The Ice Child

UDDEVALLA 1973

Laila had never believed in the existence of evil, but she did now. Every day she saw it in the girl’s eyes, staring back at her. Laila was scared and bone tired. How could she sleep with evil in the house? How could she rest even for a second? It was in the walls, present in every little nook and cranny.

She was the one who had let it in. She had even created it. She had nourished it, fed it, allowing it to grow until it could no longer be controlled.

She looked down at her hands. The scratches ran like red bolts of lightning over the back of her hands, and the little finger of her right hand pointed in a peculiar direction. She would have to go see the doctor and once again face the suspicious looks and listen to the questions she couldn’t answer. Because how could she tell anyone the truth? How could she share the fear she felt? There were no words for it. And nothing would do any good.

She couldn’t say anything. She had to keep lying, even though she could see from their expressions that they didn’t believe her.

Her finger throbbed and ached. It was going to be difficult to take care of Peter and tend to her chores, but by now she’d learned how strong she was. How much she could bear, how much fear and terror she could live with, how close she could be to evil without recoiling. Somehow she would manage.