The Brine-Marked Door

My name is Elena, and I run a small housekeeping service in the Saltmarsh District, just outside of Gloucester. We have eighteen clients and two part-timers, Delia and Marcus. I’m writing this because of one house in particular, the one with the black door. Before you roll your eyes, let me say I’m not one for ghost stories. I just clean. But that house changed how I look at smudges on windows and hair in drains.

It started with a referral from a client in the new development, the kind of place with vinyl siding and manicured lawns. That first house was a sterile, beige box, and from that I got two more. One belonged to a retired couple with a fat, wheezing bulldog. The other was the Albright family, with three small girls, all blonde and giggly. Their house was a sprawling Victorian, three stories, with drafty hallways and a tower room that nobody used. We’d clean it as a team, the three of us, because it was big and old and full of corners.

The first odd thing I noticed was a smell in the upstairs hallway, like brine and old copper, even though the sea was a mile off. And there was a door, painted black, that seemed to be in constant shadow no matter the time of day. Mrs. Albright said it was just a closet, but she never mentioned it, never asked us to clean inside. We respected that, but every time we passed, I felt a draft, cold and damp, and once I saw a hairline crack of pale light underneath, though the hallway had no windows.

I shrugged it off. Old houses creak, and kids leave doors open. But then the girls started. They’d ask who was the lady in the black dress who stood by the door. They’d say she waved at them, but not in a friendly way, like a puppet with cut strings. Mr. Albright laughed and said they had imaginary friends, but Mrs. Albright’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.

Delia was the first to break. She refused to go upstairs alone after she saw the doorknob, not a brass knob, but a black, pitted thing like it had been scrubbed with acid. She said she heard a hum, a low electric buzz, and the door was hot to the touch. Marcus, more skeptical, said he’d check it out. He went up there with a flashlight, and we heard a crash, then silence. When he came down, his face was pale. He said the door was locked from the inside, but there was no keyhole. And on the door, there was a fresh handprint, small and childlike, burned into the black paint.

I should have called it quits then, but business was business. I decided I’d clean that door myself. I went upstairs with my supplies, determined to wipe away the grime. As I got close, the smell of brine was overwhelming, and I felt a pressure in my ears like I was deep underwater. The handprint seemed to pulse. I reached out with a rag, and the door swung open on its own, revealing a corridor that should not have existed in that Victorian house. It was white, like a hospital, with a floor of polished slate. At the end, I saw a figure, a woman in a black dress, her face a blur. She pointed at me, and her skin was the color of drowned flesh.

I slammed the door shut. The wood was freezing, and I heard a giggle on the other side, high and childish. I ran down the stairs, past Delia and Marcus, who were staring at me. Mrs. Albright came in from the kitchen, holding a fish knife. She asked, ‘Did you see her? She only comes out when the tide is high.’ I don’t know what I said, but I grabbed my things and left.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept smelling brine. I called the Albrights to say we wouldn’t be coming back. A man answered, not Mr. Albright. He had a wet, raspy voice. He said, ‘She’s waiting for you in the tower. She’s saved you a spot in the water.’ I hung up. I checked the caller ID, but it just said ‘PRIVATE.’

I never went back, but I heard the family moved out suddenly. The house remained, and the black door is still there, I’m told, humming at the high tide. Sometimes, I feel a draft, and I see a small, gray handprint on my window, like a child’s goodbye. I don’t clean it off. I don’t think I can.