I walk on tiptoes, glancing in every direction. The creak of a floorboard makes me freeze. I spin to my left, expecting someone to jump out on my blind side, but there’s just shadows. Forcing my legs to move, I make my way to Mormor’s room. It’s darker on this side of the cabin. I hold out my phone, but it only illuminates a tiny patch of wall. I hesitate outside her door.

Someone is breathing on the other side.

My heart skitters in my chest. I lean my ear against the wood and gasp. There’s a faint shuffling sound.

What if they’re doing something to Mormor? I have to stop them!

My hand trembles as I grasp the knob.

I open the door and scream. A boy is standing there. Tall and wiry, about the same age as me. He has long dark hair, a pale face and wears black eyeliner under his eyes. He stares at me and holds up his hands in a bizarre act of surrender, as if my phone is actually a gun.

Fear turns to rage. ‘Who the hell are you?’ For a crazy moment I think he must be an apparition, not a real human being. But a ghost wouldn’t look so terrified.

‘Sorry! I can explain, please. I can explain.’ He says something in Norwegian, then tries again. ‘Please, it’s not what you think.’

My legs won’t hold me a second longer. I collapse onto the bed while he stares at me like I’m the intruder.

‘Where’s my grandmother?’

He looks at me aghast, then says in a small voice, ‘I only know what I heard.’

‘Which is …? What? Just tell me!’

‘The woman who lived here is dead. Her funeral was last week.’

4

‘You’re a tough cookie. You’ll be OK.’ That’s what Dad said when he saw my eye. He might as well have patted me on the shoulder and said, ‘I can’t help you. You’re on your own, kiddo.’ Sitting on the bed, I pull the biscuits from my bag. I was going to share them with Mormor – my celebratory treat for making it here. For being a tough cookie.

She can’t be dead, she just can’t. Someone would have sent word to Mum; we would know! Or perhaps part of me did know, deep down. The thought is like a hand stirring murky waters, churning up mud and silt and allowing dark things to the surface. Tears stream down my face as I clench my hands into fists, crumbling the cookies to nothing. The world blurs to grey, everything gone but the ache in my chest.

Snot drips from my nose and I wipe it away with my sleeve. ‘How did she …?’

The boy glances behind me. ‘In her sleep, I think.’

I turn and gaze at the bed. Mormor’s colourful crocheted blanket looks painfully cheerful. Propped between two white pillows is the wonky heart-shaped cushion we made together when I was eight years old.