Читать книгу Fog Island: A terrifying thriller set in a modern-day cult - Mariette Lindstein, Mariette Lindstein - Страница 7

1

The small ferry bobbed in the swells on the dark water. They were close now, but couldn’t see the island; the morning fog was a heavy blanket on the sea. The horizon was invisible.

Sofia felt relief as the mainland, on the other side, vanished behind the curtain of fog. She was putting distance between herself and Ellis. It was nice to get away from him, if only for a while.

There had always been something hectic and wild about her relationship with Ellis, an intensity that could lead to nothing but disaster. His terrible temper should have set off warning bells, but at first she just thought it made him exciting. They had argued about absolutely everything and it ended with him getting his revenge online. She had been so distracted that she almost bombed her last exam at college. She passed in the end, but just barely.

It was in the midst of this catastrophe that the invitation to the lecture by Franz Oswald popped up in her email. And it was because of that lecture that she was sitting here on a ferry, on her way to a strange island way out in the archipelago.

Wilma, Sofia’s best friend, was there too, staring into the fog. There was a hint of excitement between them. A vague sense of apprehension about what awaited them on the island.

*

On the morning she received the lecture invitation, Sofia had been on the computer, Googling phrases like ‘planning for the future’ and ‘career choices,’ realizing in the end that her search was not at all helpful. When she read the email, her first thought was to wonder why it hadn’t ended up in the spam folder.

A lecture on ViaTerra by Franz Oswald. For those who wish to walk the way of the earth, it read.

How the heck did a person do that? She thought it sounded strange, but she had heard of Franz Oswald before. There was some chatter about him around the university. He’d showed up out of the blue, giving talks about his philosophies of clean living, which he called ViaTerra. Among the young women, the talk about Oswald mostly revolved around the fact that he was attractive and a little mysterious.

She read the email again. Made sure that the event was free of charge. She figured it couldn’t hurt to listen to what this Oswald had to say, so she sent a text to Wilma, who didn’t take much convincing. They did nearly everything together by that time.

They had arrived late to the talk and sat in the front row of a full lecture hall. A big banner was hung above the stage; it said ‘ViaTerra: We Walk the Way of the Earth!’ in huge, green letters. The lecture hall was otherwise bare and sterile and had a strong smell of cleaning agents.

A buzz of surprise ran through the audience when Oswald walked onstage with a wheelbarrow full to the brim with something white. Flour or sugar. She couldn’t tell what it was, because the lights were focused on the podium; the spot where he was standing was much dimmer. The woman sitting next to Sofia groaned. Someone behind her whispered, ‘What on earth?’

He set down the wheelbarrow and stood still for a moment before coming forward and gripping the edges of the podium.

‘Sugar,’ he said. ‘This is what the average family goes through in three months.’

Sofia suddenly regretted coming, and she felt the urge to get up and leave. The feeling was so strong that her legs twitched. She really should have been looking for a job, not listening to a lecture. And Oswald made her nervous.

He was tall and well-built, wearing a grey blazer over a black T-shirt. His dark hair was combed back into a ponytail. The tan couldn’t be real, but it suited him. He gave the impression of being trim and sophisticated while also radiating something primitive, almost animalistic. But above all, it was his strong stage presence that made the air tremble with anticipation.

He stood in silence for a moment. A calmer, more expectant mood spread through the audience. Then he launched into a dizzying tempo that only increased throughout the lecture. His voice went on like a machine gun. He showed the crowd a PowerPoint full of brains, nervous systems, lungs, and flabby bodies that had fallen victim to toxins and stress.

Sofia began to catch on to what he believed in. A sort of back-to-Mother-Earth philosophy where anything artificial was the root of all evil.

‘Now we’ll take a break,’ he suddenly said, ‘and afterwards I’ll tell you about the solution.’

During the second half, his elocution was calm and controlled. He spoke of things like sleeping in total darkness, drinking clean water, and eating organic food. Nothing new or sensational. Yet he made it all sound absolutely ground-breaking.

‘Our program also contains a spiritual element,’ he said. ‘But it’s not like you think, so listen carefully.’

He paused, and it seemed to Sofia that he was staring at her; she squirmed in her seat. He fixed his eyes on her as he continued.

‘Aren’t you tired of hearing that you have to be present and live in the now? We must stop listening to all these religious wackos who preach that the present is what matters. Buying their books and courses so we can learn to sit with your eyes closed and breathe deeply. In ViaTerra, we do not deny the past. We draw power from it.’

Sofia’s hand flew up of its own accord.

‘But how do you do that?’

Oswald put on a measured smile.

‘Your name?’

‘Sofia.’

‘Sofia, I’m glad you asked; the answer is in our theses. The physical program takes care of the body. The theses are for the spiritual side. But the short version is, you learn to draw power from everything that has happened in your life. Even your negative memories.’

‘But how?’

‘You have to read the theses to understand. It has to do with intuition. When a person stops denying the past, a whole lot of inhibitions disappear. One’s abilities are set free and one can rely on intuition again.’

‘Are your theses available to read?’

‘Of course, but only if you undergo the whole program. We have a centre on West Fog Island, off the coast of Bohuslän, a sanctuary where we help our guests find the correct balance in life. One can only make use of the theses in a setting free of all distractions. That’s why our centre is on an island.’

A man behind Sofia raised his hand.

‘Are you a religion?’

‘No, we’re actually the first anti-religion.’

‘Anti-religion? What’s that?’

‘That means that whatever you hate about religion, we’re the exact opposite,’ Oswald replied.

‘I hate that you have to pray to God in most religions,’ said the man.

‘In ViaTerra, we don’t pray to God. We’re realists, with our feet planted firmly on the ground.’

A stout, red-haired woman in the first row stood up.

‘I hate all these damn books and writings you’re supposed to read. And then you’re supposed to believe all that crap too.’

By now, almost everyone was laughing.

‘We don’t have any books in ViaTerra. Just a couple of simple theses we use, but that’s all voluntary.’

It went on like this for a while. Oswald handled each question deftly. He was really on a roll.

Then a man wearing a neat, black suit and round glasses stood up.

‘Do you have scientific evidence for all of this? Is this an accepted science, or just a cult?’

‘Everything we do is based on sound reason. It has nothing to do with science or religion. The important thing is that it works, right?’

‘So how do we know that your gimmick works?’

‘Come and see for yourself. Or don’t.’

‘Nah, I think I’ll pass.’

The man made his way through the rows of seats and left the hall.

‘There you go,’ Oswald said with a shrug. ‘Let’s move on, with those of you who are truly interested.’

*

When the lecture was over, they were ushered out of the hall by young people in grey suits and led to a large coatroom where several tables had been lined up along the walls. Pens and forms were handed out. A thin young man with slicked-back hair and a goatee loomed over Sofia and Wilma until they had filled out their forms; then, when they were finished, he greedily yanked the papers from their hands. They mingled for a bit, chatting with a few young women their own age.

Then, suddenly, there he was. He popped up behind Sofia. Wilma was the first to notice him, and she was startled. When Sofia turned around, he was right next to her. Only now that they were face to face did she notice how young he really was. Twenty-five, thirty at the most. His skin was smooth, except for the hint of a few wrinkles on his forehead. His jaw was wide, and a five o’clock shadow lent a hint of manliness to his soft features. That, and his thick, dark eyebrows. But what she noticed first was his eyes. His gaze was so intense that it made her uncomfortable. And then there was the noticeable scent of his aftershave: pine and citrus. He was something totally out of the ordinary — there was no standing this close to him without noticing it.

At first he said nothing, and the lengthy silence became awkward. She noticed his hands. Long, thin fingers with nails cut short. No ring. The expression in his eyes was unreadable. She swallowed and tried to think of something to say but realized that she was tongue-tied.

‘Sofia, I got the impression that you had more questions?’ he said at last, putting the emphasis on her name.

‘Not really. We’re just curious.’ Her voice sounded rough and hoarse.

He raised and lowered his eyebrows and drew up the corners of his lips, as if there were a secret between them. He was well aware, irritatingly so, of how good-looking he was.

‘Come and visit. I’d be happy to show you our centre. No commitment, just a tour of the property.’

He handed her a business card. Green and white, with embossed letters.

‘This number goes to Madeleine, my secretary. Call her and book a time.’

He held onto the card for a moment so she couldn’t take it from his hand. His eyes flashed and then he let go. Sofia was about to respond, but he had already turned around and was on his way into the crowd. Wilma tugged at Sofia’s sleeve.

‘Stop staring at him. Why don’t we visit that island and take a look? What harm can it do?’

She clears her throat a few times. Doesn’t quite know how to say it.

I just stare at her. I know it makes her uncomfortable, and I enjoy that.

‘We can’t go too far,’ she says. ‘I mean, it could be dangerous . . .’

‘Isn’t that the point?’

‘Yes, but . . . you know what I mean.’

‘Nope, not really. Tell me.’

‘I don’t want it to leave bruises.’

I snort.

‘So wear a turtleneck. Stop being such a wuss. You like it, don’t you?’

She lowers her eyes, all innocent. This is something new. Her fear.

It seeps out of her and turns me on; I get incredibly excited.

Have to take a few deep breaths, hold myself back, to keep from grabbing her and shaking her hard.

I own this person; I have her completely under my power.

She bends to my will like the grass in the wind. I turn my back on her.

Feel her drawn into the vacuum.

I think of how this night will be.