The Lapland Darkness

Last night, we were asked to present a piece of short fiction to our literature classmates at a pub downtown. I was consistently told that mine was the best, but I'm not sure what that says about the work of the others. I was told that it was very Stephen King-esque. It was, at least, inspired by him. Here is what I presented:

I am going to tell you a story—one that needs to be told—if for no other reason than in hope that you might believe me.

We left for Rovaniemi on the 20th of November. I was just 21 then, but can still remember the names and faces of my 22 classmates, our two group leaders, and our bus driver, though I’ve not seen them in many years. We were all on exchange. Our little troupe was getting a glorious 5 days, 4 nights stay in the winter wonderland that is the Finnish Lapland.

During a brief stop on the way to Inari, I picked up a free copy of the local Finnish newspaper to bring back to the United States as a souvenir. Bored with several hours of bus travel, I decided to use my pocket dictionary to translate a passage or two from the day’s news. Translating anything this way takes a frustrating amount of time and patience and I got no further than the front-page headline:

Kymmeniä kateissa. Etsinnät jatkuvat yhä. (Dozens missing. Investigation continues.)

I considered this information for a moment, perhaps two, and filed it away in the temporary storage file of my brain—from where facts seldom return. It would, however, re-enter my mind no less than 24 hours later.

I rose late in Vasatokka the next morning, having missed the sleepy, staggered departures of my four roommates. I was the last to reach the bus. This had proven to be not all that unusual.
We would visit a Sámi reindeer farm that afternoon. Anticipation built up inside with an intensity akin to my acid reflux, though decidedly more painless. We arrived at the farm at 2 and, while we waited for our guide, I made a brief visit to the facilities. I went alone and when I returned the group had moved on without me. The dark was coming.

I was not sure where they had gone, so I followed the footprints in the snow. This worked until the footprints dissipated and I could not continue with my tracking. The human footprints were replaced with hooves that led out into the deep forest. I wondered what the reindeer were doing outside the pen but brushed the thought away, unimportant.

Several pair of hoof prints began to appear in the snow. So many, in fact, that I could no longer tell where they were headed. They spread all over the forest in various directions. This struck me as bizarre until I saw the blood. It appeared to begin where the human trail ended and the reindeer trail began. Is this where they’re slaughtered? No, it’s too small an area with too little blood. They would have a special location for that sort of thing. This must be where they do the earmarks. A large open area, a little blood, human footprints and reindeer tracks—it all seemed to fit that conclusion.

I walked back to the main camp, where the bus was parked. I checked, just to be sure, but it was empty. I entered the small workshop and found no one there, either. A small thread of panic began to weave an elaborate fabric inside my stomach.

The temporary file of my brain suddenly flew open, releasing a single article:
Kymmeniä kateissa. Etsinnät jatkuvat yhä.
(Dozens missing. Investigation continues.)

No one could kidnap 25 people at once. Besides, where are the owners of the farm? Nothing is locked. The lights are on. Everything seems to have been left as if they were going for the mail. I walked up the small hill to the reindeer corral. It was completely empty. How could this be? I will admit, I do not know that much about reindeer farming, but I know enough to know that the reindeer are not normally all removed from the corral at once.

I searched high and low, as they say, and nary a German did I find. Nor did I find any French, Austrians, Russians, Chinese, Lithuanians, Americans, or Finns.

I walked toward the corral, the only area I had not checked, and noticed that the gate was wide open. Near the gate, in the soft, white snow, was a splattering of blood. A hat lay close by—one that I immediately recognized as Sámi. It was torn and bloody. Hoof prints led out of the corral to the area where I had seen them congregate in the woods. I followed these hoof prints back to my previous spot, deciding to continue straight ahead to see what I found. Something was terribly wrong.

I searched, lost in the woods for hours. Losing my grip, about to cry, I heard a scream. Not a scream of surprise or fright, but one of unbearable pain. It was the scream of a young woman. The woman began to bellow hysterically, as I began to run through the woods toward her voice. I ran with two distinct thoughts—thoughts that still haunt me today. For one, I ran quickly, hoping to reach the young woman in time to do some good. Save her, perhaps? Secondly, and more present in my mind at that moment, was the thought that I should stop, turn around, and run even faster in the opposite direction of the screams. This seemed to be logical. I was no longer moved toward that scream by any sense of duty, but by uncontrollable curiosity. What would I find out there in the woods?

The snow crunched beneath my New Balances. Occasionally I would reach an icy patch and have to maneuver desperately across it, hoping not to fall flat on my back. This, too, had turned out to be not all that unusual. In the snow lay a digital camera, which I barely noticed in my panic.

The screaming stopped. I ran even faster. A few meters later, it all came into view.

They were lain out across the open expanse of the snowy forest. All 25 of my group members—or, as I should say, what was left of my group members--plus dozens more. Heads with no bodies. Bodies with no heads to match. Limbs strewn about. Blood was everywhere, as were bones, teeth, and strips of meatless flesh. It was fully dark by now and I realized that the only way I was able to witness this scene was by the light of a huge bonfire. A human bonfire.

In the distance, I saw large pieces of human skin stretched out across a few logs. Bones were set up to dry and teeth were lined up neatly in little rows, as if on display for me. Someone had massacred my group and dealt with their bodies as only a proud hunter could—by making them into handicrafts.

I heard a crunch of snow behind me. I heard a low, heavy breathing approaching. I knew then, in an instant, what was happening. I turned around, everything moving in slow motion, and saw them. There were three. One, large and white, the others smaller and brown. The antlers of these smaller two were caked with blood. Their black, glossy eyes met mine and, in that moment, we knew each other. The white one signaled to the other two.

Then they were upon me. And it began to snow.

I am an old man now. Life has been good to me since then, save the nightmares. The others here often asked me how I lost my right leg and eye. I tell them, as I’m telling you, that I fought hard to escape with what I now have. They have never known exactly what happened on that night in the woods. That night of unbearable pain. Not only pain—something worse—terror.

I will never return to the United States. Dr. McAllister says I may someday, but I'm sure they will keep me here forever. It has been 53 years since that trip and the investigation and still the doctors try to force me to admit that it is all in my head. They say that I’m delusional, that I’ve created an elaborate plot in my own mind in order to avoid the truth about the disappearances. They call me insane. If I am insane, it is the price I pay for being alive.

It is snowing now. Some nights I can still hear the hoof beats. And I know they are waiting for me. Waiting to finish what they once began. Waiting…for revenge.

They are telling me that I must turn out my lamp and go to sleep now. I’m sure you have many questions. You may be asking yourself how was I tried and how I ended up in this bleak place—one filled with moans and tears. Or perhaps it is the immortal question: How did I escape? That, my friends, is a complicated tale—a painful one—that I cannot share. That story will remain in that cold, snowy night, out in the Lapland darkness.