The Salt and Ash House

November 27, 2012

by Valerie

4 min read

Story Premise 4 min read (646 words)

"The summer we turned twelve and nine, our family rented a crumbling farmhouse in the hills of Tuscany, far from the usual tourist paths. The house, called ‘La Casa del Sale e Cenere’ by the locals, had stood empty for decades, its walls thick with saltpeter and the smell of old fires. My brothers and […]"

The summer we turned twelve and nine, our family rented a crumbling farmhouse in the hills of Tuscany, far from the usual tourist paths. The house, called ‘La Casa del Sale e Cenere’ by the locals, had stood empty for decades, its walls thick with saltpeter and the smell of old fires. My brothers and I, Marco and I, and our little sister Elena, were left to our own devices while our parents drank wine on the terrace, watching the sunset over the olive groves.

One afternoon, exploring the attic, we found an ancient wardrobe, carved with strange symbols and coated in a layer of dust that seemed centuries old. Its interior was lined with a cracked mirror, tarnished at the edges. On a dare, Marco shoved Elena inside and shut the door. For a moment, there was silence, then a blood-curdling shriek. We yanked the door open and Elena tumbled out, her face white as ash. She said that in the mirror, she saw an old man with hollow eyes, his skin hanging loose, staring back at her, and he was not her reflection.

We laughed it off, calling it a trick of the light, but Elena refused to go near the wardrobe again. We, being boys, were braver, or so we thought. That night, I crept back to the attic alone, flashlight in hand. I opened the wardrobe, and the mirror reflected my own face, but as I stared, the reflection aged, the skin wrinkling, the eyes sinking, until an ancient version of myself grinned back. A cold breath whispered in my ear, ‘You will join me here, in time.’ I slammed the door and ran, my heart pounding, but I told no one.

Years passed, and we grew up and moved on. Elena married and had a daughter, and I became a carpenter. Our parents passed, and we inherited the farmhouse. It had fallen into disrepair, but we decided to renovate it as a family project. When we opened the attic, the wardrobe was still there, and Elena, now a mother, refused to go near it. Her little girl, Chiara, was fascinated by the mirror, always staring into it, talking to someone we couldn’t see.

One evening, as we sat in the living room, the warm Tuscan air thick with the scent of lavender, I saw it for the first time in years: a faint, white mist floating in the corner of my eye, near the stairs. It drifted, formless, but I felt a chill. Elena noticed my stare. ‘What is it?’ she asked. I shook my head, but I knew. The old man from the mirror had followed us.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I went to the attic, the flashlight beam cutting through the darkness. The wardrobe door was ajar, and the mirror glowed faintly. As I approached, I saw a figure inside, not my reflection, but an old man with my face, beckoning. ‘You are the one,’ he whispered. ‘You will take my place.’

I backed away, but the mist swirled around me, and I felt a cold hand on my shoulder. I recall trying to scream, but no sound came. The next morning, they found me in the attic, my hair white, my skin withered, staring into the mirror. I was a hundred years old, and my little brother, now grown, wept over me, but I could not speak. In the mirror, I saw a young boy, my own reflection from years ago, trapped, pounding on the glass, trying to get out.

The house was sold, and the wardrobe was burned, but sometimes, in the quiet of the night, I hear a faint knocking from behind the walls, and I know that the salt and ash house still holds its secrets, and that the old man is always watching, waiting for the next curious soul.

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Spectre

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