What has happened to me? I tried to remember but my mind was suddenly blank. Concentrating as deeply as I could, I tried to bring the events of the evening back into focus. My mind flashed with the image in the fisher's hut. Had it really happened tonight or was it all a dream? I could see myself approaching the derelict structure, pushing the screechy broken door inward, then seeing the body dangling from the rafter, the face swinging in my direction so I could recognize it as that of my friend, Jorgan Bradt. Next I was running—running away—across the bridge toward the village. Suddenly the scream cut into the hollow wind sweeping across the fjord. My scream.

The eerie images never left my head; they kept replaying themselves in my mind whether I was awake or lying in an fitful sleep. Doctors Spilde and Houge were constantly by my side, their short holiday disturbed by the incident they encountered on the bridge. My anxious mama and papa were glad of the attention they paid to their traumatized child. When it was suggested I be removed from the area where the cause of distress had taken place, they gladly allowed the good doctors to place me in their sanitarium outside the city of Oslo.

"Tell me, young Inga, what are your first memories?" kind Doctor Vilhelm Spilde questioned as he sat at my bedside with my hand held gently between his two. "Were they happy memories?"

Oh yes, they were happy memories, I thought as I leaned back against my pillow and closed my eyes. I was a happy child. Mama and papa were good parents to us. There were five children all together. Anna, Maria, Fredrik, Inga and Magnus—the Wolle family. We played; we teased each other; blamed one of the others when we were caught in a wrongdoing and squabbled as brothers and sisters will. Still, we were close, and we were all happy together. Anna married at seventeen; Maria entered a nunnery. That left Fredrik, aged twelve, me aged nine and little Magnus barely six in the small village home.

When I was just about to turn ten, Jorgan Bradt moved in next door. He was the first real friend I remember having outside my own family. The little girls and boys of the village had all been my companions throughout the years but, when I think of a real friend, Jorgan comes to mind. He was a teaser, a practical joker. In the schoolroom, where he sat directly behind me, he enjoyed pulling on the loops of my twin yellow braids. When I turned in my seat to loudly reprimand him for his actions, teacher would stop the class and abruptly pull me up then force me to stand in a corner for disturbing the others.

"Inga in the corner; Inga in the corner," Jorgan would sing at me as he followed me home from school. All the time he knew he was the cause of my punishment. Other times he would call to me over the fence on some silly pretext. "Kitty's stuck up in the wardrobe, Inga. Can you help me get her out?" Poor kitty, I would think as I ran over to assist in the rescue—only to find myself locked in the wardrobe with Jorgan laughing at me on the other side of the door. What he thought of as funny wasn't funny at all; leastways not to me. I was always the butt of his silly jokes. Still, we were friends and that's all that mattered.

As I told my story, Dr. Spilde sat by my bedside gently holding my hand. He had a way of encasing my small one inside his two large hands. It was a calming gesture. If I became too excited, he would put a slight pressure on my fingers then, after a moment's pause, would encourage me to continue. Dr. Houge would lean in the doorway listening as I spoke. Occasionally he would nod his head knowingly. They were kind, both of them, and interested in my life leading up to the distressed evening of our first meeting.

Jorgan and I grew up as children do. There were times when we liked each other and played together as young people do. Other times, we wouldn't speak for a while. He had male friends to participate in sports with; I had girlfriends to whisper secrets to on the path leading from the school to our respective homes. But we were always there for each other when we needed special time to spend together.

When we reached the age of sixteen, we discovered we had developed a special bond. That's when the teasing became more intense. Jorgan loved to play practical jokes, but I enjoyed teasing him—kissing him then running away; allowing him to chase me across the long board bridge, over the fjord and around the crag. If I permitted him to catch me, I would kiss him with passion or push him away and let him chase me home.

"You shouldn't tease a man such a Jorgan, Inga," my elder brother Fredrik exclaimed as he leaned in the barn door with his pitchfork held upright and his hat pushed back from his sweaty brow. "If you push him too far, there won't be any coming back."

Shrugging off my sibling's remarks, I tossed my head into the air and my hair over my shoulder. Perhaps I wanted to tease Jorgan too far; perhaps I didn't want to come back. I was young, in love with Jorgan and with life, and full of myself as young girls of sixteen usually are.

"Yes, those were happy days, Dr. Spilde," I stated in a short whispery out of breath voice. I had spoken a lot for one session and was quite worn out. Laying back upon my pillow, I closed my eyes indicating I wished to rest. Yes, they were happy days and then things turned sinister.