The showrunner and producer is Alice Lindstedt, whose grandmother grew up in Silvertjärn.
“I grew up hearing my grandmother’s stories about Silvertjärn and the disappearance. She had already left Silvertjärn when it happened, but her parents and younger sister were among the missing.
The Silvertjärn story has always fascinated me. So much about it just doesn’t make sense. How can an entire village just drop off the face of the earth? What really happened? These are the questions that we want to try and answer.”
We plan to spend an initial six days in Silvertjärn in early April to explore the village and film some test shots. As a backer, you will get access to our footage from these shoots—photos AND videos. We will also delve into some of the theories about the disappearance—everything from a gas leak that supposedly caused mass hysteria and delirium, to an ancient Sami curse.
[More on the theories surrounding the disappearance]
All being well, the team will then return to Silvertjärn in August, in order to shoot the documentary at around the same time of year that the disappearance took place.
WHAT YOU GET AS A BACKER:
Immediate access to any footage shot in Silvertjärn in April
Unlimited access to the production team’s social media posts
Regular progress updates via email
The chance to see the first, director’s cut of the finished documentary before it is cut for general release
The chance to visit Silvertjärn with our team for the series premiere and blog launch
GOAL:
150,000 Swedish kronor
PLEDGED SO FAR:
33,450 Swedish kronor
CLICK HERE TO DONATE AND BE PART OF THIS PROJECT!
Like and follow us on social media!
Instagram: @thelostvillagedocumentary
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#thelostvillagedocumentary #silvertjärn
TUESDAY
NOW
I’m woken by a shrill crackling noise that takes me from dozing to a dazed wakefulness in the blink of an eye.
As I sit up and bat the sleep out of my eyes, I see Tone reach out and turn off the radio. The crackling immediately disappears, replaced by the dull hum of the engine and the pent-up silence of the van.
“What was that?” I ask, running my fingers through my hair.
“The radio’s been acting up for a few miles,” Tone says. “It jumped from dad rock to dance band, and then it just started crackling.”
“Must be the start of the dead zone,” I say, feeling a fizz of excitement in my belly.
I take my phone out of my pocket, realizing as I do that it’s much later than I’d thought.
“I still have signal, but only just,” I say. “I’ll post one last update before we lose it completely.”
I log in to Instagram and take a quick shot of the sun-drenched evening road ahead.
“How does this sound?” I ask. “‘Getting closer! Almost inside the dead zone. See you in five days, if the ghosts don’t get us.…’”
Tone grimaces.
“Might be a bit much,” she says.
“They’re gonna love it,” I say, clicking POST. Then, after checking that it has shared to both Twitter and Facebook, I put the phone back in my pocket.
“Our fans eat that stuff up,” I go on. “Ghosts and horror films and shit. It’s our best unique selling proposition.”
“Our fans,” Tone quips. “All eleven of them.”
I roll my eyes, but can’t deny that it hurts. The joke cuts a little too close to the bone.
Tone doesn’t notice. Her eyes are still fixed on the road. It’s empty and anonymous, a flat highway with neither bends nor turnoffs. Tall, impenetrable conifers enclose us on either side, and to our left the blazing sun drifts deeper into a bleeding sky that bathes us and the forest in its hue.
“The exit should be pretty soon,” she says. “We’re starting to get close.”
“Would you like me to take over?” I ask. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I don’t know what happened.”
Tone gives a tight, closed-mouth smile.
“If you were up till four a.m. going through everything then it isn’t such a surprise,” she says, without answering my question about taking over at the wheel.
I can’t tell if she means it as a dig or not.
“No,” I agree, “I guess not.”
Still, I am surprised. I’d thought that same tingling, feverish excitement that has kept me up the past few nights would prevent me from falling asleep here, too.
I cast a glance in the wing mirror and see the other white van that Emmy and the technician are driving immediately behind us. Max’s blue Volvo is just visible at the back of the caravan.
Is that excitement or anxiety I feel squirming inside me?
The intense light stains my white, cable-knit sweater a fiery red, and throws Tone’s face into a sharp silhouette. She’s one of those people who’s more beautiful in profile than front-on, with her enviably chiseled jawline and straight patrician nose. I’ve never seen her wearing any makeup, which makes me feel both ridiculous and exceptionally vain, especially as I’ve just had highlights put in to turn my naturally matte, wastewater hair into a cold, lustrous blond. This, despite it costing almost nine hundred kronor that I don’t have—not to mention the fact that I’m not even going to be in any of the footage we’re shooting over the next five days.
I did it for me. To settle my nerves. And we do need photos, I guess, for Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, and the blog. To give our few—but enthusiastic—fans and backers something to whet their appetites, keep that fire burning.
I have a musty taste in my mouth after my nap. Eyeing up the plastic cup Tone got at the gas station in the cup holder, I ask:
“What’s in there?”
“Coke. Have some if you want,” she says, adding that it’s Zero before I can even ask.
I pick up the cup and take a few big gulps of the flat, tepid drink. It’s not particularly refreshing, but I’m thirstier than I thought.
“There,” says Tone suddenly, and slows down.
The old exit doesn’t exist on GPS, as we discovered when trying to plan our route. We’ve had to use old maps from the forties and fifties, cross-referencing them with the Swedish Transport Administration’s archive on where the train tracks
