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

doesn’t seem to have completely gotten the hang of that camera—but the ones that are are crisp and striking. There’s something so familiar, so Swedish about those classrooms: those chalkboards and desks, all broken and abandoned. A childhood memory contorted beyond recognition.

When I suddenly come to a video it takes me by surprise. I didn’t even know these cameras could shoot videos.

“How’s it going?” a voice asks, and I jump and look up. Max is looking down at me, his eyebrows raised.

“Shit, you scared me,” I say, laughing to take the edge off.

“You looked pretty hypnotized,” he says with a grin. “I was just going to say the food’s almost ready.”

“Oh, great,” I say.

“Shall we wake Tone?” he asks, but I shake my head.

“No,” I say. “Let her sleep. It’s probably what she needs.”

Max nods, and I turn my attention back to the computer. I click the small PLAY symbol on the video.

It looks as though Tone hadn’t meant to film anything; the camera is swinging back and forth above the floor, capturing cracking, splintered wooden boards, shards of glass from the windows. Then I hear the soft tap of shoes against the floor, and turn up the volume. The camera is still pointing at the floor when the footsteps suddenly stop, and I jump when I hear my own voice say:

“Ready?”

The camera is pointed at a skirting board, above which the wallpaper is peeling away from the wall.

“OK,” I hear myself say.

It’s when the camera moves again to reveal a glimpse of steps and rotting carpet that I realize when it must have been filmed. It’s from when we started climbing the staircase inside the school. That fucking staircase.

The video is almost over; only twelve seconds left. I see the camera swinging back and forth as Tone climbs the steps behind me, catching flashes of my clumpy sneakers and those treacherous steps.

Four seconds.

Then I hear something.

I frown and press PAUSE. I pull the video back a few seconds and press PLAY again.

The camera swings back and forth. Red carpet, splintered wood, damp walls.

There.

At four seconds.

There it was again.

I pause. Hesitate. But then I turn up the volume as high as it can go and rewind again.

Now I hear Tone’s breaths on the recording, the creak of steps under our feet. And then …

Is that a cough?

Could I have coughed? It doesn’t sound like a cough, not really. The sound seems to come from far away. It’s tinny and muffled. And quiet, like … a chuckle.

It doesn’t sound like a cough, no; it sounds like laughter. Husky and stifled, like a child hiding in a closet, trying to repress a snigger.

The evening chill has descended upon the square. I rub my arms, trying to ignore the shivers running down my spine. It’s absurd.

And yet I’m suddenly, irreversibly aware that the school is just fifty yards away on the other side of the square, its doors hanging open like a gaping mouth.

It’s all in my head. I’m probably just hearing my own breaths on the tape. These laptop speakers aren’t particularly good, and you can make yourself hear anything if you want to enough. Like seeing faces in clouds.

But I still can’t let it go.

I make to rewind and listen once more.

Then the screen dies.

I flinch and shout:

“Shit!”

“What is it?” Max calls from over by the fire.

I slam the laptop shut.

“Laptop died. Out of battery.”

“Just as well,” says Max. “Dinner’s ready.”

“Coming,” I say and put it away in my bag.

I take one last, lingering look at the school and then walk over to the others to eat, doing my best to ignore the prickling sensation at the back of my neck.

 NOW

The first stars are already shimmering as we finish eating, which is when Tone opens the van door and hops out gingerly.

“Tone!” I say, getting to my feet. “How are you feeling?”

Tone gives a cautious smile and rubs her face.

“Pretty hungry,” she says.

Her eyes are puffy and heavy with sleep, and her short hair is unkempt. She takes my arm and I help her over to the fire.

“How’s it going?” Max asks, throwing a travel rug over one of the cooler boxes so that she can sit down.

“I’ve felt better,” she says, taking the bowl of soup I hold out to her. She tastes it and pulls a face.

“Canned minestrone?” she asks.

“Only the best,” says Emmy, rolling her eyes.

I can’t bite my tongue.

“I’m afraid we don’t have the budget for the luxury catering you’re more accustomed to,” I say. “Sorry if you’re missing your crayfish sandwiches.”

Before she can respond, I turn to Tone and add:

“There’s bread, too. I can toast some over the fire, if you want?”

Tone nods.

“Yes please. Thanks.”

I take two slices of over-processed bread out of the bag, tie it up again, and skewer the bread slices while listening to the others.

“How did it go this afternoon?” Tone asks, eating the soup in tiny spoonfuls.

It’s Emmy who replies.

“Good,” she says. “We worked our way through the ironworks, and managed to squeeze in a few houses, too, just to scout them out.”

“You did what?” I ask, whipping my head around.

“We looked in two of the row houses,” Emmy says. “We had some spare time. It was insane—they really are completely identical, like the village just bought four hundred houses from IKEA and threw them all up next to each other.”

“But isn’t that pretty much how it was?” Max asks, looking at me. “Didn’t the people who owned the mine build cheap housing for all the manpower they brought in during the war?”

“Yeah,” I say, before a sudden smell of burning brings me back to my task at hand, and I turn the bread slices just before they catch fire. They’re a bit burned, but it’s probably OK. At least they’ll taste of something.

“We got some awesome shots,” says Emmy. “One of the houses had an apple tree growing in through one of the windows. It had taken half of the wall down. Really unsettling. In a good way.”

I can’t let it go:

“But