of course, when Mom died five years ago. Why didn’t I visit him more often, especially after he was alone? Instead I had left it to my sister to take care of him. She lived in Naestved about fifteen minutes away.

Well there was no point in wondering now.

“You can’t change the past,” my dad would say. And did say when I called him crying my heart out and asking him if Julie and I could come and stay with him for a while.

I sighed and wished I could change the past and change everything about my past. Except for one thing. One delightful little blond thing.

“I’m ready, Mom.”

Her.

Julie is the love of my life. Everything I‘ve done has been for her and her future. I sacrificed everything to give her a better life. But that meant I had to leave it all behind—her dad, our friends and neighbors, and my career with a huge salary. All for her.

“I’m ready.” She ran down the stairs looking like an angel with her beautiful blond hair braided in the back.

“Yes, you are,” I nodded and looked into her bright blue eyes. “Do you have everything ready for school”?

She sighed with annoyance and walked past me.

“Are you coming or not?” She asked when she reached the door.

I picked up my bag from the floor, kissed my dad on the cheek, and followed my daughter who waited impatiently.

“After you my dear,” I said as we left the house.

I found a job at a local newspaper in Karrebaeksminde. It wasn’t much of a promotion since I used to work for one of the biggest newspapers in the country. Jyllandsposten was located in Aarhus, the second biggest town in Denmark. That was where we used to live.

When I had a family.

I used to be their star reporter, one of those who always gets the cover stories. Moving back to my childhood town was not an easy choice, since I knew I had to give up my position as a well-known reporter. But it had to be done. I had to get away.

Now, after dropping off my daughter at her new school and smoking two cigarettes in anxiety for my daughter’s first day, I found myself at my new workplace.

“You must be Rebekka Franck. Welcome to our editorial room,” said a sweet elderly lady sitting at one of the two desks piled high with stacks of paper. I looked around the room and saw no one else. The room was a mess, and so was she. Her long red hair went in all directions. She had tried to tame it with a butterfly hair clip, but it didn’t seem to do the job. She got up and waddled her chubby body in a flowered yellow dress over to greet me.

“I’m Sara,” she said. “I’m in charge of all the personal pages. You know, the obituaries and such. People come to me if they need to put in an announcement for a reception or a 50-year anniversary celebration. Stuff like that. That’s what I do.”

I nodded and looked confused at all the old newspapers in stacks on the floor.

“You probably would like to see your desk.”

I nodded again and smiled kindly. “Yes, please.”

“It’s right over there.” Sara pointed at the other desk in the room. Then she looked back at me, smiling widely. “It’s just going to be the two of us.”

I smiled back, a little scared of the huge possibility of going insane in the near future. I knew it was a small newspaper that covered all of Zeeland, and that this would only be the department taking care of the local news from Karrebaeksminde. But still … two people. Could that be all?

“Do you want to see the rest of your new workplace?” Sara asked and I nodded.

She took a couple of steps to the right and opened a door. “In here we have a small kitchen with a coffeemaker and the bathroom.”

“Let me guess. That’s it?” I tried not to sound too sarcastic. This was really a step down for me, to put it mildly.

Sara sat down and put on a set of headphones. I moved a stack of newspapers and found my chair underneath. I opened my laptop and up came a picture of Julie, me, and her dad on our trip to Sharm el-Sheikh in Egypt. We all wore goggles and big smiles. Quickly I closed the lid of the laptop and closed my eyes.

Damn him, I thought. Damn that stupid moron.

I got up from the desk and went into the break room to grab a cup of coffee. I opened the window and lit a cigarette. For several minutes I stared down at the street. A few people rushed by. Otherwise it was a sleepy town compared to where I used to live. I thought about my husband and returning to Aarhus, but that was simply not an option for me. I had to make it here.

I drank the rest of the coffee and killed my cigarette on the bottom of the mug. Then I closed the window and stepped back into the editorial room.

I need to clean this place up, I thought but then regretted the idea. It was simply too much work for one person for now. Maybe another day. Maybe I could persuade Sara to help me. I looked at her with the gigantic headphones on her ears. It made her face look even fatter. It was too bad that she was so overweight. She actually had a pretty face and attractive brown eyes. She looked at me and took off the headphones.

“What are you listening to?” I asked and expected that it was a radio station or a CD of her favorite music. But it wasn’t.

“It’s a police scanner,” she said.

I looked at her surprised. “You have a police scanner?”

She nodded.

“I thought police everywhere in the country had shifted from traditional radio-scanners to using a digital system.”

“Maybe in your big city, but down here we still use the old-fashioned ones.”

“What do you use it for?”

“It is the best way to keep track of what is happening in this town. I get my best stories to tell my neighbors from this little fellow,” she said while she leaned over gave the radio a friendly tap. “We originally got this baby for journalistic purposes, in order to be there when a story breaks, like a bank has been robbed or something like that. But the past five or six years nothing much has happened in our town, so it hasn’t brought any stories to the newspaper. But I sure have a lot of fun listening to it.”

She leaned over her desk with excitement in her brown eyes.

“Like the time when the mayor’s wife got caught drunk in her car. That was great. Or when the police were called out to a domestic dispute between the pastor and his wife. As it turned out she had been cheating on him. Now that was awesome.”

I stared at the woman in front of me and didn’t know exactly what to say. Instead I just smiled and started walking back to my desk, when she stopped me.

“Ah, yes I forgot. We are not all alone. We do have a photographer working here too. He only comes in when there’s a job for him to do. His name is Sune Johansen. He looks a little weird, but you’ll learn to love him. He’s from a big city too.”

Chapter 2

Didrik Rosenfeldt thought of a lot of things when he got out of the car and went up the stairs to his summer residence. He thought about the day he just had. The board meeting in his investment company went very well. He fired 3000 people in his windmill company early in the afternoon without even blinking. The hot young secretary gave him a blow job in his office afterwards. He thought about his annoying wife who kept calling him all afternoon. She was having a charity event this upcoming Saturday and kept bothering him with stupid details, as if she would ever be sober enough to go through it. Didn’t she know by now that he was too busy to deal with that kind of stuff? He was humming when he reached the door to the house by the sea.

A tune ran through his head, his favorite song since he was a kid. “Money makes the world go round. A mark, a yen, a buck, or a pound. That clinking clanking sound can make the world go ‘round.” Didrik sighed and glanced back at his shiny new silver Jaguar. Money did indeed make the world go around. And so did he.

A lot of thoughts flitted through Didrik’s head when he put the key in the old hand-carved wooden door and opened it. But death was not one of them.

“You!” was his only word when his eyes met the ones belonging to a guy he remembered from school. A boy really, he always thought of him. The boy had nerve to be sitting in his new leather chair—“The Egg” designed by Arne Jacobsen—and wearing his despicable grubby old blazer from the boarding school.  The boy was about to make a complete fool of himself. Didrik shut the door behind him with a bang.

“What do you want”? He placed his briefcase on the floor, took off his long black coat and hung it on a hanger in the entrance closet.  He sighed and looked at the man with pity.

“So”?

All the girls at Herlufsholm boarding school had whispered about the boy when he first arrived there in ninth grade. Unlike most of the rich high-society boys, including Didrik Rosenfeldt who was both fat and red headed, the boy was a handsome guy. He had nice brown hair and the most sparkling blue eyes. He was tall and the hard work he used to do at his dad’s farm outside of Naestved had made him strong and muscular and Didrik and his friends soon noticed that the girls liked that … a lot.

The boy wasn’t rich like the rest of them. In fact his parents had no money. But in a strange way that made him exotic to the girls. The poor countryside boy, the handsome stranger from a different culture who might take them away from their boring rich lives. They thought he could rescue them from ending up like their rich drunk mothers. How his parents were able to afford the extremely expensive school, no one knew. Some said he was there because his mother used to do it with the headmaster, but Didrik knew that wasn’t true. This boy’s family was—unlike everybody else’s at the school—hardworking, earnest people. The kind who people like Didrik had no respect for whatsoever, the kind his father would exploit and then throw away. He and his type were expendable. They were workers. And that made it even more fun to pretend he would be the boy’s friend.

Despite that he was younger than they were, they had from time to time accepted him as their equal in the brotherhood.

But because of his background he would always fall through. And they would laugh at him behind his back, even sometimes to his face. Like the time when they were skeet shooting on Kragerup Estate, and Didrik put a live cat in the catapult. Boy, they had their fun telling that story for weeks after. How the poor pretty boy had screamed, when he shot the kitty and it fell bleeding to the ground. What a wimp.

“So, what do you want? Can’t you even say anything? Are you that afraid of me?” Didrik said arrogantly.

The pretty boy stood up from the $7000 chair and took a step toward him, his right hand hidden behind his back. Didrik sighed again. He was sick and tired of this game. It led nowhere and he was wasting his time. Didrik was longing to get into his living room and get a glass of the fine $900 cognac he just imported from France. He was not going to let a stupid poor boy from his past get in the way of that. That was for certain. He loosened his tie and looked with aggravation at the boy in front of him.

“How did you even get in here?”

“Smashed a window in the back.”

Didrik snorted. Now he would have to go through the trouble to get someone out here to fix it tonight.

“Just tell me what you want, boy.”

The pretty blue eyes stared at him.

”You know exactly what I want.”

Didrik sighed again. Enough with these games! Until now he had been patient with this guy. But now he was about to feel the real Rosenfeldt anger. The same anger Didrik’s dad used to show when Didrik’s mother brought him into his study and he would beat Didrik half to death with a fire poker. The same anger that his dad used to show the world that it was the Rosenfeldts who made the decisions. Everybody obeyed their rules because they had the money and the power.

“You’re making a fool of yourself. Just get out of here before I call someone to get rid of you. I’m a very powerful man, you know. I can have you killed just by pressing a number on my phone,” he said taking out a black iPhone from his pocket.

“I know very well how powerful you and your family are. But we are far away from your thugs; and I will have killed you by the time they get here.”

Didrik put the phone back in his pocket. He now sensed the boy was more serious than he first anticipated.

“Do you want to kill me? Is that it?”

“Yes.”

Didrik laughed out loud. It echoed in the hall. The boy did not seem intimidated. That frightened him.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You are such a fool. A complete idiot. You always were.” Didrik snorted. “Look at you. You look like a homeless person in that old school blazer. Your clothes are all dirty. And when did you last shave? What happened to you?”

“You did. You and your friends. You ruined my life.”

Didrik laughed again. This time not nearly as loud and confident.

“Is it that old thing you are still sobbing about?”

“How could I not be?”

“Come on. It happened twenty-five years ago. Christ, I didn’t even come up with the idea.” Didrik snorted again. “Pah! You wouldn’t dare to kill me. Remember I am a nobleman and you are nothing but a peasant who tried to be one of us for a little while. You can take the boy away from the farm but you can’t take the farm out of the boy. You have always been nothing but a stupid little farmer boy.”

Didrik watched the boy lift his right hand, revealing a thing from his past, something he couldn’t forget. With a wild expression in his eyes, he then moved the blades of the glove and took two steps in Didrik’s direction with them all pointing at him. . It scared the shit out of him. It had been years since he last saw the glove and thought it had been lost. But the pretty boy had found it. Now the game was in the boy’s court.

“I can give you money.” Desperately, he clung to what normally saved him in troubled times. ”Is it money you want? I could call my secretary right now and make a transfer.”

He took out the iPhone again.

“I could give you a million. Would that be enough? Two million? You could buy yourself a nice house, maybe get some nice new clothes, and buy a new car.”

The boy in front of him finally smiled showing his beautiful bright teeth. Phew! Money had once again saved him. At least he thought. But only for a second.

”I don’t want your blood money.”

Didrik didn’t understand. Who in the world would say no to money? ”But …”

”I told you. I want you dead. I want you to suffer just as I have been for twenty-five years. I want you to be humiliated like I was.”

Didrik sighed deeply. “But why now?”

“Because your time has run out.”

“I don’t understand.”

The boy with the pretty blue eyes stepped closer and now stood face to face with Didrik. The four claws on his hand were all pointing towards Didrik’s head. The boy’s eyes were cold as ice, when he said the words that made everything inside Didrik Rosenfeldt shiver: “The game is over.”

Chapter 3

Lari Soerensen enjoyed her job as a housekeeper for the Rosenfeldt family. Not that she liked Mr. Rosenfeldt in particular but she liked taking care of his summer residence by the sea. They barely ever used it, only for a few weeks in the summer and whenever Mr. Rosenfeldt had one of his affairs with a local waitress or his secretary. He would escape to the house in Karrebaeksminde for “a little privacy” as he called it.

But otherwise there wasn’t much work in keeping the house clean, and Lari Soerensen could do it at her own pace. She would turn on the music in the living room and sing while she polished the parquet floor. She would eat of the big box of chocolate in the kitchen. She would take the money in the ashtrays and the coins lying on the shelves and put it in her pocket knowing the family would never miss it. Sometimes she would even use the phone to call her mother in the Philippines, which normally was much too expensive for her. Her Danish husband didn’t want to pay for her phone calls to her family anymore, and since he took all the money she got from cleaning people’s houses, she couldn’t pay for the calls herself.

It was a cold but lovely morning as she walked pass the port and glanced at all the yachts that would soon be put back in the water when spring arrived. All the rich people would go sailing and drinking on their big boats.

She took in a breath of the fresh morning air. She had three houses to clean today and she would begin with Mr. Rosenfeldt’s since he probably wouldn’t be there. It was only five thirty, and the city had barely awakened. Everything was so quiet, not even a car.

She had taken a lot of time to get used to living in the little kingdom of Denmark. Being from the Philippines, she was used to a warmer climate and people in her homeland were a lot more open and friendly than what she experienced here. Not that they were not nice to her—they were. But it was hard for her to get accustomed to the fact that people didn’t speak to you if they didn’t know you. If she would talk to a woman in the supermarket she would answer briefly and without looking at Lari. It wasn’t impolite; it was custom. People were busy and had enough in themselves.

But once people got to know somebody they would be very friendly. They wouldn’t necessarily stop and talk if they met in the street. Often they were way too busy for that, but they would smile. And Lari would smile back, feeling accepted in the small community. If people became friends with someone they might even invite them to dinner and would get very drunk, and then the Danes wouldn’t stop talking until it was early in the morning. They would tell a lot of jokes and laugh a lot. They had a strange sense of humor that she had to get used to. They used sarcasm all the time, and she had a hard time figuring out when they actually meant what they said or when they were just joking.

But Lari liked that they laughed so much. She did too. Smiled and laughed. That’s how she got by during the day, the month, the year. That’s what she did when the rich white man from Denmark came to her house in the Philippines and told her mother, that he wanted to marry Lari and take her back to Denmark and pay the family a lot of money for her. That’s what she did when she signed the paperwork and they were declared married and she knew her future was saved. She smiled when she got on the plane with her ugly white husband who wore clogs and dirty overalls. She even smiled when he showed her into the small messy house that hadn’t been cleaned for ages and told her that was her new home. That her job would be to cook and clean and be available to him at any time. She was still smiling, even at the end of the day when she handed over the money that she earned from housecleaning while her husband sat at home and was paid by the government to be unemployed. And when Mr. Rosenfeldt grabbed her and took her into his bed and had oral sex with her she still smiled.

Yes, Lari Soerensen always smiled. And she still did today when she unlocked the door to Mr. Rosenfeldt’s summer residence.

But from that moment on she would smile no more.

Chapter 4

I awoke feeling like I was lying under a strange comforter in a foreign place in an unknown city. Slowly my memory came back to me, when I looked at my sleeping daughter in the bed next to me. When I came home from work she told me the first day of school had been a little tough. The teachers were nice, but the other kids in the class didn’t want to talk to her and she had spent the day alone and made no new friends. I told her she would be fine, that it would soon be better, but inside I was hurting. This was supposed to be a fresh start for the both of us, a new beginning. I now realized it wouldn’t go as smoothly as I had hoped.

My dad had prepared a nice breakfast for us when we came downstairs. Coffee, toast and eggs. Soft boiled for me and scrambled for Julie. We dove into the food.

Before mom died he wouldn’t go near the kitchen, except to eat, but things had changed since then. He’s actually gotten pretty good at cooking, I thought while secretly observing him from the table. Ever since his fall down the stairs last year, he had to use a cane, but he still managed to get around the kitchen and cook for us.

“You know, Dad, with me in the house you could catch a break every once in a while. I could take care of you, and cook for you instead.”

He didn’t even turn around, but just snorted at me. “I know my way around. You would only mess the place up.”

Then he turned around, smiling at Julie and me, and placed a big plate of scrambled eggs on the table in front of us.

I sighed and rubbed my stomach.

“Sorry, Dad, I’m too full. Julie, go get your bag upstairs. We are leaving in five.”

Julie made an annoyed sound and rushed up the stairs.

My dad looked at me seriously.

“She misses him, you know,” he said nodding his head in Julie’s direction. “Isn’t it about time she got to call him, and talk to him?”

I shook my head. I hated that she had told her granddad she missed her father. Since I couldn’t leave my job until late in the afternoon, he had suggested he would pick her up every day and they could spend some quality grandpa-granddaughter time together catching up on all the years they missed of each others’ lives. I liked that, but I didn’t care much about him meddling in my life.

“I can’t have him knowing where we are.”

My dad sighed. “You can’t hide down here forever. If he wants to find you, he will. Whatever happened to you up there, you have to face it at one point. You can’t keep running from it. It will affect your daughter too. No matter what he did, he is, after all, still her dad.”

Now it was my turn to sigh. “Just not right now, okay?”

As I got up Julie came down and dumped her bag on the floor before sitting down again and taking another serving of eggs.

Where she would put it in her skinny little body I didn’t know but I was glad to see her eat despite being so nervous about another day alone in the schoolyard with no one to play with.

“She must be growing,” my dad said with a big smile. “That’s my girl,” he said and winked at her.

I looked at the clock and decided that I too had the time to sit down for another minute. The radio played an old Danish song from my childhood. My dad started humming and tried to spin around with his cane. He almost fell but avoided it in the last second and we all laughed. I began to sing along too and Julie rolled her eyes at me, which made me sing even louder. The old cat stopped licking herself and stared at us from the window. She would probably be rolling her eyes too if she could.

It was one of those beautiful mornings, but a freezing cold one too. The sun embraced everybody, promising them that soon it would triumph over the cold wind. Soon it would make the flowers come out of hiding in the ground and with its long warm arms it would make them flourish and bloom. I really enjoyed my drive along the ocean and the sandy beach. The ocean seemed  angry.

I had promised headquarters to do a story today, an interview with an Italian artist, Giovanni Marco, who lived on Enoe, a small island close to Karrebaeksminde. It was connected to the mainland by a bridge. The artist had made a series of sculptures that made the public angry because of its vulgarity. The artist himself claimed that it was his way of making a statement, that art cannot be censored. He had displayed the sculptures in the county’s art festival, shocking the public and making people nauseous from looking at them.

He was the same artist who once had displayed ten blenders each with one goldfish in them in a museum of art, waiting to see if anyone in the audience would press the button and kill the fish. He loved to provoke the sleepy Danes and outrage them. At least they then took a position and cared about something. I remembered he said he wanted to wake them from their drowsy sleep walk. I was actually looking forward to this interview with this controversial man on the beautiful island.

Giovanni Marco lived in an old wooden beach house  that looked like it wouldn’t survive if big storm should hit the beach. Fortunately big storms are rare in Denmark. We had a big one in 1999 as strong as a category 1 hurricane. It was still the one people remembered and talked about. It knocked down trees and electric wires. At least one tree hit a moving car and killed the driver inside. That was a tragedy. It could definitely get very windy, but the artist’s house would probably stand for another hundred years.

Barefooted, he welcomed me in the driveway with a hug and a kiss on my cheek, which overwhelmed me since I had not been happy about male physical contact lately. So I’m sure I came off stiff and probably not very friendly toward him.

He was gorgeous and he seemed to know that a little too well. I never liked men who thought too much of themselves, but this one intrigued me anyway, which made me nervous and uncomfortable in his presence.

His blue eyes stared at me while he invited me inside. It’s rare for an Italian man to have blue eyes like that, I thought. Maybe he had Scandinavian genes. Maybe that’s why he had escaped from sunny Italy to cold Denmark where the sun would hide all winter. His hair was thick and brown and his skin looked very Italian. But he was tall like a Scandinavian. And muscular. I hated to admit it, but it was  attractive.

Inside I was stunned by the spectacular view from almost every room in the house: views of the raging ocean, of the wild and absorbing sea. I used to dream about living like that. Well I used to dream about a lot of things, but dreams have a tendency to get broken over the years.

Giovanni, in a tank top and sweatpants, smiled at me and offered me a cup of organic green tea. I am more of a coffee person, but I smiled graciously and accepted. We sat for awhile on his sofa, glancing out over the big ocean.

“So you have just returned from the big city?” he asked with an irresistible Italian accent. His Danish was good, but not as good as I expected. BI had read that he had lived in the country for more than 30 years. “What made you come back?”

News of my return traveled fast in a small community, I knew that, but how it got all the way out here, I didn’t know. Overwhelmed by his directness I shook my head and said, “I missed the silence and the quiet days, I guess.” It wasn’t too far from the truth. There had been days in the end, when the city got to me, with all its smartass people drinking their Coffee “Lattes”. It used to be just coffee with milk. I didn’t get that. But then again I didn’t get sushi either. Even in the center of Karrebaeksminde they had a sushi restaurant now, so maybe it wasn’t a big city thing.

“I miss that too when I’m away from here.” Giovanni expressed his emotions widely with his arms, the way Italians did. “Especially when I go back to Milan. I get so tired in the head, you know? All those people, so busy, always in a hurry. To do what? What are they doing that is so important?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said knowing that I used to be one of those busy big-city people always rushing off to something. Rushing after a story to put on the cover. Never stopping to feel the ocean breeze or see the flowers pop up at spring. But I wasn’t like that anymore. I had changed. Having to go off to cover the war for the newspaper had changed me. Being a mom changed me. But that was all history.

I began my interview with Giovanni Marco and got some pretty good statements, I thought. I began to see the article shape in my head. But it seemed more like he wanted to talk about me instead. He kept turning the conversation to  me and my past. I didn’t like to talk about it, so I gently avoided answering. But he kept pressing on, looking me in the eyes as if he could see right through me. I didn’t like that and he began to annoy me. His constant flirting with me was a little over the top. Luckily, my cell phone started ringing just as he began asking about my husband.

“I better take this,” I said.

“Now? In the middle of our conversation? Now, that is what I think is wrong with this world today. All these cell-phones always interrupting everything. People using them on the bus, on trains, in the doctor’s waiting room, rambling about this and that, and playing games. God forbid they should ever get themselves into a real conversation. They might even risk getting to know someone outside their own little world.”

He got up and looked passionately in my eyes, and I couldn’t help smiling. He was indeed over the top, but it was  sweet.

“Now, tell me, what could be so vital that it cannot wait until we are done?” He thrust his long Italian arms out in the air.

“It might be about my daughter,” I said and got up from the couch.

It wasn’t about Julie. It was Sara from the newspaper. She was almost hyperventilating, trying to catch her breath. She was rambling.

“Take it easy Sara,” I said while holding a finger in my other ear to better hear her. “Just tell me calmly what is going on.”

She took a pause and caught her breath. “A dead body. The police found a dead body. I just heard it on my radio.”

“So?”

“Are you kidding me? That’s like the biggest story of this century down here.”

I didn’t get it. Normally when we received news like that at my old newspaper they just put in a small note on page five, and that was it. If the police thought it was a murder and an investigation took place we would make a real article about it, but still only place it on page five. And Sara didn’t even know if it was considered to be a murder case or not. It was just a dead body. For all I knew he could have died of a heart attack.

“Don’t people die in this place?” I challenged.

In Aarhus people died every week. With the gangs of immigrants fighting the rockers people got shot and stabbed all the time. Of course they would bring the story if a dead body was found. But it wasn’t like it was one of the big ones.

“He might have fallen drunk or even had a heart attack,” I said trying to close the conversation. “I will call the police and get something for a small article when I come back, okay?”

”No, no, no. It is not okay at all. I called Sune. He is already on his way down there. You have to be there before anyone else. I got this from the police radio, remember? That means no one else in the country knows anything yet. It is what you would call a solo story.”

I  liked the ring of that. I might get it on the cover of the morning paper. Not bad on my second day.

“Okay, give me the address.”

Chapter 5

Half an hour later, I arrived at the scene. As I got near the address, I immediately knew this was no heart attack or just a drunken man. Four police cars were parked in front of the same house, two of them called in from Naestved, the biggest city nearby. I recognized a big blue van as one the forensic team from Copenhagen used.

This was big stuff.

The entrance to the house was blocked by crime tape. On the other side of the tape policemen searched wearing suits and gloves, writing in their notebooks, marking trace evidence, dusting for fingerprints, and marking shoeprints.

According to the radio report Sara had heard on the scanner, the victim was a white male, 46 years old. But I already knew that when I got there. I recognized the house and knew that it could only be Didrik Rosenfeldt. The house used to belong to his parents when I was a kid. And Didrik would come down here on summer vacation from boarding school. He was my sister’s age, and I remembered them hanging out together one summer. But something happened and she dumped him and never spoke of him again. He was a real asshole as far as I knew. He used to come down here and flirt with almost anything that had a pulse. He spent his time hanging out on his parent’s yacht in the port, drinking with his friends from the boarding school, harassing people who were different than they and had less money. A real prick, I would call him. That probably hadn’t changed a bit.

I looked around at the small crowd of neighborhood kids who had gathered in front of the house, peeking in. In the middle, a tall skinny guy stood out. He had a green Mohawk and wore a leather band with spikes around his neck, a leather jacket, and several piercings in his eyebrows, lips and nose. He wore black make-up on his eyes and lips. He stood out in stark contrast to this crowd of high society upper-class kids. In his hands he held a camera that never left his eyes, constantly taking a series of pictures. As I got close to him I noticed that he was missing two of his fingers on his right hand.

“You must be Sune,” I said when I approached him.

He didn’t look down at me, just kept on taking pictures non-stop.

“Mmm …”

“I’m Rebekka Franck. Did you see anything yet?”

“Nope.”

“Has the body been taken out yet?”

“Nope.”

Great, I thought. Then there was a chance we could get a picture of the covered body on the way into the ambulance. That was always a good shot for an article of this kind.

“Don’t you think it’s  weird, since the body was found at six o’clock this morning?” Sune asked me.

Now that he said it, I did. It was three in the afternoon. Weren’t they in a hurry to get the body to the lab right away and find the cause of death?

“Yeah, what does that mean?”

“That the body has been hard to get out. Maybe it was lying under something or was tied to something.”

I nodded. This guy knew how to use his head. Not many could do that these days without getting hurt.

“Sounds likely.”

“It must at least be a messy crime scene since it has taken them so long. There are a lot of people in there.”

I nodded again. This guy had been at a crime scene before. And it probably wasn’t here in Karrebaeksminde where he got that kind of experience.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” I asked.

“Nope.”

”Copenhagen?”

”Christiania. Have been and always will be a Christianite.”

Ah, a free spirit from Christiania. Also known as “fristaden,” the free-state. It was an area in Copenhagen that had around a thousand inhabitants. They lived by what they liked to call a collectivistic anarchy. Some called it a socialist anarchy. It meant that everybody living there got to take part in all the decisions. To the Christianites, as they called themselves, it meant they were different from the rest of the society and that they lived by their own rules. To the rest of the world it meant that this was a place you could go and buy pot on the streets of Christiania where they sold it out in the open even if it was illegal in the rest of the country. They were a state within the state that the police didn’t touch. They even had their own flag, red with three yellow dots. Today things had changed though. The liberal government had sent in the police and tried to fight the illegal drug trade, and they wanted to remove all the houses that the Christianites had build themselves.

My guess was that Sune wasn’t too thrilled about the police in general. I guessed right.

I kept a close eye on the activities behind the crime-scene tape and soon I spotted the detective who seemed to be in charge. He came out of the house and headed towards one of the police cars, and I yelled at him.

“Excuse me. Rebekka Franck, reporter at Zeeland Times.”

He stopped and stared at me. He then approached.

“Rebekka Franck?”

“Yes.”

Surprisingly he smiled at me.

“You don’t remember me?”

I really didn’t but wouldn’t disappoint him. Besides, I really needed his comment for my article.

“Well, of course I do,” I lied.

“Michael Oestergaard. You used to take dancing lessons at my aunt’s dance studio. Jazz ballet.”

“Miss Lejrskov’s class. Michael. Oh yes, I do remember.”

I really still didn’t, but I remembered my dance teacher. Michael looked to be at least eight or nine years older than me. How could I have remembered him?

“Exactly. I used to hang out there with my brother and look at all the pretty girls. So you are a big-shot reporter now? I must admit I have been following your career. It has brought you around the world?”

“Sort of.”

“And now it has brought you to Karrebaeksminde. I heard from the old Miss Jensen in the tourist-information-desk down on Gl. Brovej that you had come back.”

“And she was right.”

That woman did a little more than informing the tourists around here.

“So you work for the newspaper down here now?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And you probably want a comment for your article?”

“I would love that.” I was stunned. I couldn’t believe his courtesy. Normally I wouldn’t get a single word out of the police until they had a press conference, and then I would only get what all the other reporters got.

“Well, I can’t say much.” He lowered his voice and got closer. “But it ain’t pretty, I can tell you that.”

“But what can you tell me about what happened here. Is it a murder?”

“No doubt about it. Someone broke in through the back door and killed the guy.”

“Do you have any suspects?”

“No, but we might begin with his wife,” he laughed. “He wasn’t exactly known as one of God’s better children, if you know what I mean.”

“I don’t, I’m sorry. So you will be questioning the wife in the near future?”

“Sure, but don’t write that. That would be interfering with investigative information. You know that.”

“Then please just tell me what I can write.”

“Write that the victim has been identified as Didrik Rosenfeldt, CEO and owner of the world-known company Seabas Windmills, and known as a part of the famous and very wealthy Rosenfeldt family. He apparently was killed by an intruder in his summer residence, there is an ongoing investigation, and that … is it, I think.”

I wrote everything he said in my notebook.

“Why hasn’t the body been removed from the house yet?” I asked.

The detective sighed deeply.

”I really can’t get into that.”

Sune had probably been right.

“How did he die?”

The detective got an occupied look on his face.

“We don’t know yet. That’s for the crime lab to figure out. I am sorry but I really have to get on with my job …”

“But surely you must have an idea?”

“We do, but we won’t share it with the public, yet.”

I nodded. That’s what I expected. The crime scene must have been messy just as Sune said. I spotted Sune out of the corner of my eye. He took pictures of the body as it was finally removed from the house in a body bag and transported in an ambulance.

“Who found the body?” I asked Detective Oestergaard.

”The housekeeper found him this morning, when she came to clean the house.”

“At what time?”

”She called us at six.”

“Can we talk to her?”

“Well, I guess I can ask her.”

I had to pinch my arm. I’d never met this kind of cooperation from the police. Were they always like this or was it because he knew me? Anyway, he left me for a second and came back with a small Philippine woman with an empty look in her eyes and an expression like she had seen the devil himself and lived to tell about it. It seemed she was still in shock and I knew I had to be careful.

I greeted her with a handshake and introduced myself. The detective left us, his duty calling. I waved at Sune and signaled I wanted him to come and take her picture. He came right away.

“So, that must have been real horrible for you,” I began.

“I … I just walked in, like I normally do. Normally he isn’t in the house. I didn’t expect … I mean, how could I know?”

“Of course you didn’t know. Can you tell me a little about what you saw?”

She didn’t look at me but stared into open air.

“He was dead. Blood everywhere. On all the floors in the living room. All over the parquet. It was like a slaughterhouse. He was shredded to pieces. Ripped apart like an animal would kill its prey. No man could have done this. Only a demon.”

Get One, Two ... He is coming for you (Rebekka Frank #1) here:

http://www.amazon.com/One, two ...