The Darkest Room Read Online Free PDF

seventeenth-century German cabinet, we got thirty-five thousand kronor for that in Kalmar.”
    Henrik had become more animated as he was talking, almost nostalgic. He had actually had quite a talent for getting in through locked veranda doors and windows without smashing them. His grandfather had been a carpenter in Marnäs and had been equally proud of his expertise.
    But he also remembered how stressful it had been, driving around northern Öland night after night. It was bitterly cold up there in the winter, both in the wind outdoors and inside the closed-up houses. And the holiday villages were empty and silent.
    “Old houses are real treasure troves,” said Tommy. “So you’re in? We need you to find our way around up there.”
    Henrik didn’t say anything. He was thinking that a person who has a miserable, predictable life must be miserable and predictable themselves. He didn’t want to be like that.
    “So we’re agreed, then,” said Tommy. “Okay?”
    “Maybe,” said Henrik.
    “That sounds like a yes.”
    “Maybe.”
    “Hubba bubba,” said Tommy.
    Henrik nodded, hesitantly.
    He wanted to be exciting, to have an exciting life. Now that Camilla had moved out, the evenings were miserable and the nights were empty, but still he hesitated. It wasn’t the risk of being caught that had made Henrik give up the break-ins before, it was a different kind of fear.
    “It’s dark out in the country,” he said.
    “Sounds good,” said Tommy.
    “It’s
bloody
dark,” said Henrik. “There are no streetlights in the villages, and the power in the cottages is usually switched off. You can hardly see a thing.”
    “No problem,” said Tommy. “We pocketed some flashlights at a gas station yesterday.”
    Henrik nodded slowly. Flashlights got rid of the darkness, of course, but only to a certain extent.
    “I’ve got a boathouse we can use,” he said. “For storage, until we find the right buyer.”
    “Great,” said Tommy. “Then all we have to do is find the right houses. Mogge said you know some good places.”
    “Some,” said Henrik. “It goes with the job.”
    “Give us the addresses, then we can check if they’re safe.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “We’ll ask Aleister.”
    “What?”
    “We usually chat with Aleister Crowley,” said Tommy, placing his bag on the table. He opened it and took out a narrow, flat box, made of dark wood. “We contact him using this.”
    Henrik looked on in silence as Tommy unfolded the box and placed it on the table. Letters, words, and numbers were seared into the wood on the inside of the box. The entire alphabet was there, plus numbers from zero to ten and the words YES and NO . Then Tommy took a small glass out of his bag.
    “I tried this out when I was a kid,” said Henrik. “The spirit in the glass, isn’t it?”
    “Like fuck it is, this is serious.” Tommy placed the glass on the unfolded box. “This is a Ouija board.”
    “A Ouija board?”
    “That’s what it’s called,” said Tommy. “The wood is from the lid of an old coffin. Can you turn the lights down a little?”
    Henrik smiled to himself, but went over to the light switch anyway.
    All three sat around the table. Tommy placed his little finger on the glass and closed his eyes.
    The room fell silent. He scratched his throat slowly and seemed to be listening for something.
    “Who’s there?” he asked. “Is Aleister there?”
    Nothing happened for a few seconds. Then the glass began to move beneath Tommy’s finger.
    Henrik had gone out to his grandfather’s boathouse the very next evening, at twilight, to get it ready.
    The little wooden hut was painted red and stood in a meadow a dozen or so yards from the shore, close to two other small cottages owned by summer visitors; no one came near them after the middle of August. You could be left in peace here.
    He had inherited the boathouse from his grandfather, Algot. When he was alive, they would both go out to sea several times