The Night the Water Tasted of Salt

The holiday apartment in Almería was supposed to be a fresh start. Dad had booked it as a surprise, hoping the Spanish sun would melt away the awkwardness that clung to us since the divorce. It was a squat, whitewashed building divided into three flats, sharing a courtyard with a kidney-shaped pool that glittered like a dead eye in the February light. My sisters, Rosa and little Marta, and I were crammed into one bedroom, a tiny box with walls the color of a Band-Aid. I had my own narrow bed, pressed against the window, while the girls top-and-tailed in a creaky double bed against the opposite wall. A small nightstand with a lamp and two glasses of water sat between us, the only barrier against their giggling and whispers.

Marta was a mess. Chicken pox had erupted across her skin, turning her into a constellation of itchy red stars. She whimpered in her sleep, scratching at her arms. Rosa, ever patient, would gently hold her hands when she got too rough. I felt a pang of guilt for being the only one without a single mark. The holiday had been a disaster: the weather was cold, the pool was too cold to swim, and Dad’s new girlfriend, Carmen, tried too hard to be cheerful, her laughter echoing through the thin walls. My sisters and I shared the room, and I was the only one who slept with the window cracked open, craving the faint smell of salt from the sea.

That night, I woke with a parched throat. The lamp on the nightstand cast a warm, apricot glow over the room, making the orange walls feel like the inside of a furnace. Rosa was asleep at the headboard end of the bed, her dark hair fanned out. Marta was curled at the foot, a lump of blankets with her face turned away. I reached for the glass of water on my side of the nightstand. It was a thick tumbler, humming with condensation. I brought it to my lips, expecting the cool, neutral taste of tap water. But it was warm and brackish, a mouthful of brine that made me gag. I spat it back, but the taste lingered, metallic and sharp. I blinked. The glass was full, clear. I set it down, my heart picking up a nervous rhythm.

I decided to go to the kitchen for a fresh glass. The hallway was dark, but the light from our room spilled out and guided me. The tiled floor was cold under my bare feet. The kitchen was small, with a humming fridge and a window above the sink that framed the dark, silent pool. I filled a glass from the tap. The water ran clear, but as I drank, the same salty tang filled my mouth. I spat it out, watching the droplets slide down the drain. I refilled it, and this time I tasted it carefully—pure water, slightly metallic from the pipes. I shrugged it off, drank, and returned to bed.

But the dream came then. I was standing at the edge of the pool, looking down at the water. It was turquoise and clear, but the bottom was covered in a thick layer of hair, black and sinuous, swaying like seaweed. I leaned closer, and a woman’s face surfaced beneath the water, eyes wide and mouth open in a silent gasp. Her hair drifted around her like a halo. She reached up, and her fingers grazed the surface. Then she pulled me in.

I woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat. The lamp was still on, but the room felt colder. Marta was now sitting up in bed, her face pale and mottled. She was staring at the nightstand, her eyes wide. ‘The water,’ she whispered. ‘It tastes like the sea.’ I looked at the glasses. They were both full. I picked mine up and sniffed—nothing. I took a tiny sip. Salty. I spit it out, but the taste coated my tongue.

Rosa stirred and groaned. ‘What’s wrong?’ She saw my face. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ She sat up and reached for her own glass. She took a sip and made a face. ‘Eww, that’s disgusting. Why is it salty?’ Marta started to cry, her body trembling. ‘I want to go home,’ she sobbed.

I was about to comfort her when a sound came from the hallway. A soft, shushing noise, like water being dragged across the floor. Then a knock on our door. Three slow, deliberate knocks. I froze. Rosa whispered, ‘Who is that?’ I shook my head. The knock came again, harder. I got up and crept to the door, pressing my ear against it. I heard a woman’s voice, muffled, singing a lullaby in Spanish. The melody was simple, but the words were slurred, as if the singer were underwater.

I stepped back, my skin crawling. ‘It’s not Carmen,’ I said. I looked at the window. The curtains were gauzy, and behind them, the pool was now lit by a faint blue light from underwater. The water had changed—it was a deep, oily black. And bobbing on the surface was a single white nightgown, empty, drifting.

I turned to my sisters, both staring at me. Marta’s face had gone dead white, and the chicken pox dots seemed to pulsate, darkening to a bruised purple. ‘She’s here,’ Marta said, her voice flat. I didn’t ask who. I just knew. The woman from my dream.

I yanked the door open, expecting to confront something. The hallway was empty, but the light from our room flickered, casting dancing shapes. The bathroom at the end of the hall was dark, its door slightly ajar. I heard dripping. I whispered, ‘We need to get out.’ Rosa nodded, picking up Marta, who was now limp and shivering.

We burst into the living room. Dad and Carmen were asleep on the sofa, tangled in a blanket. I shook him. ‘Dad, wake up! There’s something in the flat.’ He blinked, disoriented. ‘What? What’s wrong?’ I tried to explain, but the words came out jumbled. The pool, the water, the woman.

Carmen sat up, her face annoyed. ‘You’re having nightmares. Go back to bed.’ But just then, the lights went out. All of them. The only light came from the kitchen window, where the pool now glowed with a sickly green hue. And in the middle of the pool, a figure stood. It was a woman, tall and gaunt, her skin dripping, her hair plastered to her skull. She was wearing a white nightgown that clung to her body. She was looking directly at our window. And she smiled.

I screamed. Dad grabbed us, pulling us away from the window. Carmen cursed. ‘That’s just the reflection,’ she stammered. But we all saw her smile widen, and then she raised a hand, pressed it against the glass from the outside. The glass fogged with her breath, and then it wrote a word in the condensation: ‘SALADA.’

The next morning, the police found us huddled in the stairwell. We left Spain that day. But Marta never spoke again. She just points at her own reflection in any mirror, her lips moving silently, as if she’s singing a song only she can hear. And sometimes, in the dead of night, I wake up with a parched throat. I reach for a glass of water, and it always tastes of salt.