Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - My Soul to Take

“I doubt it would have much effect on me,” Thóra said, smiling reassuringly. “I’d like to discuss this with some of your staff. This aura reader, Eiríkur, for example.”

“No problem. He’s not here at the moment, but he’ll be back tomorrow, I think.” At last Jónas found what he was looking for in the drawer. He handed Thóra a heavy key on a large steel ring. “This is the key to the old basement. The boxes I told you about are down there. Take a look—there are some interesting things that might explain the hauntings.”

Thóra took the key. “If memory serves, the old farm was called Kreppa, wasn’t it?” she asked innocently.

Jónas looked surprised. “Yes, that’s right. Originally there were two farms that were merged. One was called Kreppa, the other Kirkjustétt.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Birna spent a long time there on the planned development.”

“Really? Why?” Thóra asked, even more curious. “Is the old farm-house still intact?”

“Yes, it’s still there. Originally we planned to renovate there the same as we did here, but Birna was against it. She thought the two buildings were too far apart. The walk between the two properties is not all that long, but they’re not connected by a direct road so the drive between them would hamper joint operation of various services, such as housekeeping. In addition she found the farmhouse at Kreppa to be too dilapidated to make rehabilitation cost effective. You can look at it tomorrow if you want. The keys are under a stone by the entrance. It’s quite interesting inside, because it’s still fully furnished in the old style.”

“How come?” asked Thóra. “There were no tenants on the land when the sale was agreed.”

“I have no idea,” Jónas replied. “Some of that old stuff might have been removed now, as it happens, because the sister … um …” Jónas racked his brains for the woman’s name. He twirled one index finger in the air as he thought about it.

“You mean Elín Thórdardóttir? The one who sold you the land?” suggested Thóra.

“Yes, that’s her,” Jónas said. His finger stopped mid-twirl. “Elín, the sister! She phoned me a couple of months ago and told me they were finally going to do something about taking that stuff away. I was in the city, so I didn’t talk to her myself; I just got a message through Vigdís at reception. Her daughter came a while later and was told where to find the key. It was probably a good thing that neither of them met me, because I would probably have fired off a comment or two about that ghost.”

Thóra was sick of talking about ghosts. “When did it turn out that they wanted those boxes of junk?” she asked. “I don’t remember any mention of that when the sale was going through.”

“Oh, it was verbal,” Jónas said. “They discussed it with me and I told them just to pick it up whenever they wanted.” Then he added self-importantly, “I told them they ought to get a move on, in case I either wanted to use the house or demolish it.”

Thóra nodded. “I might take a look over there while I’m here. Who knows, I might even bump into Elín or her brother.” She glanced at her watch. “I think I’ll wait until morning before I go through the boxes. It’s far too late now.”

Jónas agreed. “It’s not the sort of stuff you want to look at before bedtime, I can tell you.” He grinned mischievously. “Whether you be lieve in ghosts or not.”

The bed was the comfiest Thóra had ever slept in. She yawned and stretched, determined to enjoy her sleep to the utmost. The thick feather pillow supported her neck perfectly, and she made a mental note to ask Jónas where he bought his bedding. Reaching over for the remote on her bedside table, she switched off the television. She felt sleep descending upon her the moment she closed her eyes, and soon her breathing had become regular as she drifted into a dream. She did not even stir when an infant’s soft crying wafted in through the open window.

“Dad’s no fun. He’s asleep. So’s Gylfi. I want to be with you.”

Thóra rubbed the sleep from her eyes and propped herself up in bed. She had grabbed her mobile from the bedside table and answered it before actually managing to wake up, then cleared her throat and spoke to her daughter. She had a vague recollection of a dream about ghosts and crying babies, but it slipped away before she could remember it fully. “Hello, Sóley. Are you awake already?” Looking at the clock, she saw that it was a few minutes to eight. “Oof, it’s so early. It’s Saturday today. Your dad and Gylfi just want to sleep a bit longer so they can be more fun later.”

“Huh.” Her little girl’s high, clear voice was full of reproach. “They won’t be any fun. I only like being with you. You’re fun.” The reception was terrible and Sóley sounded as though she were talking from the bottom of a barrel.

Enjoy it while it lasts, thought Thóra, who had learned from raising Gylfi that this unconditional adoration would not go on forever. Sóley was only six, and although she would soon be seven, there were still a few years left in which Thóra would play the lead role in her life.

“I’ll be back home tomorrow evening. Then we’ll do something fun. I’ll bring you some shells from the beach, if you want.”

“Beach! Is there a beach out there?” Sóley sighed. “Why can’t I be with you? I really want to go to the beach.”

Thóra kicked herself for mentioning the beach. Since they lived on the coast, it had simply not occurred to her that a beach would arouse the girl’s interest. “Oh, sweetie, you know you’re supposed to spend the weekend with your dad. Maybe we can come back here later in the summer.”

“And take the trailer?” Sóley asked excitedly.

Thóra stifled a groan. “Maybe. We’ll see.” If there was one thing she could not stand it was driving with that contraption behind her, and she had still not learned to reverse with it. The few trips they had made with the trailer had been carefully planned so that Thóra hadn’t needed to reverse once. “Go and turn on the television—the cartoons have started. Dad and Gylfi will be up soon. Okay?”

“Okay,” muttered Sóley crossly. “Bye,” she added.

“Bye-bye. I miss you,” said Thóra, and hung up.

She stared at the telephone for a while, wondering how things had ended up like this. Her marriage had fallen apart pretty quickly, and she had never given herself the time to deal with it. For eleven years they had got on fine; then things went rapidly downhill. She and Hannes were divorced a year and a half later. Her conscience nagged her a little about shuttling the children back and forth between their two homes, but there was not much to be done about it now, as she wouldn’t take Hannes back even if he were the world champion at trailer-reversing. She got up, shook off these depressing thoughts, and took a shower. Then she put on a pair of jeans, running shoes, and a hoodie, and felt ready to clamber around in the dusty basement. In the large mirror she saw that all she needed was a balaclava to make a convincing bank robber.

A lavish buffet awaited her in the dining room. Thóra was generally not one for large breakfasts, but the food was so tastefully arranged and looked so tempting that she gave in and took a large plate, which she filled with poached egg, bacon, and toast. She threw some fruit on top, for appearances’ sake, but soon after sitting down she abandoned the idea of health food. Half the tables in the dining room were occupied. Thóra was curious to know what kind of people stayed at such a hotel, which was exorbitantly expensive but based on a hippyish philosophy. She could not identify any common characteristics among the guests, who—although of all ages and various nationalities—seemed to be mainly Icelanders.