The following journal excerpt was found in an abandoned camp at one of the most Northernmost parts of Europe, by BBC documentary makers in the summer of 2004. The camp itself was long deserted with no trace of any person remaining.
24th December 1998
I had always been an adventurous soul, with many trips to far-flung corners of the world. However, in all my travels, I have never encountered anything like the things I have seen here in the far North. I will attempt to record my experience here, although I do suspect that I will be unable to recount much of my tale without breaking down in madness and fear. I still feel so cold, deep within the marrow of my bones as I cower here in my tent, wrapped in furs. Though shivering as I am, I must record this information for any that might find these writings.
I first came to Kinnarodden in Norway as part of the second year of my PhD in order to research the climate and customs of the local population in nearby Mehamn. As I was the only post-grad student doing geographical anthropology, this was to be a solo excursion. I had explored minus temperature regions before, of course, from comparatively tropical holidays in the Alps to the three desolate weeks I spent in the Antarctic as part of a research sub-commitee. As such, I considered myself a hardy individual, well capable of surviving in relative comfort, alone in such freezing weather. I arrived in late December at 3pm in the afternoon, and the perpetual twilight this region experiences within the winter months was especially disconcerting to me. Although I had spent time in similar regions that did not experience sunlight during winter, the state of dimness and sense of frozen time was here was very eerie.
I spent the first night in a small inn within sleepy Mehamn. The elderly receptionist appeared half-asleep when I rented my room, and she moved with a sluggish pace from the ancient reception desk to the key hooks and back again without speaking a single word to me. She appeared to understand English, which was fortunate as my Norwegian was and is still incredibly weak. My room was incredibly bare, with only a mattress and dresser accompanying the small black cat that slumbered on my rug throughout my night. I slept fitfully and awoke in darkness, as was to be expected, although it was still momentarily disorienting.
That morning, I collected my rugged tent, bedroll and lantern and donning my full fur-hooded parka, goggles and snow shoes, I began to hike Northwards, partly for a chance to see the famed Northern Lights far from encroaches of human civilisation but also due to a building thirst for adventure. I also carried with me my Luger side-arm, a gift from an old army friend, meant to protect me while in the wilds of this frozen country, although it would be little use save as a method of scaring away some of the larger predators of this environment. Still, it helped psychologically as a talisman of sorts.
After some time, I discovered a sheltered grove amongst the age-old pines and decided this would be the perfect base to pitch my tent. I worked silently and swiftly, my head torch shining through the dim dusklight and illuminating my efforts, and before long I had my camp set up to my liking. I placed my research books and notes carefully inside my tent and ventured out into the surrounding copse in search of firewood. Although difficult to find dry wood in such a snow-covered locale, it is possible if you know where to look, so after approximately two hours I returned back to my camp with a healthly bundle of kindling. As I entered the clearing, I stopped suddenly in my tracks. All my previous notes and paperwork were strewn around the camp, but in a reliably orderly fashion. A pile of research notes that I had made on the aeroplane trip here were stacked neatly to one side of the tent, while a previously-jumbled collection of photocopies were stacked in the centre of the clearing, a small rock on top to prevent the light wind from scattering them.Similarly, various other bits of paperwork were settled around the site at seemingly random locations, although all were neatly folded (where appropriate) and stacked in alphabetical order.
Slightly shaken, I stalked around the camp site collecting all of my notes, accompanied only by the whistling of the wind through the evergreens. Resolving to put this strange occurrence to the back of my mind, I proceeded to settle down for the evening and construct my fire. Once this was done, I sat huddled close to the warmth of the flames and read through my research notes on the mythology of the region. Here were tales of trolls stalking and eating unwary travellers, along with stories of troublesome gnomes. As I read further, I came upon a legend of the "Nisser", local to these parts. Described as a sentient, larger type of gnome, the legend itself seemed to still regard them as dangerous, sometimes even deadly creatures. However, the aspect of this legend that caught my eye and made me draw breath was a description of their habit of organising lists and tidying of documents. Apparently, these mythological creatures were known throughout the province for a desire or need to organise things into lists, often labelled with a runic N or I symbol. At once, reading this settled my beating heart - clearly, some unscrupulous and bored local had decided to play a trick on me. Glancing up from my reading, I saw that indeed, a pile of notes here had broken twigs placed next to it in the shape of an N, while over on a further pile was another symbol. Pleased that my superior education had once again made me invulnerable to pranks, I merrily retired to my tent, eager to gain an early start the next morning.
I awoke in the darkness, unsure of what hour it was. It could even have been late morning, what with the general lack of daylight in the region. A brief glance at my pocket watch, however, showed that the time was 3.15 in the morning. I realised that a faint chorus of chanting could be heard over the wind outside the tent, its source hidden by the darkness and dense forest that I was in. Although unsettling, I resolved to investigate this noise, as a true scientific mind should. I quickly pulled on my furs and my thick boots and set off out of the campsite, foolishly leaving my pistol within the confines of the tent.
I followed the source of the noise through the thick copse, shaking fresh powdered snow off the branches as my feet crunched the eartn below my feet. At times, it seemed that the chanting was growing louder and therefore I was getting closer to whatever was making this sound, while at other times I felt that it was just the whistling of the wind through the branches of the evergreens towering over my head. At last, I espied torchlight in the gloom and cold of this wood, faint and flickering though it was and I proceeded to get closer to it. Something deep inside of my gut slowed my steps as I drew closer, as if I somehow knew that I was viewing something not meant for my eyes. As I crept closer to the light, I saw that it was being caused by multiple flaming torches, casting flickering shadows on the crisp white ground. And holding these torches were very small men! They could not have been taller than three feet tall, although their features were all in proportion, so to describe them as midgets would be inaccurate. They were uniformly dressed in a dull green, almost the same colour as the ancient firs that surrounded them, as well as a multitude of different hats, some cowed and dull, some pointed and brightly coloured. And all of them, together, were murmuring their haunting chant in a language I did not understand - "Jhng Hel B'helce, Jhng Hel B'helce".
As I watched, the murmurs of this chant grew quiter, and the pace of these small men slowed, until the leader of their procession stopped and glanced in my direction. I swiftly dove to the ground, burying myself from view beneath the large overhang of a mighty pine tree and breathing heavily. After this initial shock, I realised that I had as much right to be here as these men (if men they were), so resolved to stand and confront these beings like a true gentleman. However, when I stood and brushed the dusting of snow from the front of my garment, I saw that there was no longer any trace of these people. Only their miniscule footprints confirmed that they had indeed been present not thirty seconds before. I strode over to where I had seen the leader of the procession catch my eye, and discovered a small rock at the height of my shinbone. Studying it in closer detail, I noticed what appeared to be a runic symbol carved in to the rock, appearing like an upside-down upper case J with diagonal stripes across the length of it. I idly drew my finger across the shape, considering what it could mean, and to my amazement the rock shuddered backwards, revealing a dark hole in the ground with a miniature staircase leading down in to the depths of the earth. Knowing not why, but drawn in some nebulous way, I hunched my shoulders and squeezed in to the small aperture.
The air inside was thick with the dust of centuries, and an ancient smell rose up from deeper inside the passage. I could see nothing, but could hear the strange murmuring chant below me, sounding like it was a lifetime away. Inch by perilous inch, I crept forward through the darkness, my eyes slowly adjusting to the grim twilight of this underground cavern. After some minutes, the staircase opened up into a wider passage, allowing me to progress upright, though I was still hunched over. I could hear the distinct chanting much more clearly now, and there was a faint flicker of torchlight illuminating the passage in front of me, allowing me to spy a small opening in the rocky corridor. I cautiously rounded the corner through this opening and felt my jaw drop at the sight that my eyes were beholding.
In front of me, the small men I had followed in here were stood in a semi-circle, torches burning brightly in their hands. In the centre of their group was a large upright sarcophagus, the stone cover pried off to reveal a skeletal figure. These small beings seemed to be chanting directly at this figure and the volume of their surprisingly deep voices was increasing, as was the tempo.The figure in the coffin, for I saw now that it was a coffin, was clearly long dead, as the gaping eye sockets and sagging jaw bone testified. A tattered crimson felt hat perched on the top of the skull, while the ribcage was covered by ripped and torn pieces of crimson fabric and the yellowed leg bones fed directly in to ancient, jet black boots. As I watched in shocked awe and silence, I thought I spotted the skeletal fingers of the idol jerk in unison to the unhallowed chanting. Then they visibly curled into fists, sending a shiver of ice down my spine. Staring in terror, I felt nauseous as brownish grey muscle fibers grew on the visible bones, as the tattered red cloak and hat became more solid. My eyes were drawn up the length of the figure, my mind unable to tear them away from this vision. To my horror, the bony white chin sprouted long white hairs, growing at an inhuman speed, becoming a bushy greyish white beard. The eye sockets, previously deeper and blacker than the night above ground, now showed a bright red sparkle and I recieved the distinct impression that this unholy figure was looking at me.
At once, with the speed of a coiled viper, the now half-skeletal figure's arm shot out, its pink finger pointing directly at me. I am not ashamed to say that I ran. I ran with the speed of a hundred men, and squeezed myself back out of the opening to solid ground. No longer minding the scratches that the rough rock had caused on my face and arms, nor the heavy crunch of the snow underfoot, I sprinted back to the relative safety of my tent.
This was twenty minutes ago, and the better part of a litre of whisky has calmed me somewhat, though it has done nothing for the deep cold in my veins. I write this for anybody who cares to notice, for I doubt I shall see civilisation again. I write with one hand cradling my pistol and the other my trusty notepad. The howl of the wind continues outside, the night itself seemingly everlasting. I must be paranoid, for I can hear above the wind the sound of jingling bells...
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