The Salt and the Sable

My aunt and uncle had a cottage on the edge of the moors, a place they called ‘Greyhollow’ because of the way the wind moaned through the old stone walls. They were both marine biologists, and when they weren’t at sea, they were studying the tidal pools along the jagged coast. I loved looking after their two animals: a tabby named Marmalade and a young black lab, Sable. Sable was a bundle of energy, always wagging his tail and dropping a slobbery tennis ball at my feet. Marmalade, on the other hand, was a creature of habit, spending most of his time on the windowsill watching the crows.

My last week there was unsettling. The first few nights were fine, but as the moon began to wane, the air grew thick, and the silence of the moors seemed to press in on the cottage. I’d sit in the living room, reading by the fire, and feel a creeping unease, as if something were watching from the dark corners. Sable would often whine and press his wet nose against my hand, as if trying to tell me something. Other nights, he’d bark frantically at the back door, his hackles raised, and then sprint through the house in wild circles, knocking over a chair and sending a stack of books to the floor. Those nights were the worst.

The night that stayed with me was when I invited my friend Elena to keep me company. She was sensitive to such things, a fact I’d never witnessed firsthand but had heard about from her murmurings about ‘cold spots’ and ‘heavy feelings’. I didn’t warn her; I wanted to see if she’d feel it on her own.

Elena arrived just as dusk settled, a silhouette against the grey sky. She stepped inside, and immediately her face went pale. She didn’t say anything, but I saw her eyes dart to the hallway that led to the guest room. Sable greeted her with a wagging tail, but Marmalade hissed from his perch and skittered away.

We sat in the kitchen, sipping tea, making small talk. But the atmosphere was thick, like dusty velvet. Elena kept glancing over her shoulder, and once she whispered, ‘There’s something in the walls. Not a mouse. Something… else.’ I tried to laugh it off, but my hands were trembling.

That night, we decided to watch a movie in the living room. The fire crackled, and the wind outside whispered through the heather. Around midnight, Sable, who had been dozing at my feet, suddenly lifted his head, ears perked. A low growl rumbled in his chest. Then, from the hallway, we heard a faint, rhythmic tapping. Tap. Tap. Tap. Like knuckles on wood, but slower, more deliberate.

Elena grabbed my arm, her nails digging in. ‘There’s someone in the house,’ she said, her voice shaking.

I stood, my heart pounding. ‘It’s just the wind,’ I said, but even I didn’t believe it. Sable came with me, his body stiff, and we inched toward the hallway. The tapping stopped as we approached. The hallway was empty, but I noticed the door to the guest room was ajar. I hadn’t left it open.

I pushed it open, and the room was bathed in a cold, blue light from the full partial moon. On the floor, in the center of the room, was a faint, greyish mark, like a stain that had soaked into the floorboards. It was roughly the shape of a human body, arms slightly outstretched. I stared, and the mark seemed to darken, as if it were absorbing the light. A chill ran down my spine.

We retreated to the living room, and Elena said, ‘We need to leave. Now.’ But as we turned, we saw that the front door was now open, swinging gently in the wind. Snow had begun to fall outside, and a fine layer of white dusted the threshold. Sable barked once, a sharp, frightened yelp, and then bolted outside into the swirling snow.

I ran after him, Elena behind me. The moor was a white blur, and the cold bit at my face. I called his name, but the wind swallowed it. Then, I saw him, a dark shape against the white, standing at the edge of the garden, facing the old well that had been dry for decades. He was barking at it, but in a low, mournful tone.

As I approached, I saw him paw at the stone lip, as if trying to dig something up. I grabbed his collar and pulled him back. The snow was falling thicker, and the well seemed to dwarf the landscape. In the soft light, I noticed a pattern etched into the stones, something I’d never seen before, a series of spirals and lines, like a map of some labyrinth. The air around the well was unnaturally still, and the hair on my arms stood on end.

Elena caught up, her breath forming clouds. ‘We have to go,’ she said, pulling my arm. But then, she froze, her eyes wide. ‘Look,’ she whispered, pointing to the snow near the well.

There, in the fresh snow, were footprints. Small, bare footprints, leading from the well to the back door of the cottage. They were too small to be an adult’s, and the heels were deep, as if someone had been walking on tiptoe.

A sound came from behind us, a low, guttural sigh that seemed to come from the well itself. Sable whimpered and pressed against my leg. Elena was already backing away. We turned and ran back to the cottage, slamming the door behind us. We threw on our coats and boots, grabbed the animals, and drove away into the night, not stopping until we reached the village.

When my aunt and uncle returned, they asked why I’d left early. I told them about the footprints and the tapping. My aunt smiled, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes. ‘Ah, that must be the old ghost,’ she said. ‘She was a maid who drowned in the well, oh, a hundred years ago. They say she still walks the halls, looking for her lost child.’

I never went back. I sent them a letter, explaining that I couldn’t house sit again. Months later, I heard from Elena that she’d looked up the history of Greyhollow. There was no record of any maid drowning. But there was a record of a family who’d lived there in the late 1800s, and they had a daughter who disappeared. The official report said she wandered off onto the moors and perished. But the unofficial records, the ones she found in a dusty archive, included a letter from the father to the local sheriff, claiming that the well was cursed, and that he’d seen ‘her likeness in the snow, and heard her tapping on the walls, trying to get back in.’

That winter, I received a package from my aunt with no return address. Inside was a small, leather-bound journal, its pages brittle. It was her great-grandmother’s diary, and the last entry, dated the winter of 1887, read: ‘The child has come back. She is in the walls. She taps her code, and I must answer. I must let her in.’

The journal fell open to a page with a drawing. It was the same spiral pattern I’d seen on the well. And beneath it, a message in shaky handwriting: ‘The salt and the sable, two keepers, but they cannot hold her. She will find the door, and she will not be denied.’

I haven’t slept well since. And sometimes, in the dead of night, I hear a faint tapping at my window, always in threes. And Sable, who now lives with me, will raise his head and growl, low and deep, at the empty air.