Then some of them are afraid that the house is going to fall, and remember in sadness what it has meant to them. The darkness presses down as if an enormous, heavy helmet were arching over everything.

But inside the broad corridors it is light enough. Between the rooms go broad passageways with light shining from glistening, gilded arrows that have been hung there.

Now and then people pause and look at them. In their heads is a hammering and a buzzing, and their temples are seething with this fearful pressure. They stand looking at the arrows. The long arrows are fastened horizontally along the corridor, all pointing in the same direction. They are pointing the way to something. They curve around the corners of the passageway to other shining, well-lit corridors between the countless closed doors. Further and further away the arrows beckon, towards something, towards the centre, where the darkness wells up. In flight, alive, the glittering arrows hang there, pointing the way to the centre. A man goes the rounds polishing them. It’s the kind of gold that needs polishing. Nobody stops to talk to this man.

Nobody seems to walk here. People cross the corridor on tiptoe. You will find life in the side passages, that are dark and narrow. In the arrow corridor everyone is in a hurry to get across. They look, afraid, in the direction in which the arrows are pointing.

Come, come, beckon the arrows, and their beautiful, naked forms are beguiling, but people scurry into the passages and cellars and into their cubbyholes.

Then a noise may be heard: a cry somewhere near. A choked cry comes from a neighbour: ‘They’ve just been there. He’s been taken away in the van.’ Someone is left behind calling his name in farewell. Left behind, grieving.

And they look out through the blank window, as if a streak of light must come. But it does not grow lighter at all, only more blank, more dense.

Now heart rests close against heart. The bewitched house has gone for a brief moment, has disappeared with its oppressive rooms. Now there is only you. Ourselves.

A single name is spoken: ‘Karen.’

No more. Let it be so, this little moment that we have on credit.

Other things, too, will become clear in a while, out of the strangely drifting dusk. His name. The man.

‘Yes, Stig –’ breathed rather than spoken, and then silence.

This is ours. We are from the beginning, where all things are created. We too have taken part in it.

‘Yes, Stig.’

‘Yes, Karen.’

Then the house cracks. It has been doing so all the time. But now they are aware of it again. Aware of what is happening, and what may be happening.

‘Let’s be alone together just a little bit longer,’ she begs, when she notices that his thoughts have begun circling.

He answers, ‘Of course, Karen.’

She is a part of the house. This thing that is wearing down the house is wearing her down too. He feels closer to her on account of it. He rests his large man’s hand on her body, as if it could still the waves and calm her heart a little. The cracking makes her clutch him tightly.