The Darkest Room
Authors: Johan Theorin
PRAISE FOR JOHAN THEORIN
Winner of the Glass Key Award for best Nordic Crime Novel
Winner of Sweden’s Best Crime Novel of the Year
Nominated for a Barry Award International Bestseller
WORLDWIDE PRAISE FOR JOHAN THEORIN’S DEBUT,
Echoes from the Dead
“An impressive first novel … It has that mixture of mystery and human depth, which is the mark of a good story. Theorin tells it slowly, writing with authority and an infallible sense of pitch, caring more about conveying a picture and an atmosphere than playing around with words.”
—
Sydsvenskan
“Theorin has done a masterful job of creating a small, close-knit town where people may seem to know everything about their neighbors; but, in actuality, secrets and subterfuges are rife among the inhabitants. The plot, with its shocking surprise ending, is tightly constructed. … Fascinating storyline, authentic characters, and accomplished writing make this a top read.”
—
Deadly Pleasures
“An extraordinary début, both distinct and with a rich variety of expression.”
—
Dagens Nyheter
“Theorin builds a strong, tightly pulled tension. … a smoothly intertwined look at two time periods … an excellent read.”
—Fresh Fiction
“The intricacy and suspense … [do] justice to its wonderfully desolate setting.”
—
The Kansas City Star
“The book haunts the reader and cannot be put down until the last page is read.”
—
Ölandsbladet
“I started reading and couldn’t stop. This book is so remarkable that I give it a high ranking without any hesitation. Complex, suggestive and hair-raising, it invades the reader, and one is swept along to the barren, fatal landscape of northern Öland.”
—
Barometern
ALSO BY JOHAN THEORIN
Echoes from the Dead
The dead gather every winter to celebrate Christmas. But on one occasion they were disturbed by an old spinster. Her clock had stopped, so she got up too early and went to church in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve. There was the murmur of voices as if there were a service going on, and the church was full of people. Suddenly the old woman caught sight of her fiancé from the days of her youth. He had drowned many years ago, but there he was, sitting in a pew among the others
.
SWEDISH FOLKTALE FROM THE NINETEENTH CENTURY
This is where my book begins, Katrine, the year when the manor house at Eel Point was built. For me the manor was more than a house where my mother and I lived, it was the place where I became an adult
.
Ragnar Davidsson, the eel fisherman, once told me that large parts of the manor were built with salvaged cargo from a German vessel carrying timber. I believe him. On the wall at the far end of the hayloft inside the barn, the words
IN MEMORY OF CHRISTIAN LUDWIG
are carved into one of the planks
.
I have heard the dead whispering in the walls. They have so much to tell
.
WINTER 1846
Valter Brommesson is sitting
in a little stone house at Eel Point, praying to God with his hands clasped together. He prays that the wind and the waves sweeping in from the sea this night will not destroy his two lighthouses.
He has experienced bad weather before, but never a storm like this. A white wall of snow and ice that has come howling in from the northeast, stopping all building work.
The towers, O Lord, let us get the towers finished. …
Brommesson is a builder of lighthouses, but this is the first time he has built a lighthouse with a prism lens in the Baltic. He came to Öland in March the previous year and set to work at once: taking on workmen, ordering clay and limestone, and hiring strong draft horses.
The fresh spring, the warm summer, and the sunny fall were glorious on the coast. The work was going well, and the two lighthouses were slowly growing toward the sky.
Then the sun disappeared, it became winter, and when
the temperature dropped, people began to talk of blizzards. And in the end it came, the blizzard. Late one night it hurled itself at the coast like a wild animal.
As the dawn approaches
, the wind finally begins to subside.
Then all of a sudden cries are heard from the sea. They come out of the darkness off Eel Point—drawn-out, heartrending cries for help in a foreign language.
The cries wake Brommesson, and he in his turn wakes the exhausted builders.
“It’s a shipwreck,” he says. “We have to go out.”
The men are sleepy and reluctant, but he gets them on their feet and out into the snow.
They plod down to the shore, their backs bent in the ice-cold headwind. Brommesson turns his head and sees that the half-finished stone towers are actually still standing, down by the water.
In the other direction, to the west, he can see nothing. The flat landscape of the island has become a billowing desert of snow.
The men stop on the shore and gaze out to sea.
They can see nothing in the dark gray shadows out on the sandbar, but they can still hear faint cries mingled with the roaring of the waves—and the creaking sound of splintering wood and nails being torn free.
A big ship has run aground on the bar, and it is sinking.
In the end the only thing the builders can do is to stand there listening to the sounds and the cries for help from the ship. Three times they try to get one of their boats out to sea, but every attempt fails. The visibility is too poor and the breakers too high, and besides, the water is full of heavy wooden beams.
The grounded vessel must have been carrying a huge load of timber up on deck. When she began to go down, the wood was wrenched free by the waves and tumbled overboard.
The beams are as long as battering rams and are washed ashore in great shoals. They have begun to fill up the inlets around the point, scraping and banging against one another.
When the sun rises behind the misty gray cloud cover, the first body is discovered. It is a young man, floating in the waves a dozen or so yards from land with his arms outstretched, as if he were still trying to grab hold of one of the beams around him right up to the very last moment.
Two of the lighthouse builders wade out into the shallow water, take a firm grip of the rough woolen shirt the body is wearing, and tow the dead man ashore across the sandbank.
At the water’s edge each man grabs hold of one ice-cold wrist and pulls hard. The dead man comes up out of the water, but he is tall and broad-shouldered and difficult to carry. He has to be dragged up the snow-covered grassy shore, with the water pouring from his clothes.
The builders gather around the body in silence, without touching it.
In the end Brommesson bends down and turns the body onto its back.
The drowned man is a sailor with thick black hair and a wide mouth that is half open, as if he had given up in the middle of a breath. His eyes are staring up at the gray sky.
The foreman guesses that the sailor is in his twenties. He hopes he is a bachelor, but he may have a family to provide for. He has died off a foreign shore; he probably didn’t even know the name of the island where his ship went down.
“We must fetch the pastor in a little while,” says Brommesson, closing the dead man’s eyes so that he will no longer have to meet that empty gaze.
Three hours later the bodies of five sailors have drifted ashore around Eel Point. A broken nameplate has also washed up:
CHRISTIAN LUDWIG—HAMBURG
.
And timber, lots and lots of timber.
The flotsam is a gift. It belongs to the Swedish crown now, the same crown that is paying for the lighthouses on Eel Point. Suddenly the builders have access to top-quality pine worth many hundreds of riksdaler.
“We must all help to bring it ashore,” says Brommesson. “We’ll stack it up out of reach of the waves.”
He nods to himself and looks up toward the snow-covered plain. There is very little in the way of forest on the island, and instead of the small stone house they were planning for the lighthouse keepers and their families on Eel Point, he can now build a much bigger house made of wood.
Brommesson has a vision of an impressive, enclosed manor with the house itself full of large, airy rooms. A secure home for those who will be looking after his lighthouses here at the end of the world.
But it will be a house built on the spoils of a shipwreck, and that can bring bad luck. Some kind of sacrificial offering will be necessary in order to counteract this bad luck. Perhaps even a prayer room. A memorial room for those who died at Eel Point, for all those poor souls who have not been buried in consecrated ground.
The thought of this bigger house remains in Brommesson’s mind. Later that same day he begins to measure out the ground with long strides.
But when the storm has abated and the frozen lighthouse builders start heaving the timber out of the water and stacking it up on the grass, many of them can still hear the echo of those cries from the drowning men.
I am certain those lighthouse builders never forgot the cries of the drowning sailors. And I am equally certain that the most superstitious among them questioned Brommesson’s decision to build a large house using timber from a shipwreck
.
A house built with timber that dying sailors had clung to in despair before the sea took them—should my mother and I
have known better than to move in there at the end of the 1950s? Should you and your family really have moved there thirty-five years later, Katrine?
—
MIRJA RAMBE
Property:
Eel Point estate, northeastern Öland
Description:
Magnificent lighthouse keeper’s manor house from the middle of the nineteenth century in an isolated and private location with fine views over the Baltic, less than 300 yards from the shore and with the sky as its nearest neighbor.
Large garden above the shore with flat lawned areas—perfect for children to play—surrounded by sparse deciduous forest to the north, a bird sanctuary to the west (Offermossen), with meadows and fields running down to the sea in the south.
Buildings:
Attractive manor house on two floors (no cellar), comprising in total some 280 square yards, in need of renovation and modernization. Wooden frame, joists, and façade. Tiled roof. Glass veranda facing east. Five tiled stoves in working order. Pine flooring in all rooms. Communal water supply, separate waste.
Annex (limestone outhouse) on one floor, approx. 80 square yards, water and electricity, ideal rental property after some renovation work.
Outbuilding (barn made of limestone/wood), approx. 450 square yards, more basic and in relatively poor condition.
Status:
SOLD
