Director Törneroos warned me that Olga haunts these grounds. I enter a spa-sized sweatbox. A blonde camped on the top bench smiles down, teeth white as a birch trunk. I shut the cedar door behind me. The chrome temp gauge says it’s only sixty-nine degrees but the joint’s heating up quick. Hot wood sure gives off a sexy aroma. I ladle water from a bucket over the stones and they hiss back. Steam cloaks me. I sprawl out on the middle bench and spread legs wrapped in a towel.
Despite seeing that woman up there, I really know I’m all alone. Nobody for miles on this granite coast. I’ve got the only key to this annex, being the last resident for 2016 at a Customs House built in 1828. It was me who clicked on timers for heat and light. That blonde must be a demon. Sweet Jesus. I’m naked except for this towel. Bet she was a fox in her time because she’s not bad looking after death. I swivel my head. “Olga?” I ask. “Ja,” she answers. “Vad heter du?”
Damn. Wish I knew Swedish. Just my luck I’d get a Nordic spirit who didn’t speak English. I watch as she slips off her towel and stretches her long legs. She waves for me to join her. The temperature gauge says eighty-five.
I disrobe and join her. She scooches close until our thighs touch. She flips her hair over her shoulders. Her gray lips turn rouge. The tips of our tongues meet mid-air and twirl in circles. Her tongue’s icy cold. Then I remember that gauge was registering Celsius, not Fahrenheit. I try standing but wobble back down. The heat turns me groggy, like I overdid it on the stout. She hugs me hard. “Jag älskar dig,” she coos, stroking my thigh. The light clicks off. Olga giggles.