The Girl Who Died by Ragnar Jonasson (ap literature book list .txt) 📕

night, and in this little village the new day wasn’t heralded by the hum of traffic as it had been in her old home in the west of Reykjavík.

It had to be admitted too that the sitting-room sofa wasn’t particularly comfortable. Maybe she should just go back upstairs to the attic, since it was clear that the downstairs rooms provided no protection from the haunting. But then an alternative occurred to her: she could sleep in Salka’s bed. Her room had a comforting atmosphere and Salka didn’t seem to have sensed the little girl.

But she didn’t move, just lay there with her eyes closed and her mind racing, brooding over the fate of the little girl who had died more than half a century before. Una didn’t even know her name, let alone how she had died, but it must be possible to find out since it was bound to be common knowledge in the village.

What happened? she wondered, or perhaps whispered aloud. What on earth happened to you? As she asked the question she had a disturbingly powerful sense of the girl’s presence again, and was sure that if she opened her eyes she would see the small figure, vividly real, in her white dress.

Una tried hard to distract herself by thinking about something else, tried to relax …

XIV

She opened her eyes wide.

She could hear footsteps.

It was still dark; she couldn’t have slept long, probably only dozed for a while, her mind still full of questions about the ghostly girl, and now …

A door creaked in the hall, sending a shiver of pure terror down Una’s spine. She lay rigid, her eyes slowly adapting to the darkness, her breath caught in her throat, and heard them again – footsteps, coming nearer. She couldn’t move, couldn’t look round.

With a creak, the sitting-room door began to open – even though Una was still half drugged with sleep, she could tell it was really happening. She braced herself to hear the lullaby start up again, all her muscles taut with fear.

Light shone into the room from the hall.

‘Una,’ a voice said softly, and she almost jumped out of her skin.

She sat bolt upright on the sofa, jerking her head around. How ridiculous to have believed, even for a second, that it was the ghost.

‘Hello, Salka,’ she said, embarrassed. ‘Nice to … to see you. I … I’m so terribly sorry.’

Salka seemed to have aged years in a matter of days.

She lowered her head. ‘Thanks,’ she said quietly. Then asked, frowning in puzzlement: ‘What are you doing down here, Una?’

‘It … it was so cold upstairs. Sorry, I just crept down here during the night. I hope that’s OK?’

‘Of course. It’s fine.’ There was a brief pause, then Salka said: ‘You didn’t come to the funeral.’

‘I … I didn’t want to impose,’ Una said, conscious of how feeble this sounded. ‘You’ve all known each other so long. I wasn’t sure I’d be welcome.’ She immediately regretted her choice of words.

Salka nodded but didn’t comment.

‘Is it still night?’ Una asked, pushing back the duvet and getting to her feet.

‘It’s nearly morning. I had a bad night, I just couldn’t sleep, so I decided to drive home. To see if I could … could cope with being here for a while.’ Salka’s face was drawn; her eyes were dark with exhaustion.

‘I understand,’ Una said gently. ‘I’ll go upstairs now and let you get some rest.’

‘I … I …’ Salka stammered. ‘Actually, I’m not sleepy. Would you mind sitting with me for a while? I’ll make us some coffee.’

‘Of course. Coffee sounds great right now. But why don’t you rest while I make it?’

‘No, don’t worry, I’ll do it,’ Salka said. She disappeared into the kitchen.

Una took the duvet off the sofa, ran upstairs to the attic with it, and came straight down, still in her nightie.

The coffee dispelled the last vestiges of sleep. There was a lengthy silence that Una didn’t like to break. She waited for Salka to make the first move.

‘I wasn’t sure if I’d come back,’ Salka said at last. ‘I wasn’t sure if I could bear to come back here, to the village, to this house. But it’s not like I have any other choice, and I think it would probably be a good idea to try to get back into some kind of routine.’ Her words emerged, slow and halting, and it was plain that she was struggling to hold back the tears.

‘Yes … I understand,’ Una said inadequately.

‘I don’t know when I’ll be able to start writing again, but it’s not like I have much else to do here, and you have to begin somewhere. And if I do decide to move, I’ll have to clear up, pack away her things …’ Salka’s voice broke, but after a brief, choked pause she went on doggedly: ‘In spite of everything, it feels good to be here, at least for now – as if she’s near, with her room next door, and everything just as it was.’

Silence fell again.

‘Do they still not know what happened?’ Una asked.

Salka shook her head. ‘No, only that it was liver failure. It’s impossible to understand.’

‘I’m sorry I didn’t come – to the funeral, I mean.’

‘No need to apologize. It was a beautiful service. There were lots of people there.’

Una sipped the hot coffee, fighting back the urge to ask Salka about the girl in the attic. It was absolutely the wrong moment, yet she couldn’t think of anything else to say, and, who knows, Salka might even welcome a chance to talk about something other than her tragic loss. ‘Do you remember when we talked about the ghost?’ she said.

Salka nodded.

‘I feel like it’s getting worse. Have you never noticed anything?’

‘No,’ Salka replied, but Una wasn’t entirely persuaded by her tone.

‘The whole thing’s so strange. First it was like a bad dream, but now it feels more real, more tangible.’

Salka didn’t react.

‘What was her name?’

‘What?’

‘What was the girl’s name?’

For a moment it seemed Salka