A few months ago, I submitted an article to an online magazine for their Letters to a Stranger segment. Needless to say, I never heard back from them. So, I’m sharing it here on my blog instead. I love the idea behind the piece, and I’m proud of the letter I wrote. It would have been nice to get paid for it, but that’s just part of being a freelance writer – getting ghosted is all too common. The upside? I get to do what I want with the words that others didn’t value, and they still hold great meaning for me.
If you happen to read this, whether by chance or in an online search, I hope you enjoy it. Maybe it’ll remind you to be cautious when travelling to unfamiliar places, or perhaps encourage you to reach out to someone who might be feeling lonely. Either way, travel safely and always trust your gut.
To the Man at the Sacrificial Rock in Lapland,
Were you just lonely, or was there something more sinister at play when we met you at a sacrifice rock in the middle of the woods?
The car journey there had already unsettled me. The dirt road my husband and I found ourselves on was miles off the main road. It was bumpy, so we had to drive slowly. With every turn of our tyres, stones flew and dust clouded the windows. Reindeer roamed freely, and the trees stretched endlessly, with not a car, person or log cabin in sight. Perhaps the isolation put me on edge.
We were heading to an old Sámi place of worship. Kirkkopahta Seida Rock was down a remote dirt track, deep in the woods, and poorly signposted. We only found it because we were looking for it - some local friends of ours had suggested we pay the site a visit and until you turned up, I was really excited.
On arriving, we were the only people around. My husband and I got out of the car and walked into the woods, stepping over fallen trees to explore the sacred space. There were animal bones scattered all over the rock, and even without you, the atmosphere felt...off. It was eerily quiet. No wind rustled through the trees, no birds chirped. There were no cars - until yours arrived. I saw you through the trees, and for a moment, I hoped it was just another family showing up. But when you got out of the car alone, I felt a chill. Maybe I watch too much TV, and read too many books. But I was scared. I told my husband I wanted to leave. We were miles from the nearest main road, and even farther from the nearest village. There was no one around, it was just the three of us.
You quickly walked toward us, and I veered in the opposite direction, heading for our car. My husband didn’t notice you approaching at first; he was busy taking photos on his phone. You surprised him, and stopped him from leaving, asking what the rock was and why we were there. That seemed strange to me. Why had you stopped if you weren’t heading there yourself? Did you see our car and know it was secluded? Did you notice me heading into the woods instead of my husband? Or were you just curious? Maybe you saw us and thought, “I wonder what they’re looking at. Maybe I can make some friends.” Instead, you met me, the woman who’s suspicious of everyone. Sorry about that.
You told us about your mother and how you had grown up in Lapland - and I thought it was strange that you had no idea what the rock was, despite living there your whole life. But, you seemed friendly enough. You followed me out of the woods while my husband trailed behind you. Later, I asked him why he stayed behind, and he said he didn’t want to turn his back on you. That struck me as odd - my husband isn’t a suspicious person, but something about you unsettled him too.
When we reached our car, you asked where we were headed. You mentioned Pakasaivo, a lake further down the road. I said we weren’t going there, but my husband said we might. You insisted we should go because it was beautiful up there. But wait - didn’t you say you’d never been in the area before? So how did you know about a lake even farther out in the middle of nowhere, but not about the rock? My heart thudded in my chest. I won’t lie, I was freaked out.
As we got in the car, you told us you’d let us go first because the dust kicked up by our tyres would mean you couldn’t see properly. You said you’d follow behind us for a little while. I locked the doors as we drove off, hoping you’d go in the opposite direction. But you followed us, slowly, until you disappeared behind the dust.
When my husband and I reached the lake, I thought you’d left, maybe turned off on a side road that we hadn’t seen. To my relief, there were other cars around. But I still felt uneasy. We waited in the car to see if you’d show up - and you did. We stayed put until you got out of your car, and then we followed you. As we made our way to the lake, the other families who’d been there were starting to leave. It was just the three of us again.
You climbed down some rocks and disappeared from view for a while. I wanted to leave, but my husband insisted we see the lake first. After all, you had vanished from sight, and we had driven for a long way to reach our destination. We headed for the lake, and you were right, the view was breathtaking. The water was like glass, and the whole place had an otherworldly, magical vibe.
I began to feel calm. Until you reappeared, seemingly out of nowhere, asking if we wanted a photo. We were standing on the edge of a gorge, with no barriers between us and the drop. My feet were just inches from the ledge. I shuffled forward, and my husband and I awkwardly offered our thanks. You insisted, and I reluctantly agreed, handing over my phone - that’s the classic people-pleasing Brit in me. You didn’t just take the photo, though. You walked away, climbing back up the rocks. My stomach dropped. Then you turned around, holding the phone steady, like my dad would when trying to get the perfect shot. We stood still, fake smiles plastered on our faces for what felt like forever. When you handed my phone back, there was only one photo on the camera roll. Strange, you’d only taken one, but you’d stood there staring at us for much longer than it takes to capture a single image. Were you studying us? Or were you just trying to get the perfect photo?
I’ll never know the answer to that. But, considering we’re still here, I’ll assume it was the latter. Before leaving, you showed us some photos on your phone, including some berries you suggested we pick. You said they were delicious and valuable, only growing for a few weeks each summer. We talked a little about them, and you told us stories of your childhood, picking berries with your mother in Lapland. Then you said goodbye and left. I won’t lie, I breathed a sigh of relief when you walked away.
My husband and I waited for a moment before heading back up. You were at the top of the hill, having a rather angry looking phone call with someone. We walked back to our car and drove away.
That happened in June 2024, and I think about our interaction every day. Now that my fight-or-flight response has subsided, I think the encounter was completely innocent. You were probably just lonely and wanted to talk. You were kind to us, not menacing, you made sure we had a photo by the lake - should I have offered to take a photo of you? Maybe. But in the moment, I was scared. I guess I’ll never know your true intentions. But I’ll leave you with this: Afterward, we learned that the area is known as the "Hell of Lapland." Perhaps that explains the unease that settled deep into our bones, and it had nothing to do with you after all.
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