The Break-Up Retreat(56)

“We couldn’t just have met in your car again, Sandra?” I mutter to myself, threading my arms around my torso as I start down toward the pond.

My vision is beginning to adjust, and I throw a glance upward. I can see the silhouettes of dark, heavy clouds crowding above. The gusts of wind are harsh and sudden; when I reach the pond, one of them catches me unaware, cutting through my sweater and chilling me to my core.

The surface of the water is rippling, with small waves biting at the shoreline. The pond is black and looks viscous, more like oil than water.

I glance across it.

Right across the pond. Go halfway around, then walk in through the trees at the split pine.

It’s too dark to see any split pine on the other side. I will have to trust that it’s there.

As I walk, crouched down against the force of the wind, my heart is pounding in my chest. My mouth tastes like metal.

What is it I’m scared of? Is it the weather? The darkness?

The potential, though unlikely, bears in the woods?

No.

It’s the thought of someone waiting in the night. The same dark shadow that was standing outside my window last night, looking in. That waited for me outside, chased me to the main building, and then, once I was in there, went back to my cabin and took my phone, cutting me off from the outside world entirely.

When I picture them, the face is shifting. One second, it’s Belinda, or Anna. The next, Martina, or Ellen, who maybe never left at all, who could still be here, watching and waiting. And then, someone else, someone I’ve never met; some stranger, who might have been stalking these grounds for days or weeks, lurking and luring until one of us would be alone.

Are they waiting for me, out here, tonight?

When I pass by the last cabin, I see, to my surprise, that the windows are lit. The curtains are drawn, but I see someone moving in there. I force myself to keep walking straight, though all I want is to crouch and sneak. My body feels unwieldy, my limbs moving neither as swiftly nor as discreetly as I want. The crunching of the gravel under my shoes sounds like thunder, as though it might alert whoever is in there immediately.

I stumble over one of the rocks, the ones with the pithy little sayings on them, and curse softly to myself. It’s too dark for me to see what’s written on them, but it’s easy to imagine. Something like “All you need is already yours” or “To be known is to be loved, and to be loved is to be known.”

God, I hope no one heard me.

It’s just a walk. I’m perfectly allowed to go for a late-night walk, no matter the weather.

Now, with only trees to one side of me and water to the other, I try to laugh, to trick myself into relaxing.

It doesn’t work.

Only a little bit further to go. It’s funny, how far it feels. Just a small, most likely man-made pond, put there to inspire feelings of peace and tranquility.

It’s the same walking trail that looks so idyllic in the daylight.

So how come it looks twisted and frightening, now? In the washed-out colors of the night, it seems haunted. Old stories from my childhood begin to appear, my father’s voice echoing in my brain.

Ghouls, and goblins, and creatures that hide in the dark, waiting to snatch children away. They can look like anything they want, you know. Even me or you.

Everyone in Sweden used to believe in them. Some people in rural areas still think they are out there.

“Not very appropriate stories to tell kids, you fucking asshole,” I whisper to myself.

As I creep along the walking trail, the branches on the trees shaking from the wind, I find myself once more thinking about my dad.

Some of the stories he told were true. Never all of them; the most interesting parts were all found to be lies. Lies that, on occasion, got people convicted of crimes they never committed.

But he really did spend time with some dangerous people. Especially in the beginning of his career.

Did he ever feel like this? Like he was on the verge of passing over some invisible line, crossing into an existence he had never imagined for himself?

Did he ever find himself looking over his shoulder, sure someone was staring at him? Did he ever feel invisible eyes on his skin, crawling like sluggish insects, warm blood rushing under cold skin?

I suddenly, absurdly wish I could ask him about it.

Even knowing that I never will.

He never wrote us after he got out of prison, after all. Eighteen months served, and then he was on the next plane out of Sweden. My mother had to divorce him in absentia .

I don’t even know if he’s still alive.

Maybe that’s the ghost haunting me. Maybe there was never anyone there, outside my window, in the first place.

Maybe it was the shadow of my father, staring at me, screaming silently from the void.

For what?

Forgiveness?

Remembrance?

Or could he have been screaming at me to turn back, before it’s too late? To not make the mistakes he made?

When I look over my shoulder, the cabins have turned into vague shapes on the other side of the water. I can see a light turned on in the staff quarters; but as I look at it, it blinks out, plunging the building into darkness.

A fresh gust of wind threatens to push me into the water, and I stagger a bit, then continue walking, somewhat faster, now. It’s taking longer than I expected. Sandra is probably already out there, waiting for me in between the trees.

I know I’ll feel better when I see her. She’s so steady, so secure; she will chase the ghosts away.