Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The year was 1990. It was a hot summer day, and inside the house in Kråkstad an unusual peace reigned, for once. Dead was locked in his room, as always, doing who knew what. Euronymous sat downstairs tuning his guitar, Necrobutcher was rummaging in the kitchen cupboards looking for something to eat, and Hellhammer was sitting on the couch, idly tapping an incomprehensible rhythm on his own leg with his fingers, his expression bored. But everything changed the moment someone knocked on the door. 

“Hammer, go open it,” Euronymous said without taking his eyes off the instrument. 

The drummer huffed in annoyance, then suddenly got up from the couch and made his way to the front door. And his surprise was complete when he opened it, finding himself face to face with a little girl who could barely be more than six years old. Her blonde hair was tied into two braids, her eyes large and blue, her skin ivory‑white dotted with freckles on her plump cheeks. She wore a simple white dress with small flowers and matching shoes, and on her shoulders she carried a pink backpack that looked well filled. 

Hellhammer looked at her confused, then let his gaze wander around the house’s surroundings searching for an adult. But there was nothing. No adults. Just a child, probably lost. The young man knelt down to reach her height. 

“Hei, kid, what are you doing here all by yourself?” he asked in a calm voice. 

The child looked at him curiously, tilting her head to one side and letting out a small, amused laugh. Then she put her pink backpack down, carefully opened it, took out a letter, and offered it to the drummer. He took it, reading on the envelope “till Pelle Ohlin,” with a Swedish stamp on it. He examined the object closely, then raised his eyes back to the girl, only then noticing how much she resembled their lead vocalist. 

'Maybe she’s a cousin of his?' he thought. 

He opened the envelope and began to read the letter: 

“Dear Pelle, 

I do not know if you will ever be able to read this letter, but if you do, I will already be dead. I know you do not know me, and perhaps it is better this way. There are so many things I would like to tell you, but I do not believe I can manage it. 

I have lived with so many regrets, and now I face the end with the heavy weight of things left unsaid. I only ask that you forgive me for this sudden intrusion into your life, and for the burden I must place on you without even giving you a chance to refuse. 

I can only tell you that you have a stepsister. Her name is Linnea, and she is six years old. I am sending her to you because you are the only relative she has. I found out where you live through a few acquaintances who claimed to know you and your band. I know it is not much, but it is all I can give her now. 

She is a good child, quiet and gentle. She does not yet understand the world as it is, and that is something I both envy and mourn, because innocence will not last forever. I beg you to protect her from the harshness that took hold of my own life. I do not know how you will feel seeing her, but in my heart I hope that you, like her, still carry a small spark of kindness untouched by bitterness. 

I leave her in your hands, and with her I leave the last piece of myself that will ever be free: the chance to live beyond my mistakes. I once tried to write a thousand explanations, but my hands would not obey my thoughts. In the end, all I can say is that I am sorry, to leave this great burden on your shoulders, and for the years I will not be there to watch her grow. 

I loved her more than I ever deserved to love anything. That is why I must send her away, even if it feels like tearing out my own heart. 

Please, Pelle, take care of Linnea. You are her only family.” 

— Signed, Anonymous. 

Hellhammer finished reading and remained even more confused than before. Pelle had a stepsister? Since when? And above all, had his family known about her? Too many questions, and no answers. Everything had happened suddenly, without warning. The drummer stayed there outside with the child, then let out a sigh and made her come inside. 

“Come on,” he said, gesturing towards the inside of the house. 

Linnea looked at him and nodded, gently taking his hand. The drummer, feeling a bit uncomfortable at the unexpected contact, managed only a faint smile and led her to the others, closing the door behind them. 

“Guys,” Hellhammer said as he entered the living room with Linnea close by. As soon as she saw the other two, she hid behind his legs. 

“Well, Hammer, who was at the door?” Euronymous asked. 

“That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about.” 

“Come on, spit it out! I hope it’s not another noise complaint,” Necrobutcher began, laughing. 

“It’s not a fine. It’s… A child.” 

The two looked at him questioningly, then burst out laughing. 

“A child? Now that’s a good one!” the guitarist exclaimed, looking at the bassist, who was laughing so hard he had even put a hand on his stomach. 

“Guys, this isn’t a joke. A little girl really came to the door. Look for yourselves!” 

At that point, Hellhammer stepped aside, revealing Linnea to the rest of the band. Their laughter died in their throats and was replaced by an almost suffocating silence. Meanwhile, the little girl tried to disappear behind the drummer legs again, but he knelt down, awkwardly ruffling her hair with a clumsy caress and telling her that everything was fine and she did not have to be afraid. A gesture very unexpected from someone like him. 

In the meantime, Euronymous put his guitar on the floor, approached her, lowered himself to her height, and scrutinized her with his blue eyes. 

“Am I mistaken, or does this girl vaguely resemble…” 

Hellhammer cut him off. 

“Pelle. Yes, exactly. Because this is his stepsister, Linnea.” 

“Stepsister? He never told us he had one,” Necrobutcher added. 

“Because I think he didn’t know she even existed. Or at least, that’s what this letter says.” 

The drummer handed them the sheet of paper. Necrobutcher took it and began to read it carefully, while Euronymous kept staring at the child, now noticing a clear, though faint, resemblance to their death‑obsessed vocalist. 

“It only says who it is addressed to, but there’s no mention of where it was sent from or who wrote it,” the bassist said with a sigh. 

“I know, and that’s what unsettles me. We don’t know anything about her family. And probably the only thing we do know is that the person who wrote this letter is her mother, who is now dead. According to this, Linnea has no one except Pelle,” Hellhammer said, looking at the little girl and ruffling her hair again, as if the gesture had suddenly become automatic. Perhaps because it was driven by her quiet tenderness. 

“And what are we supposed to do with her now?” Euronymous asked abruptly. 

“Well, we certainly can’t throw her out onto the street,” Necrobutcher replied. 

“But at the same time we can’t really take care of her either, since it’s already hard enough to find something to eat for ourselves. Plus, we live in this shithole, which doesn’t offer us much beyond a roof over our heads and a place to practice,” Hellhammer said. 

The three of them began to argue about what to do with Linnea, since, without any family, they could not just leave her in the street. Yet they could not honestly care for her either, since that would inevitably mean more expenses. Not to mention school, because she would obviously have to attend it. And they could not even ask for help, since talking to the police was out of the question. In fact, it might only land them in trouble. Therefore, it was a question mark hanging over them. While the three sat on the floor in a circle debating, the little girl looked around, taking in this place, which was so unfamiliar to her. 

But it was only when they heard noises from upstairs that the real nightmare began: their lead vocalist was about to emerge from the dark corners of his room, perhaps to eat. However, how would he react when he saw Linnea, his stepsister he had never known about, at least until that moment? 

“Pelle is coming down. What do we do now?” Necrobutcher asked with a faint note of worry in his voice. 

“Simple. We tell him about the girl straight out, without beating around the bush,” Euronymous said. 

Suddenly, there he was: Dead. Standing in front of them, watching them with those glassy eyes, hollowed out by some nightmare. His blond hair fell long over his thin, bony shoulders. His arms were hastily wrapped in old gauze. He wore a long black Sarcófago T‑shirt that covered his boxers, giving him the appearance of a ghost. His tall, slender frame only accentuated his unsettling thinness even more. 

Dead remained motionless, then his gaze fell on Linnea, who looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and fear, clutching her backpack to her chest as she took a few steps back toward the wall. Yet her blue eyes stayed fixed on the blond vocalist. 

Necrobutcher, Euronymous, and Hellhammer looked at one another, unsure of who should take the first step to deliver such an unexpected piece of news to the singer. After a few short seconds, the drummer stepped forward. 

“Listen, dude,” he began, catching the other’s attention. “You have a stepsister you didn’t even know you had, and someone has basically dumped her on us,” he added. 

“Are you an idiot!?” the guitarist snapped, slapping him lightly on the back of the head. 

“What did I do!?” 

“Is that how you break news to people?” 

“Guys, come on, stop it,” Necrobutcher intervened, trying to calm them. 

Dead watched his friends argue and let them bicker, while he slowly approached the little girl, knelt down, and looked at her, struck by their resemblance. Then he picked up the letter that had been left unattended on the table and read it. 

“So that’s how it is?” he said in a hoarse voice, drawing the attention of the three. “This girl is really my stepsister?” 

“Yes,” the bassist answered. 

“What do you want to do with her?” the drummer added. 

Dead thought for a moment before replying, which only increased the tension among his friends. It was well known that he could be extremely intense, both on and off stage. Despite all that extremity, it was often a mask for his fragile side. Because of this, they had no idea how he would behave with her. Yet, as he looked at her, the young man saw himself as a child: a sensitive, innocent boy treated cruelly for being different. And that, more than anything, stirred an unexpected sense of protection, something he had not known he could feel. 

“I think… That we should keep her here with us. After all, this letter says I’m the only family she has,” he said, offering the child a faint smile that surprised the three of them. 

“Fantastic! That means more mouths to feed,” Euronymous remarked bitterly. 

“Øystein, cut it out! She’s a child. We can’t just abandon her like some trash bag,” Necrobutcher protested. 

“Shut up!” Dead snapped in his raspy, sharp voice, similar to his screams on stage, making them all jump in fear, even the little girl. “She is part of my family… Therefore, I will take care of her.” 

“But you can barely take care of yourself!” the dark‑haired guitarist shouted back, only to get a light slap on the back of the head from the brown‑haired bassist. 

“Ah!” the curly-haired drummer exclaimed, laughing. 

A few minutes later, a kind of peace returned. Now all four members of Mayhem were gathered in the living room: Necrobutcher and Euronymous sitting on the couch, Hellhammer by the open window smoking, and Dead sitting on the floor, clumsily trying to fix Linnea’s braids. 

“So, in the end it’s decided: we keep her,” Necrobutcher said, smiling at the little girl, who shyly returned his smile. Dead nodded in quiet gratitude. 

In the end, all’s well that ends well, at least for now. Although the four of them knew very well that, from that moment on, their house would never be the same. And neither would they.