Read Giants of the Frost for Free Online

morning."
    "It's three in Amsterdam," he said cheerily. "I just got back to the hotel. I remembered you were working your first night shift tonight, so I thought I'd call and see how it's going." I could hear other male voices in the background, calling out to Gunnar in Norwegian. I didn't know what they were saying, but their voices betrayed that juvenile tone peculiar to men in small groups who suspect one of their number is trying to score. That and the fact that Gunnar had bothered to remember my first night shift told me that he was still sweet on me.
    "It's going fine, thank you."
    "You sounded anxious when you picked up the phone."
    "I'd dozed off. I was having a bad dream."
    "Oh? The one about the old woman who comes in and sits on your chest?"
    "I… no. I dreamed that someone had opened the door to the observation deck—"
    "That's her. The hag."
    "Gunnar, is this more of your supernatural shite?"
    He chuckled. "No. Alex and Josef have both dreamed of her while dozing on the night shift. They thought it was spooky until Josef did some research and found out it was a very common sleep disorder, especially at that time and under those circumstances."
    Common sleep disorders. That's what I liked to hear. Perhaps my encounter with the bundle of twigs that talked was explainable in this way too. "Tell me more."
    "It's called isolated sleep paralysis, occurs most often at the onset of sleep, and is usually accompanied by hypnagogic hallucinations of a presence in the room."
    "Isolated sleep paralysis."
    "I like the other name. The hag."
    "How about imagining you see someone outside your window with twigs for hair and he offers you advice? Is that a common sleep disorder?"
    "No, haven't heard of that one."
    Damn. "You would have laughed your head off, Gunnar. I screamed like a girl."
    "You are a girl."
    "A little girl."
    "What did he say?"
    "Who?"
    "The thing with twigs for hair."
    "Oh. Something about not swimming in the lake because of the draugr, whatever the hell that is." A brief silence on the line. Then Gunnar's voice, cautious. "Really?"
    "Yes, really. Why?"
    His voice returned to normal. "When you knock off, go to my cabin. There's a book on my desk about mythological creatures. You'll find it interesting reading."
    "Why? What's a draugr?" I'd assumed it was a nonsense word that my addled brain had invented. Noisy voices broke out behind him. "You'll see. I've got to go, we're heading back out."
    "At 3:00 a.m.?"
    "It's Amsterdam . My key's in the dead pot plant at the back door of the cabin."
    "Gunnar, just tell me what—"
    "Gotta go. Bye."
    The phone clicked. The room was growing cold, so I turned up the heating. I rilled the rest of my shift and changed over with Gordon at 4:00 a.m.
    First I went back to my own cabin to shower and put my pajamas on. I was fooling myself that going to Gunnar's cabin and finding that book was not so important to me, that I didn't really care what a draugr was or where I'd picked up the word—because I'd clearly picked it up from somewhere, some movie or book or conversation. But as dawn broke and I still wasn't asleep, I decided that I simply had to know . I pulled my anorak on over my pajamas and left my cabin. Gunnar's back door was about ten yards from my front door, screened by the six-foot-high wooden lattices that stood between all the cabins in a miserable bid to provide privacy. I found my way around the lattice and to the dead pot plant he had spoken of. The key was hidden inside. I opened his back door and let myself in. Gunnar's cabin had the same faint musty scent as his clothes. Probably because his clothes were strewn all over the floor of his bedroom, bathroom and lounge room. I was astonished at how messy he was. My mother always said that men, left on their own, will eventually revert to savagery. I found his computer set up at a desk in a corner of the lounge room. The walls around it were decorated with sketches—not particularly good ones—of Viking warriors