The Salt and the Stone

My name is Elsie, and I’m thirteen. I live in a cramped flat above my parents’ antique shop, a narrow building wedged between a laundromat and a boarded-up fishmonger’s. The flat has one bedroom, which I share with my older brother, Tom. He thinks he’s tough, but he still sleeps with a nightlight.

The room used to be my great-grandmother’s. She died there, in the bed by the window, long before I was born. My parents told me this casually, like it was a fun fact, when I first started seeing her. They said she was a gentle soul, a healer, and she’d only watch over me. But they never told me about the wall.

I first saw her on a Tuesday. I was in bed, the room dark but for the blue glow of Tom’s digital clock. I felt a cold draft, then a shift in the air, like something had taken a breath. I turned my head, and there she was, a wisp of a woman, pale and translucent, standing right by my bed. Her face was a blur, but I could see her eyes, dark and sunken, and her mouth, twisted into a strange smile. I was too scared to scream. I just pulled the covers over my head and squeezed my eyes shut, whispering a clumsy prayer I’d learned in school. When I peeked out, she was gone.

About three weeks before that, I had an encounter I didn’t understand. I was walking home from the corner store, cutting through the alley behind the bakery. The air was warm, but as I took a step, everything went white and icy. I felt a pressure, like I was pushing through syrup, and a faint whisper, not words, just a breath. I stumbled forward, and the world snapped back to normal. I didn’t tell anyone; I thought it was a migraine or something.

After that first visitation, I saw her more often. At least once a week, she’d appear in the corner of my eye, or I’d feel that cold chill brush past me in the hallway. I told my parents, hoping they’d reassure me it was just my imagination. Instead, my mother’s face went pale, and she sat me down on the dusty sofa. ‘That was your great-gran,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘She was… not always kind.’ That’s when she told me about the wall.

In the bedroom, behind a faded tapestry of a hunting scene, there is a wall that doesn’t match the rest. The bricks are darker, newer, and the mortar is a strange, chalky white. My great-grandmother, whose name was Mabel, was known for her tinctures and herbal remedies. But she also had a temper, and a taste for the macabre. According to family lore, she bricked up a section of the wall herself, sealing something inside. No one knew what it was, but they say it was the thing that drove her mad, and she finally died, not of old age, but of sheer terror, her eyes wide, clawing at the wallpaper. My parents never told me this part; I found it in a hidden diary in the shop.

Now, every time I try to sleep, I feel her presence. She doesn’t just stand by the bed anymore. She moves, her fingers tracing patterns in the air, sometimes pointing at the wall. I’ve tried to ignore her, but tonight, something changed. The temperature dropped so low I could see my breath. I heard a scratching sound, coming from behind the tapestry. I made the mistake of looking. The tapestry rippled, as if something was pushing against it from the other side. And then, a voice, not my nan’s, but a guttural, wet whisper, said, ‘Let me out, Elsie.’

I turned to scream for my parents, but she was there, right in front of me, her face now horrifyingly clear. Her skin was stretched tight over her skull, her eyes were pits of black, and her mouth was open in a silent scream. She pointed a long, bony finger at the wall. ‘He wants to come back,’ she hissed. ‘You must open it.’

I refused, of course. I shook my head, backing away. But she didn’t disappear. She grew larger, her form filling the room. The scratching became louder, more frantic. The tapestry tore, revealing a small, bricked-up alcove. I could see the outlines of bricks, and something glinting behind them. A jar, or a key. My heart was pounding. I knew I had to obey her, or she’d never leave me alone. So, on trembling legs, I walked to the wall. I reached out to touch the bricks. They were cold, slick with a black ooze. The voice spoke again, this time from the wall itself: ‘Free me, and I will make you powerful. You will see the true world.’

I closed my eyes, and I could see it, a vision. A world of endless shadow, of gnashing teeth, of whispered secrets. It was terrifying, but also seductive. I almost said yes. But then I remembered my nan’s face, the gentle soul my parents had described. That wasn’t her. This was something else, some dark thing she had trapped.

I pulled my hand back, and I screamed, ‘No!’ I grabbed the tapestry and tore it down, throwing it over the alcove. I ran to the door, still screaming, and slammed it shut. I ran into my parents’ room, sobbing, and told them everything. They held me, but their faces were pale, and they didn’t say ‘it’s just a dream.’ Instead, my father whispered to my mother, ‘It’s awakened.’

That night, we left the flat. We checked into a motel, but I couldn’t sleep. I kept feeling a cold presence, even here. The next morning, we returned to find the flat’s door slightly ajar. Inside, the tapestry was on the floor, and the alcove was open. The bricks were scattered, and in the center was a hollow space. It was empty, but on the floor lay a small, bone-white comb, like the kind my nan used to wear.

I picked it up, and immediately, I felt a jolt, a surge of cold energy. I heard a voice, much older and softer, in my mind. ‘Elsie, I’m sorry. I fought to keep him bound, but now he is loose. You must be strong. He will come for you.’

Since then, I’ve learned to see the ghosts that wander our world. Most are harmless, lost souls. But some are dark, hungry things. They flock to me now, drawn to the mark I carry, a small bruise on my palm in the shape of a key. My parents don’t believe me anymore; they think I’m having nightmares. But I know the truth. My great-nan died trying to protect me, and now it’s my turn. I just don’t know if I’m strong enough.

Tonight, I hear scratching at my window. It’s not a branch. It’s him. He’s found me. And he’s asking, in that wet whisper, ‘Elsie, are you ready to see what I can show you?’

I hold the comb, the only weapon I have, and I pray that whatever she left in it will guide me. Because I am the new keeper of the wall, and the thing behind it wants out.