"Was that a scream?" I asked myself as I furtively glanced behind me. The bridge was long, the angry waters beneath it worked up in a frenzy. Why had I allowed myself to be called out on a night like this? I told myself time and time again that I wouldn't be fooled by Jorgan Bradt again yet here I am—out on a cold and windy night with my unruly hair streaming about my face and my skin as clammy as the wicked night air surrounding me. My feet beat a staccato against the boards of the bridge beneath them. I had been running, running ever since I had encountered that awful figure dangling just behind the door of the old fisherman's hut in the crag beside the fjord. "Was that a scream?" my demented mind demanded again. "Was that me screaming like that?" Suddenly I realized it was me: screaming for all I was worth, my cold clammy hands plastered against my cheeks. That awful hollow reverberating sound was coming out of my mouth—I couldn't help myself.

Behind me, eerie footsteps echoed in the night. In the darkness, someone was following me. No, not someone: two someone's. The clop clop of running hard soled shoes came faster as they approached. Were they after me too? Were they the ones who had strung up Jorgan in the hut? I tried to run, to hurry my footsteps. The silent, sleeping town was just on the other side of the long bridge. If I could make it that far, I would be safe. Then, in my rush, my legs tangled around themselves and I went sprawling, face first, onto the roughhewn boards of the bridge.

Gentle hands beneath my armpits pulled me onto the lap of a crouching tall man with his face hidden beneath a bowler hat. A second man similarly dressed leaned forward to brush my disheveled hair away from my eyes. "Whatever has happened to frighten you so?" queried the man who leaned over me.

Instead of answering, I struggled. I had to get moving again. Once I was on my feet, I could run. Run home to the village; run home to my father's house, run home to my safe and warm bed—and forget. Forget everything about this horrible, horrible night.

"Please try to calm down," a soothing voice coaxed. "Calm down then tell us what has happened to you. There is nothing to fear. I am Dr. Vilhelm Spilde; this is Dr. Axel Houge. We're both psychiatrists from Oslo. We're here for a little walking holiday, rushing back to the village from an evening stroll to beat the upcoming storm. You'll be safe now. Calm down a bit then tell us what has happened to you."