A tale of a really awkward fishing trip K r i s t i n a C l a es s o n Whatever’s been hiding out here. Whatever took the fleet. We could be flying right into their hands. A tAle of A reAlly AwkwArd fishing trip in höllvik, people lived slow. if you didn’t know any better, you’d swear the days had forgotten to end. Kristina Claesson Ovi ebooks are available in Ovi/Ovi eBookshelves pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: ovimagazine@yahoo.com No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C A tale of a really awkward fishing trip A tale of a really awkward fishing trip Kristina Claesson Kristina Claesson An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C A tale of a really awkward fishing trip T he village of Höllvik, nestled along the south- ern coast of Sweden, had always been the kind of place where stories evaporated like morn- ing fog. The wind, restless and wild, carried the briny scent of the sea, mingling with the sharpness of pine trees that stretched toward the pale sky. It wasn’t a place where things happened in a rush. In Höllvik, people lived slow. If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear the days had forgotten to end. The lighthouse was as much a fixture of the town as the rocks that jutted from the coastline, stark and unyielding against the sweep of the waves. Its light, faint and distant on clear nights, acted as a reluctant guide to ships that dared venture close to the jagged shore. Built long ago, no one quite remembered the exact year. No one cared either, it simply was. The lighthouse stood guard like an old sentinel, watching as the tides turned and the seasons shifted. Kristina Claesson It was all quite ordinary. Until the evening Olle Lindholm arrived. The sun was sinking beneath the horizon, bleeding tangerine and violet into the sky like a painter’s last brushstroke of the day. The village was quiet, every- one going about their usual evening routines. Then, in the distance, they saw him, Olle Lindholm, com- ing up the narrow road that curved along the cliffs to the lighthouse. Olle was a man of no particular note, or so they thought. A fisherman’s son, the kind of name that was as common as the rocks by the shore. His shoul- ders were broad, his palms rough from years of labor. His hair was dark, speckled with gray at the temples, and his eyes, those eyes, were a storm trapped inside a man. He didn’t speak much. Didn’t smile either. His quiet was a heavy thing, not one you easily brushed aside. “Here he comes,” muttered Anja, the village baker, wiping flour from her hands as she stood at the door- way of her shop. “The new keeper.” “He’s late,” said Birgit, who stood beside her, peer- ing through her glasses. “The last one left in the spring.” A tale of a really awkward fishing trip “Well, he’s not here for the weather, is he?” Anja muttered, her eyes narrowing. “He’s got the look of a man who’s been running from something.” “Maybe from a wife,” Birgit chuckled. But the words didn’t quite land. They both felt it—the oddity in the air, a hum that started with the man’s arrival and car- ried through the village like an unsettled current. By the time Olle reached the small stone cottage beside the lighthouse, the few who noticed him couldn’t help but stare. They had seen new faces be- fore, fishermen, travelers, the occasional lost sail- or but this one was different. There was something about the way he walked, like he was pacing himself to match the rhythm of the waves. He didn’t rush, never looked behind him, and always seemed to be just a bit... out of sync. “You’re staring again,” Birgit said, nudging Anja’s elbow. “Can’t help it. Did you see the way he walked to- ward the cliffs?” Anja asked. “Like he was expecting something.” “Expecting something, or running from some- thing?” Kristina Claesson The laughter was quiet, but their words lingered in the air, thickening the tension between them. That night, the wind picked up, howling through the narrow streets like it had a vendetta. The sea below churned and splashed against the rocks with more fury than usual. Anja had closed up early, pull- ing the shutters tight against the increasing gale. She glanced out the window, and there standing at the edge of the cliffs was Olle Lindholm. No one had seen him leave the cottage, but there he stood, looking out at the darkening sky. He didn’t look like a man standing in the face of a storm. He looked like someone waiting for something. “Does he have a death wish?” Birgit asked, her voice shaky. “Or does he know something we don’t?” But it wasn’t the wind that caught her attention. It was the flicker of something something in Olle’s posture, something about the way the light from the lighthouse cast shadows over his face. For a moment, the waves seemed to hush. The village held its breath. Then, Olle disappeared. Into the storm. By morning, no one had seen him return. The storm raged through the night, but it wasn’t the weather that A tale of a really awkward fishing trip had them worried, it was Olle. The village had lived through its fair share of tempests, but something in the air felt different this time. The kind of unsettled quiet that follows when something is wrong. “The lighthouse light didn’t flicker once last night,” said Torbjörn, the village postman, his voice a little too loud as he walked into the pub. The usual crowd of regulars looked up. “Not once. And I swear there’s something... something about the air.” “You think Olle’s gone off his rocker?” Gunnar, the fisherman, asked with a raised eyebrow. He took a swig from his tankard. “He’s probably just waiting it out, like any sensible man would.” “I don’t know,” Torbjörn continued, leaning closer to the group, his voice dropping low. “I’ve been up at the cliffs before, during a storm. But it’s different this time, isn’t it?” The murmur of the village grew louder, but Torb- jörn didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he was looking at the old map on the wall, the one that had been there for years. His finger traced a path, slowly, across the coastline. “It’s not the storm we should be worried about,” he muttered. “It’s what’s coming after.” Kristina Claesson And that was when the scream ripped through the silence. It wasn’t long before everyone rushed to the cliff- side, where the sea had thrown something up—a fig- ure, half-drowned and tangled in the rocks. It was Olle. His face was pale, his body limp, and his eyes... his eyes were wide open, staring at something only he could see. By the time they reached him, Olle was gone. But it wasn’t just the storm that had claimed him. It was the sea, and it wasn’t done yet. The wind howled once more, the salt air thick in their lungs. And in the distance, the lighthouse light flickered for the first time in decades, casting an eerie glow over the darkened waves. The villagers didn’t know it then, but the storm wasn’t over. It had only just begun. A tale of a really awkward fishing trip I. The wind howled through the village, carrying with it the salty tang of the sea and the scent of the old pines that dotted the cliffs. It was a storm that had been building for hours, each gust of wind loud- er than the last, as though the very air itself was being torn apart. The sea, a dark and restless stretch of wa- ter just beyond the cliffs, seemed to echo the fury in the sky, crashing against the rocks with a rhythm that would unsettle even the most steadfast. Inside the small pub at the heart of Höllvik, the townsfolk were huddled together, murmuring about the weather, about Olle, and about the strange ab- sence that had hung in the air like a thick fog since his arrival. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting long shadows on the weathered walls, and the scent of malt and brine mingled in the dimly lit room. Kristina Claesson “It’s like he’s... waiting ,” said Astrid, her hand nerv- ously clutching her glass of schnapps. Astrid had al- ways prided herself on being observant, a skill that had served her well in the village. There were few things that slipped by her, no loose thread, no odd glance. And Olle, well, he was a mystery. A man who didn’t quite fit in. He was new, but more than that, he was strange. Unsettling, even. “He’s just keeping to himself, Astrid. Maybe he’s trying to get used to the place,” said Gunnar, the vil- lage’s old fisherman, his voice as rough as the sea he’d spent his life on. His face was weathered like the bar- nacles on the rocks, his skin sun-dried and tough. He was always a little too calm, a little too accepting of things. Gunnar wasn’t the sort to make much of a stir. He let things happen and took them as they came. But even Gunnar, with all his years of looking out over the waves, couldn’t help but notice some- thing in the air, something off about Olle. “Used to the place?” Astrid scoffed, raising an eyebrow as she took another sip of her drink. Her voice, sharp with the impatience that had served her through many years of running the village’s small bakery, cut through the murmur of the room. “I know when someone’s hiding something.” A tale of a really awkward fishing trip “Well, you’re right about one thing,” said Elin, who’d been listening quietly from the corner of the room. “The storm’s not just passing over us. It feels like it’s waiting for something.” As though the words had summoned it, a new gust of wind rattled the windows, and the fire crackled and spat, sending a shower of sparks into the air. The room grew a little colder, the shadows stretch- ing across the walls like long fingers. It felt as though the pub had become part of the storm, as though everything in Höllvik had been pulled under a spell of uneasy anticipation. There was a knock at the door, and the sound of it seemed to slice through the tension in the room, like a knife cutting through butter. Everyone turned to- ward the door. It opened slowly, and there, standing in the doorway, was Olle Lindholm. He was soaked through, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, his clothes clinging to his body like wet rags. He stepped inside, the wind and rain trailing in with him, carry- ing a chill that seeped into the bones. His face, as always, was unreadable. There was a certain stillness about him, a quiet that made him seem otherworldly. He didn’t look at anyone, didn’t acknowledge the room. He simply stepped past them, Kristina Claesson his boots heavy on the wooden floor, and made his way to the far end of the bar. “Good evening,” he said, his voice low but clear, al- most distant. It was as if he hadn’t just walked in from the heart of a storm. As if he hadn’t just stepped into the thickest air Höllvik had felt in years. His words were polite, but they didn’t belong. The room fell silent. The crackling fire was the only sound, and even that seemed muffled now, as though it, too, was waiting. Olle settled onto the stool at the bar, ordered a drink, and then, as if nothing in the world was out of place, took a slow sip. The tension in the air shifted, thickening like a fog rolling in from the sea. Everyone in the pub felt it, even Gunnar, who was usually too slow to notice an- ything unusual. They were all looking at him now, watching the way he held himself, the way he sipped his drink and never once glanced at anyone. And then, from somewhere deeper in the storm, came a faint sound, a distant, haunting cry. It wasn’t quite a howl, but something between a scream and a wail, stretching long across the waves. Everyone froze. A tale of a really awkward fishing trip Astrid’s hand tightened around her glass, her eyes widening as she looked toward Olle. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t seem to notice the sound at all. His gaze was fixed on the door, or perhaps on something be- yond it, something that only he could see. “What was that?” Astrid asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Olle’s hand moved, slow and deliberate, as he set his glass down. His eyes never left the door, and for a moment, it felt as though he wasn’t even in the room with them. It was as though his mind had slipped away, pulled somewhere far, far beyond the reach of the storm or the village. “The storm,” he said, his voice low and flat. “It’s not just wind, you know. The sea does things to a person.” Astrid opened her mouth to respond, but the words got stuck. The room seemed to close in around them, the shadows growing longer, more oppressive. Gun- nar shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his old bones creaking as he leaned forward. There was something about Olle, something about the way he spoke, that made them all feel like they were standing on the edge of a precipice. Kristina Claesson And then, as if the very air had been waiting for the right moment to shift, the door slammed open, and a cold gust swept through the room, carrying the storm inside. For just a second, the pub was filled with the sound of the wind, the sea, and something else—something sharp and terrible that made every- one’s skin prickle. Olle stood up. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His eyes, cold and distant, were already fixed on the door. Before anyone could stop him, before anyone could say another word, he was out the door and into the storm. * * * * * The wind screamed against the sides of the build- ing as Olle disappeared into the night, swallowed by the fury of the tempest. The villagers watched him go, their hearts racing, their minds heavy with ques- tions they couldn’t quite voice. And then, somewhere in the distance, the cry came again, louder this time, unmistakable. A sound that didn’t belong to anything living. It was the kind of sound that made you wonder if A tale of a really awkward fishing trip maybe, just maybe, something else had arrived in Höllvik. Something that would never leave. * * * * * Inside the pub, Astrid was the first to speak. “That man is no ordinary keeper,” she muttered under her breath, her eyes wide, her voice low. “No,” said Elin, her voice tight with unease. “He’s something else.” The room was silent, the storm outside pressing against the walls like a wild animal pacing the edges of a cage. But everyone knew deep down, they had just witnessed something far more unsettling than a mere storm. And soon, they would discover the truth about Olle Lindholm. But that, like the storm, would take time. And time in Höllvik had a way of moving more slowly than anywhere else. Kristina Claesson II. The storm raged all night, a wild thing unleashed by forces far beyond anyone’s comprehension. By dawn, the air still trembled with the fury of it. The rain had stopped, but the wind seemed to have tak- en over, battering the cliffs, the cottages, the narrow streets of Höllvik, as though trying to sweep them away, erasing the memory of what had once been. Astrid was the first one out. She stood outside the pub, wrapped in her woolen shawl, her eyes squinting against the wind that whipped around her, tugging at her hair. The lighthouse, usually a sentinel over the village, was dark now, no light, no sign of movement. It was the absence that unsettled her most. “I told you something was off,” Astrid muttered to herself. She didn’t care if anyone heard her; it was the kind of thing that needed to be said aloud, even if only to the wind. A tale of a really awkward fishing trip The village was waking slowly, as it always did after a storm. The fishermen were reluctant to leave their cottages, staring out at the sea, waiting for some sign that it was safe again. But it wasn’t the sea that trou- bled Astrid now. It was the lighthouse. It had always been there, sturdy, unmoving, a piece of the land- scape that the villagers had come to rely on, even if they didn’t talk much about it. But now, with Olle gone, and the light dimmed, it felt like something was... wrong. Not just with him, but with the whole place. By midmorning, a small group of villagers had gathered at the base of the lighthouse. Gunnar was with them, the old fisherman, his oilskins slick with the remnants of the storm. He was a man of few words, and yet, everyone turned to him when de- cisions had to be made. His instincts were the kind that came with decades of hard work by the sea, and they were seldom wrong. “We should go up,” he said, his voice as rough as the sea. “No use standing around here in the wind. We’ll get a look at what’s happened.” Astrid was already climbing the narrow path to- ward the lighthouse, her boots slipping in the damp earth, her eyes scanning the landscape ahead of her. Kristina Claesson The others followed reluctantly, like moths drawn to a flame. It wasn’t that they were afraid, they just didn’t know what to expect. When they reached the lighthouse, it was worse than they had feared. The door was ajar, swinging la- zily in the breeze, and the interior of the small build- ing was in disarray. Books and papers were scattered across the floor, overturned, as though someone had fled in haste, not caring what they left behind. Gunnar pushed the door open further, his brow furrowed. He didn’t like what he saw. “What in the world happened here?” he muttered. Astrid stepped into the room first, brushing her fingers over the surface of a table, leaving a streak of dust behind. She glanced around at the chaos, her mind piecing things together. Olle hadn’t been gone for long, yet it felt like everything in this room had been abandoned for years. The disarray, the aban- doned journal pages, the sense of hurried departure, it all told a story. But what story? At the back of the room, in a corner near the win- dow where the light should have been, something caught her eye. A small collection of items, placed