Strange Things Done - Softcover

Elle Wild grew up in a dark, rambling farmhouse in the wilds of Canada where there was nothing to do but read Edgar Allan Poe and watch PBS mysteries. She is an award-winning short filmmaker and the former host of Wide Awake on CBC Radio One. Her debut novel, Strange Things Done, won the Arthur Ellis Award for Best First Novel. Wild lives on an island in the Salish Sea.

Prologue

The pattern of her demise became suddenly clear, as though a dark kaleidoscope had just been turned. Everything snapped into focus then: the sharpness of the stars, the bowed outlines of trees, the expression on his face.
A blast of arctic air hit her with such force that it made her gasp and take a step back, breaking a crisp skin of snow. He moved forward, her partner in the same terrible dance. The air between them was charged, and out of the corner of her vision she saw something flash, as though the intent written on his face had become a tangible, physical force. She turned to flee into the shadows of the forest, but he caught the sleeve of her parka, then grabbed her by the throat. Impossible to twist away, though she railed and shoved. He swung her hard and the kaleidoscope turned again―filling her with a bright shower of sparks and then blackness.

***

Gradually she heard a distant clamour and something being dragged; that something was her. But what really bothered her was the bone-aching cold.
She opened her eyes and found herself staring up at tangle of stars. She marvelled for a moment at the emerald hue of the sky. How did she get here? Where was she going? The stars looked jittery. Not quite right. She felt like some lost explorer, painfully scanning from the Great Bear to Polaris, as though mapping the night sky would help pinpoint her location. But the stars would not stay still and it hurt to look at them. She turned her head away and saw instead the jagged silhouette of trees flashing past in jerky stops and starts. Snow and ice scraped against her cheek.
She felt herself lifted into the air and seated on something. A fence, perhaps. For one teetery moment, she balanced there, her arms hung loosely around someone’s shoulders like a sleepy child. Somewhere below her, the roaring grew louder. She was dimly aware of a tilting feeling, the needling scent of pine, and that she was slipping backwards. She lifted her head and their eyes met, a fleeting exchange filled with mutual surprise, and she remembered everything.
She tumbled backwards, kicking and clawing at the emptiness as she fell. Her panicked hands reached out to the swirling mass of northern lights above her, an undulating pattern that formed a last wordless message while the river below rushed up to meet her.