The Salt and the Saint

The maintenance closet at St. Jude’s Academy smelled of bleach and old paper. It was the only place we could find during our free period to get away from the echoing chatter of the main hall. Me, my friend Marlowe, and the new girl, Ivy, had squeezed ourselves between shelves of ancient textbooks and a broken globe. Ivy wasn’t a believer, and she found our entire reason for being there absurd. But Marlowe and I had felt it the moment we stepped in: a cold spot, like a patch of frozen air right in front of the rusty radiator. And a smell, not just bleach, but something else — like burnt cloves and damp earth.

‘Do you feel that?’ Marlowe whispered, her breath fogging. She was the one who could see things. I could too, but only sometimes, like a flicker in the corner of my eye. Ivy just rolled her eyes and leaned against the wall, scrolling through her phone. ‘It’s just a draft,’ she said.

We followed the cold to a small shelf near the back, which held a cracked statue of Saint Francis and a dusty bottle of holy water. But right next to it, someone had left a small clay saucer filled with a grayish powder. Marlowe’s hand hovered over it. ‘That’s not sand,’ she said, her voice tight. Ivy finally looked up. ‘What is it then?’ ‘Ashes,’ I said, the word slipping out before I could stop it. The temperature dropped another few degrees, and the overhead fluorescent light flickered.

Marlowe’s eyes went wide, staring at a spot just beyond the shelf. ‘He’s here. He’s watching us.’ My skin prickled, and I turned, but saw nothing. Yet I felt a presence, heavy and sad, pressing against my chest. ‘Who?’ Ivy asked, her voice a little higher now. Marlowe whispered, ‘He was a student here. A long time ago. He died in this room. Killed himself.’ I shook my head. ‘Why would his ashes be here?’ ‘Maybe someone kept them hidden,’ Marlowe said, ‘or he’s tied to them. They want us to help him.’ Ivy took a step back. ‘This is ridiculous. It’s just dust in a bowl.’ But I saw her knuckles whiten around her phone.

Marlowe knelt down, ignoring the chill that made her knees shake. ‘We want to help you,’ she said to the empty air. ‘We’re not bad. What do you need?’ The moment she said it, the closet door slammed shut. The handle rattled. Ivy screamed. I felt a hand — cold and wet — brush my cheek. I stumbled back, almost knocking over a stack of books. ‘He’s angry,’ Marlowe breathed. ‘He doesn’t want us here. He thinks we’re going to take his ashes.’ The lights went out, plunging us into darkness. In the black, I heard a faint sobbing, the sound of a young boy.

I fumbled for the door, but it wouldn’t budge. ‘Together!’ I yelled. We pushed, and the door gave way, spilling us into the bright corridor. The warm air hit us like a wave, but my legs were still freezing, as if I’d been standing in a snowbank. Marlowe was pale, her lips blue. Ivy was crying. ‘I saw him,’ she choked out. ‘For a second, I saw a boy in a school uniform, his face all twisted.’ We looked at each other, and then at the closed closet door. A small sign on it read: ‘Authorized Personnel Only.’ The ashes were still inside, on that shelf, waiting.

We never told anyone. We avoided that closet. But sometimes, when I walk past it, I feel a cold draft from under the door, and I hear a faint, sad whisper that says, ‘Help me.’ And I know that boy is still there, bound to a handful of dust and a silent promise that no one has yet fulfilled.