The Lost Village by Camilla Sten (best fiction novels TXT) 📗

“Just so I can see how the light is and all that, what time of day would be best for filming where. I don’t know if you have a more detailed schedule for the shoot, but if not then that could be good to have.”

“He’s right,” I say to the others. “Tone, too. Take a lot of pictures. Both artistic, and anything that can help us with the logistics.”

“Are we going to start shooting straightaway, or do you want to wait and have a day just for scouting?” Emmy asks. “And could we get a preliminary script and long-term production plan, too? They aren’t in the packs.”

I look at Tone. Our preliminary script and production plan are both very sketchy, essentially just rambling thoughts in a Word document—definitely nothing I have any desire to show Emmy. But Tone’s eyes give nothing away: either she doesn’t see my concern, or she’s putting up a front so as not to show the others.

I look back at Emmy and say:

“We … don’t have everything here with us. But you’re more than welcome to take a look at what we do have.”

“Great,” says Emmy.

I tuck my hair behind my ear. Despite having washed it just before we left, it already feels flat and greasy.

“We’ll pair up,” I say. “I don’t want anyone going into any buildings alone. They’ve been abandoned for almost sixty years, which means they could be extremely unstable. Be really careful with steps and basements; avoid them if you have even the slightest concern.” I continue: “We have some basic safety equipment for everyone. The protective masks aren’t particularly attractive, but it’s important to wear them when you go inside any buildings. There’s a pretty high chance there’ll be asbestos in some of the houses, especially those built when the mine expanded during the war. We don’t know what there might be in terms of mold and all that, either, so wear the masks, even if they’re uncomfortable.” I pause and think for a moment, but I’m pretty sure I’ve covered everything. I don’t really know how wind up, so I say: “And, last but not least, have fun.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth I realize how wrong they sound.

“How will we communicate with each other?” Emmy asks. “My phone’s a brick, and I haven’t had signal since we left the highway.”

“Oh! Yes,” I say. “Walkie-talkies. We have some walkie-talkies.”

“How come they work when the phones are dead?” Emmy asks.

I throw a look Tone’s way, and she gives a faint smile.

“Well, we don’t actually know that they work here,” she says. “But the guy we spoke to said they should. I didn’t completely understand his explanation, but with them the connection is more local, so apparently the signal doesn’t cut out in the same way.”

“He said we can expect some interference, but they should work,” I say. “And if all goes according to plan then we won’t even need them,” I add. “They’re like the masks—we have them just in case.”

Emmy nods.

“OK,” she says. “Great. So can we choose our own partners?”

“There aren’t so many to choose from,” Tone remarks dryly. “Alice and I thought we’d start with the school. It’d be good if the other pair could take the ironworks and then work their way back here.”

I turn to Max.

“Do you mind staying here with the vans and equipment?” I ask. “It would be good if someone could do that every day, I think. Just in case. We can take it in turns.”

Max salutes.

“Your wish is my command,” he says. “You’re the producer.”

I smile gratefully.

I look at the others, feel my smile grow, and let that tingling feeling spread across my whole body.

“OK,” I say. “Then let’s get our equipment on and get going.”

 NOW

I wish we had recordings of Silvertjärn as it looked in its heyday, before the mine shut. All we have are a few dim, shaky images in black-and-white and sepia. I plan to post them all on Instagram later, and to use them in any pitches to possible sponsors and grant applications, but it’ll be hard to incorporate them into the documentary itself in a slick way. We’ll have to hope that the material we get on this trip is strong enough to speak for itself. It should be.

The school’s rough plasterwork has acquired a sickly, grimy, grayish hue, and the window frames are chipped and splintered, most of them gaping empty. It’s hot and stuffy under my respirator mask, and the band chafes over my ears. I feel claustrophobic wearing it, but when we stop at the top of the crumbling front steps into the school I’m glad I have it.

Light floods into the hallway through the giant windows, revealing whirling specks of dust. Even through the air filter I can tell it smells of mold and old paper in here. We step cautiously into the little lobby, which, with its cream walls and sturdy wooden floor, is anonymous enough to belong to any Swedish institution. Were it not for the clumps of peeling paint and the bulging, warped floorboards, this could just as well be a dentist’s waiting room.

I hear a jittery laugh and turn toward Tone. She’s looking straight up at the imposing staircase leading up to the second floor.

“What are you laughing at?” I ask.

“Huh?” Tone asks, peeling her eyes away from the staircase to look at me.

“What are you laughing at?”

“I didn’t laugh,” she says. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Oh. I thought I heard something,” I say, and her eyes narrow from the smile under her mask.

“Ghosts,” she says, and I roll my eyes.

“Max was going on about ghosts earlier, too,” I say. “Maybe we should forget about the documentary and make a horror film instead.”

“You do look like you could be in a slasher film in that mask,” she says, her teasing tone of voice audible even through her mask. “Michael Myers meets Darth Vader.”

“That can be plan B,” I say, taking in the staircase in front of us. “If we