Ever since I first stepped off the ferry onto Balestrand soil, I had a hunch that something wasn’t quite right. And the conversations with locals did little to calm the unease growing in me.
To the average tourist, nothing seems odd in the village—people work during the day, linger around their houses, or flee into nature, as Norwegians tend to do. The empty shelves of kvikk lunsj at the local Coop only confirm that the locals are living the good ol’ Norwegian life. The youth gather at Balestrand Hotel, old tourists creak their joints at Kviknes, the fjord between Balestrand and Vangsnes is stitched together by ferries and fishing boats. Mountains loom over the village, and in their wooded fold hides Balabu.

When I dragged myself up the winding path into the hills, I had no idea what kind of bizarre encounter lay ahead. Balabu is a dagsturhytta—a day-shelter, where hikers can rest in silence and solitude during their treks. You’ll find a few kids’ books on nature (in Norwegian), some wooden benches, a sitting area with a view above the forested humps. Far off in the distance, the fjord calls for scenic shots on Instagram.

It was late in the evening. In that chill, off-season weather, I hoped Balabu would be empty for the night. Sure, overnight stays were officially forbidden, but during the season someone was always crashing there anyway. In this remote corner, I planned to finish an old short story. I’d meant to shelve the Tales from Edgar’s Linden for a long time now and turn to something else, but something inside me begged to write just a few more.

In better weather, with dry ground underfoot and a lighter breeze, the hike would’ve taken about an hour. As it was, I plodded along, step by cautious step, for over an hour and a quarter. It was sometime past nine when I left the village, and with the cloudy sky, darkness had already fallen. In my backpack I had only coffee, a sleeping bag, a couple of pens, and a notepad. In April, the sun still managed to dip below the hills, and though it wasn’t long past ten, it had already vanished behind the ridgeline.

The climb ended abruptly as I reached the crest, and a long open space stretched out ahead. Through the brush in the distance, I saw the roof of the cabin jutting out. I wasn’t even panting anymore like I used to—it wasn’t my first hike to Balabu. The hut, mostly just a roof, was sinking into the night.

The silence of the woods was shattered by a bang.

The door of the cabin flew outward, and a figure in a black cloak tumbled out, as if someone had thrown him. The man staggered across the wooden porch, barely keeping himself from tumbling down the steps. In his hand—a weapon. A hunting rifle. Weird-looking guy, I didn’t recognize him—at least not until he spoke.

“Boy!” he bellowed at me.

Bit old to be called a boy, but still, I stood frozen like a kid caught kicking a ball into the neighbor’s window.

“Quick, get inside! She’s comin’ back!”

I recognized old Ulryk more by his voice than by his looks. Something was wrong. He stood there, legs apart, waving me in. There was no turning back.

Even though I’d already half turned, ready to show Balabu my back and bid this whole creepy mess goodbye, I heard something crunch in the woods. I flinched, nearly lost my balance and fell.

“Move! She’ll get you!”

The moment of decision—face whatever was in the woods (probably just a stray deer or a sheep, though I’d have heard it), or run straight into the arms of some rifle-wielding maniac.
Call me crazy, but in that instant, with him urging me like that, listening seemed the saner option. I knew Ulryk as a solid, down-to-earth local guy in his forties—although his appearance now had me seriously shaken. If I hadn’t known him, I’d have pegged him for a vagrant.

As I ran up to the hut, he stepped aside and I slipped inside. The stove radiated pleasant warmth, but my skin was crawling. Ulryk rushed in behind me. As he shut the door, I still caught the sound—spitting, hissing meows. Then a growl.

“Boy, she almost got you.”

“Who?”

“The cat.”

***

The walls of the cabin—both the one with the door and the one opposite—were made entirely of glass. On one side was the view of the clearing in front of the hut, on the other, the rolling humps of the pine forest. Ulryk stood by the door, staring out through the glass.

Time seemed to stop. I didn’t know what I was waiting for, but it sure as hell wasn’t this.

The creature that stepped into view could hardly be called a cat. Its paw was about the size of my foot. More like a furry horse than any feline.

It approached the cabin in slow, deliberate steps and stared inside with its one good eye.
The cat the size of a horse was hissing from half a mouth—though, really, it wasn’t even a hiss.
It moved silently. From the side of its body hung guts, swinging with every step. They had to be squelching, but we heard nothing through the glass. Half its face was gone. As if someone had shoved a hand into its skull, dug their fingers between the eyes and the nose, and ripped. Flaps of rotting skin dangled loosely.

Inside the cabin, the air suddenly turned to ice. The fire in the stove was a pathetic, useless attempt to warm the place up. The cat-creature stepped up to the edge of the porch, sat down, and stared inside. Again it made that god-awful sound—something that would’ve been a hiss if it had had a whole face. As it was, it came out like some twisted wheeze.

Ulryk hefted his gun, but I could see he was shaking.

The creature let out a few more of those snakelike noises, then stood up and padded off toward the nearby trees. I watched as its silhouette didn’t fully vanish in the dark. It stopped at the line where forest met clearing. One dull grey eye still glowed in the blackness.

It was watching us.

And we said nothing.

***

Ulryk was sitting at the edge of the wooden deck. I’d once sat in that exact spot reading Sleeping Beauties by Stephen King. The wall opposite the door was all glass, offering a beautiful view above the treetops and all the way down into Balestrand. The fjord outside the window was usually the kind of thing that took your breath away, but right then, I was too afraid to even glance back—scared I’d lose sight of the door. The hunting rifle resting on his thighs looked worn and weather-beaten.
I knew a thing or two about guns (more theory than practice), and I was pretty sure it was a Tikka bolt-action. Still, I had a bad feeling even that wouldn’t be enough—he’d probably need half a dozen rounds just to put that monster down.

That cat-thing didn’t look like it’d go down easy.

“…that bitch’s survived worse,” Ulryk growled, once the silence had stretched too long to bear.

“What the hell is it?”

“That’s Bjorna.”

“Bjorna?”

“My cat.”

I stared at him wide-eyed. I must’ve gone pale—cold, bloodless. Ulryk lifted his gaze from the rifle and looked at me. His eyes were sunken and heavy, nothing to do with sleep—at least not recent sleep. His face sagged, the corners pulled low. His eyelids tried to fall shut, tried to take him into dreams, but sanity wouldn’t allow the luxury.

Ulryk wore camo pants, an old shirt, and a hunter’s vest full of pockets. A pouch of ammo hung off his belt.

“I picked Bjorna up in Bergen. From a local shelter… about three years ago. She was just a kitten then. They said they found her in a trash bin behind some Chinese restaurant. Probably slipped off someone’s plate.” He tried for a joke. Let out a short, rattling chuckle at his own wit.

Then he went on, more wistful: “She loved to stretch out by the stove. I didn’t see her much during the day, but come evening—she always came back.”

He stepped over to the glass wall by the door and looked out. Out there, maybe fifty paces from the cabin, a grey lump the size of a palm glowed faintly in the dark. Bjorna was standing there, staring dead ahead. Like she was waiting to see which one of us would be stupid enough to step out of the cabin first.

“She’s not stupid. She knows damn well she can’t just waltz in.”

So yeah—running wasn’t looking like a great or likely option.

“My little wanderer,” he croaked again. “I once saw her leaving the yard early one morning, and later, when I was roaming the forest, we crossed paths. She joined me, and we came back together in the evening. Tough spirit, I’ll give her that. Never wanted to die, not once. Judging by the state she was in when I got her from the shelter, she’d been through some serious shit already. She loved lounging by the stove, but when it came to hunting mice, no other cat in the village could compare. She’d haul piles of tiny Jerries into the shed. More than once, she came back bloodied from rat guts, her little snout all smeared. Rats ripped apart, scattered in all directions.”

But that voice, just starting to cradle a memory, suddenly darkened.

“But a few days ago… it was awful…” His voice cracked, like he was about to cry. He held the sob back—just barely. “…she came back torn up. I mean… ripped. I think it was a fox. That’s the only thing that makes sense. She was limping, barely walking, meowing all loud and pained. She collapsed on my porch. Her guts were hanging out the side, foam around her mouth. Rabies.”

For a moment, he looked at me, like he needed to make sure I was still listening.
Then his eyes drifted back. The grey lump in the darkness vanished for a heartbeat, then lit up again. Bjorna blinked.

“There was no other way but to put her down. I grabbed the rifle, even thanked her for the nice walks we had. Gå på tur, aldri sur, eh? Well, guess that don’t hold up anymore. I aimed for her head and…”

He missed.

How the hell do you miss a half-dead cat from fifty damn centimeters away?

You should’ve shoved the barrel down her throat.

Anger was rising in me. But Ulryk, like he could hear what I was thinking, looked at me and gave a sorrowful smile. “I was hoping no one’d cross my path today. You weren’t meant to be here, boy… I… I blew her head off. Aimed for the center, but I guess the barrel was crooked. Took off half her face. She panicked, bolted, guts swinging from her belly. I fired two more shots, missed both. I freaked when she hissed like that, real loud, real angry… From that moment on, I was a stranger to Bjorna.”

He sighed.

Maybe that’s how Caesar felt. Et tu, Bjorna?

But maybe in the cat’s mind it was: Et tu, Ulryk?

“I couldn’t sleep. I had to at least find her body. Bury her. I don’t even know what I was hoping to fix. Death sure didn’t do her any favors. Maybe she’ll end up in Freyja’s lap, watching the bickering of gods in Asgard. Maybe that’s what I was trying to give her. But what did I actually give her? Nothing. I searched for Bjorna for days, and I found her on Raudmelen. She’d run a hell of a way, the little devil. Up there, further…” – he pointed westward. “First time we fought, I barely made it out. Escaped by a hair. The steep slope probably saved me—I ran straight downhill. My dear Bjorna had grown. Maybe it was rage that made her grow, or… I don’t know. Folk whisper strange things about the fjord. You know those lower layers of water… You must’ve heard about them. Maybe there’s an old Viking burial site around here. Those mounds by the fjord’s shore? I don’t know… and honestly, I’m too tired to keep wondering. Bjorna is what she is—because of me. If I’d made damn sure I killed her properly… Now… now I’ve got to make sure. She hasn’t hurt anyone yet, but these woods are crisscrossed with trails, and soon half the world’s tourists will be crawling through here. It’s a miracle she hasn’t harmed anyone in the five days since I tried to put her down. But she’s getting close to the village.”

“Five days?!” I nearly shouted. “And in five days she turned into that beast?!”

“Watch your mouth, boy. She’s still my Bjorna, and only I get to curse her.”

“That creature is a long fucking way from your Bjorna.”

Ulryk silently agreed.

“I can’t wait any longer. I was ready to go out there already, but maybe God sent you so I could get it off my chest.” He walked over to a wooden chest I knew was usually empty. Maybe pilgrims used it to stash their things for the night.

He opened it. Hinges groaned. He pulled out an axe, weighed it in his hand. “When I step out there, I’ll have at most three rounds to my name.” Sure, it was a bolt-action rifle—fine for deer or elk. Probably wouldn’t take down a bear—let alone that feline monstrosity.

“What’re you gonna do?” I asked, horrified.

“Fix my mistake. And this time, for real.”

He walked past me.

There was no stopping him. He moved with purpose—calm, firm, final.

What happened next…I don’t think I’ll ever get it out of my head.

***

 Ulryk charged out. I shut the door behind him—he didn’t have time to bother with it. The grey lump in the dark surged forward. Ulryk fired from the porch. The shot cracked through the air. The monstrous furball bursting from the treeline didn’t seem to give a damn. Either he missed, or Bjorna didn’t even notice the bullet. The second option felt more likely.

He snapped the bolt open, reloaded fast.

Bjorna charged straight at him. He aimed, fired—hit her in the face. She staggered, let out that same weird, sputtering noise again, but didn’t fall. She was close now. The third bullet struck her in the chest. In return, she just hissed.

I didn’t know what was stranger—how massive she’d gotten, or how she’d survived a shot to the head, again, and days of dragging her guts through the forest. She should’ve been long dead. Ulryk shouted something at her, but I couldn’t make it out. Might’ve been a last challenge: Come on, one more time, let’s end this, or something braver: We leave this world together.

Ulryk tossed the rifle aside. Grabbed the axe and ran at Bjorna like an einherjar charging into Ragnarök. He swung.

The giant Bjorna lashed out with a paw lined with claws. They sliced through the air.

She tried to dodge the axe—got clipped in the side. As she toppled, her claws tore across Ulryk’s back.

Her snarl and his scream of pain rang out loud and clear. Ulryk turned, twisting mid-fall, and swung the axe blindly.

He hit her back leg—clean cut. The leg flew, trailing a fountain of blood. As she scrambled, she raked her claws across Ulryk’s face and chest. He howled and went down.

“My eye!”

Bjorna tried to get back up, but with a severed leg, half a face, guts spilling onto the ground, and three bullets in her body, she couldn’t. Her body jerked in place, but she couldn’t lift herself.

Ulryk was already over her. One arm hung limp at his side, the other dragged the axe behind him. He was gasping. Bleeding hard from his chest and face. His ribcage must’ve saved his lungs and heart from being torn to shreds, but the blood—it was pouring out of him like a stream.

Bjorna twitched.

Swiped one more time—he stumbled back. Her claws slashed his shoulder.

I ran outside. Bjorna looked like she was done for. At least from a safe distance. “You always were a stubborn girl,” said Ulryk as he limped past her thrashing form, getting close to her head. He mustered what strength he had left in his ruined arm, raised the axe. “And now—just to make sure.”

He brought it down one last time.

***

I’ve no idea who this confession will ever reach. But I’ll live with this image for the rest of my days. When Bjorna lashed out with three of her paws one last time, Ulryk collapsed beside her. He had earned his final breaths.

Death was inevitable.

He looked at Bjorna’s body.

But in the moment of his death—there was no monstrous feline beast lying next to him. There was only a small, innocent cat.