The Salt and the Rust

In the damp autumn of 2018, I was staying with my cousin, Lena, in her dilapidated Victorian house perched on the edge of a fog-choked valley. The house, named ‘The Gull’s Rest’ by its original owners, had a history of strange occurrences: cold spots, whispering radiators, and the occasional flicker of lights. But that morning, I was just desperate to find a bathroom, having drunk too much coffee on the drive over. Lena was in the kitchen, making breakfast, and she pointed me to the hallway bathroom. As I finished and went to open the door, it slammed shut with a force that rattled the frame. I yanked it open, but the hallway was empty. I called for Lena, who came running, a spatula still in her hand. ‘The bathroom door never slams,’ she said, her face pale. ‘It’s been broken for years; it always sticks.’ We stood there, staring at the door, and I noticed something I hadn’t before: a faint, greasy handprint on the wood, slightly larger than my own. Lena saw it too and whispered, ‘That’s not mine.’ We dismissed it as a draft, but the draft was impossible, as all the windows were sealed shut and the house was as airtight as a coffin.

Later that day, we were in the attic, searching for some old photographs Lena wanted to show me. The attic was dusty and cluttered with forgotten relics. As we rummaged through a trunk, we heard a distinct tapping from inside the walls. It was rhythmic, like Morse code. Lena froze. ‘It’s been happening more often,’ she said. ‘Ever since I found this.’ She pulled out an old, tarnished silver locket from a box. It was shaped like a gull, with a tiny latch. Inside was a faded picture of a woman, her face indistinguishable, and a lock of hair. ‘I found this in the basement. The moment I touched it, the whispers started. They tell me things. Like your name, Ava. And that you have a birthmark on your left shoulder.’ I felt a chill run down my spine. She had never seen me without my shirt. I demanded she put it back, but she refused. ‘It’s the only thing that keeps the slamming at bay,’ she said. ‘If I get rid of it, something worse might happen.’ I didn’t know what to believe.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The house was alive with creaks and groans, but there was also a faint scratching sound, like nails on wood, coming from the hallway. I crept out of my room and saw Lena standing in front of the bathroom door, her back to me. She was chanting something under her breath, a language I didn’t recognize. To my horror, the door was bulging outward, as if something was pressing against it from the inside. Lena turned to me, her eyes wide, and whispered, ‘It’s not angry. It’s hungry.’ Just then, the locket around her neck snapped open, and the woman’s picture blinked. The scratching intensified, and the bathroom door burst open with a deafening crack. In the doorway stood a figure made of salt and rust, its form shimmering like a heat haze. It had no face, but where its mouth should be, there was a gaping void that emitted a low, hum. Lena screamed and threw the locket into the void. The figure swallowed it and vanished, leaving the door hanging off its hinges.

The next morning, Lena was gone. The police found no trace of her, but they noted that the bathroom door was gone too, and in its place was a new one, with a fresh coat of paint. On the mirror, written in what looked like rust, was a message: ‘The gull always returns.’ I left that house and never looked back, but sometimes, when I’m alone, I hear the fluttering of wings and the faint tap of Morse code on my window. I’ve never been to the coast since, because I know that the thing that took Lena isn’t finished. It’s waiting, and it’s learned my name.