Sculptures in Ice

I now write this letter with trembling hands and what little sense I have left. I no longer hope for rescue, for fate has trapped me in its claws—and they are terrible! If you’re reading this, I am likely no longer alive. And if you’ll allow yourself a dead man’s advice: stay away from the Valgard lighthouse. I intend to tell you why.

Isn’t it ironic how the things that can bring you the most joy are also those with the greatest power to destroy?

Her name was Dalla Dottir. She wasn’t the prettiest, nor the cleverest, but her hands were divine instruments. Miracles she performed in clay and marble, and because of her gift—and the love that blossomed in me—I, too, surrendered to the love of art. Sculptures brought us together in that dark, cold city. During the long winters, a single flame was enough to warm us, and our naked bodies shared that heat in the bliss of sweat and pleasure. We were young and joyful amid so much sorrow, and we vowed to remain that way.

I needed her, and she needed me. Our work was only as good as our state of mind allowed. We had few possessions, and I blame Valgard, our city, for that. Inhabited by crude people with faces as hostile as the climate, it was not a prosperous place for artists. The cost of raw materials did not justify the effort, so we limited ourselves to selling trifles. A complete waste of such rare talent, for I believe Dalla’s statues belonged in the finest courts. Fortunately, though we earned little, we had little need for spending. We survived mostly on what nature gave us, and we were neither vain nor greedy. That changed, however, when, without planning, we discovered we would soon become three instead of two. We were devastated by the news—we never intended to bring a life into that vile, frigid darkness we called home.

We clung to our love and began to believe we could extend it to the child. Our concerns turned to the future, and we realized we could no longer live as we had. A life of poverty ill suits loving parents. Thus began our true torment, when we decided to build up some savings with a year of work at the lighthouse.

You see, Valgard is not a port city. I have never even seen the ocean. The rivers and lakes I’ve known are frozen most of the year. Still, the city was built in a low depression, forming a heat island and offering partial protection from constant blizzards. Were it not for these details, human life would be nearly impossible there. Due to its low, remote location—lost in a desert of ice—it was nearly impossible to find without help, as the city’s lights were too dim to overcome the surrounding hills. The lighthouse was built to solve that problem. Standing atop the highest nearby mountain, outside the city, it cast a beacon to help travelers and traders locate us.

The job of lighthouse keeper paid well, as it was solitary and dangerous. Blizzards made it impossible to leave without a proper convoy, and the keeper was only visited every three months for food supplies. It was a rotating role due to frequent resignations. When Dalla’s belly showed two months of pregnancy, I became the lighthouse keeper. She came with me, and we signed a one-year contract. It would be enough to save the amount of money we needed.

We left for our post prepared for hardship. We were hardened by life’s adversities since birth and didn’t think it would be too difficult to endure.

The lighthouse was large, with additional buildings—a technological marvel unusual for the region. She and I divided tasks. During the day, I handled the mundane chores—cleaning floors and latrines, clearing snow, cooking, repairing things, fishing in a nearby pond, tending the noisy furnace that warmed us, and maintaining the steam gears that rotated the light. At night, she corrected what I had done poorly and climbed to the top to watch over the light. A vigilant eye over the nothingness that surrounded us. Her true purpose, however, was the most beautiful one: creating life in her womb. I gave her the space she needed. I tried to care for Dalla as best I could, but we took turns sleeping, and our time together was brief—just at twilight. Routine and boredom struck quickly, and those shared moments became our anchor to sanity.

Solitude brings you into the company of the deepest parts of your mind. If everyone truly experienced it, they’d see their own company isn’t always the most pleasant.

We became irritable and began to argue from time to time. The boiler released pressure every half hour. Loud and repetitive, it broke my concentration and sleep. Yet I couldn’t do anything about it—it kept us from freezing. When the first supply convoy brought rations, we were glad to find alcohol. Our drinking brought us close again, but around the fifth month of pregnancy, I noticed Dalla’s behavior changed.

She became a sad, withdrawn woman. Her silence troubled me, and it wasn’t uncommon for her to seek solitude even during the brief hours we had together. One morning, I awoke to see snow figures around the lighthouse—rudimentary ice sculptures. Dalla had begun sculpting them during her shifts, saying they helped with loneliness. They were chaotic and unrecognizable, as if she was trying to capture a form that even she didn’t know. I blamed the poor lighting and her exhaustion for the lack of her usual finesse.

In the following days, she was haunted by nightmares. I tried to sleep amid the infernal sounds of her screams and the boiler’s hiss—with little success. She wouldn’t share the nightmares, but I could tell they were part of why she pulled away. I must admit: deprived of sleep, worn from labor, and trapped in such a hollow routine, I wasn’t in the best shape to support her.

When not watching the light at night, Dalla sculpted increasingly distant ice creatures by torchlight. Her distorted art began to disturb me. From my high window, I saw a terrifying army of deformed, lifeless sculptures arranged radially around the lighthouse.

We had no peace, and she no longer let me into her space. Her partnership now was with herself—and something in her mind that seemed to enjoy talking.

We fought. In a rage, I destroyed as many of her monstrous works as I could. My shouts of anger joined the chorus of the chattering boiler. I wanted some reaction from her besides that maddening detachment—and I got it. She cried, screamed, and struck me. She let it out. I held her, realizing how fragile she had become—as swollen as her belly now was, nearly eight months along. We decided together that we had suffered enough. We would break the contract and return with the next convoy—cutting our stay in half. Unfortunately, the convoy with our supplies never came.

The idea of being trapped there forever was absurd, yet each passing day brought no sign of life beyond us. Dalla worsened. Her nightmares returned more frequently. She no longer let me ascend the tower, saying it was her duty. The snow figures now appeared at alarming speed—and with recognizable shapes. But it would’ve been better if they hadn’t. They revealed the sickness of my dear Dalla’s mind. Indescribable, horrid forms born of a mind drowning in dreams and despair.

One blizzard night, I saw the last glimmer of sanity in her eyes. She called me to show a new sculpture—larger and more defined than the others. I’d never seen anything like it. Though unfinished, her talent in the ice surpassed anything she’d ever done in marble. The details were so precise they must have come from a living model—but that was impossible. Such a creature couldn’t exist—not even in the vilest planes of existence—and no god would permit such a blasphemous being to walk among us. She had made it in the distant, ruined stable. Walking there had been torment in the freezing wind, and she begged me to help protect the work.

Just seeing the monster widened my eyes, quickened my pulse, and haunted my dreams. When the boiler roared in the distance, for a moment, I thought it was the creature. I refused to help Dalla and left her there.

I trembled through that night. No matter how the boiler hissed, it brought no warmth. I knew Dalla wouldn’t abandon the stable—she no longer seemed rational. My conscience gnawed at me, and concern pushed me to return. The structure was intact—but she was gone. To my surprise, much of her dreadful sculpture had been destroyed, though the walls and roof still sheltered it. I concluded she had regained enough sanity to end the heresy. I went looking for her. I searched until I realized there was only one place she might be—where she hadn’t let me go in a long time.

I climbed the spiral stairs of the tower. Through the cracks in the windows, I saw that flickering yellow light. I had recently fed the boiler, and it ran faster than usual, its burning breath echoing through the tower. Along with the storm and the machinery’s rumble, it was the only sound in that desolate place. I called out, but no answer. The hatch was locked. I broke it with an axe and, for the first time in a long while, set foot in that place. I went from near-total darkness to blinding white light in seconds. I could only see when the beam moved away from my face—and with help from the moonlight, I saw my dear Dalla.

Perhaps I was right all along. Perhaps Dalla had regained her sanity. But I only understood this in the months of solitude to come. In those months, I learned the lighthouse was now my duty. I began to dream of corrupted beings my mind could never have created alone. As I tried to understand them, I carved my own demons in ice in tribute to what I’d seen behind closed eyes. And in the company of the infernal boiler, I tended the light. I watched the horizon and murmured replies to the colossal shadow briefly lit in the distance. The same monstrous form I would finish sculpting in the stable.

As for Dalla—she hanged herself. I found her swinging gently in the wind like a pendulum, cradling our child in eternal sleep—dangling lifelessly from her womb, strangled by his own umbilical cord.

That blood took long to leave my hands. I cared for our dead boy as best I could. I destroyed the cursed furnace seeking silence, and the intense cold helped keep the worms away from my family. Even after burying them, in the darkest corners of the room, my son sometimes appeared. He came to visit with his distorted form and boiler’s voice.

Like my sweet Dalla, I am having my own moment of clarity. Unlike her, however, I will leave my life to fate. I’m about to step out into the storm. If I survive, I’ll follow the horizon where madness came from. I don’t know what I hope to find—but it’s stronger than me. I must know. I must understand. Whether this journey brings peace or shatters what little sanity I have left... that remains to be seen.