The Salt-Crusted Window

The salt air clung to everything at Cedar Point, a rented cottage on the blustery coast of Maine. My cousin Paige and I had claimed the sunroom, a glass-walled nook that jutted out toward the sea. I had the bed, nestled against the wall, and Paige had the pull-out couch, which she complained about every night. The room had a small bathroom, its door creaking on rusted hinges, and a window that faced the rocky shore.

For the first three days, it was paradise. We swam in the icy water, collected sea glass, and ate lobster rolls in town. But on the fourth night, as we were settling in with our books, Paige looked up and said, ‘I think someone was in here today.’ I laughed it off, but she insisted. ‘My pillow was moved. And the bathroom door was open. I closed it this morning.’ I shrugged it off, chalking it up to the wind or our forgetfulness.

That night, I woke to the sound of my own breathing, too loud and too close. The room was bathed in silver moonlight, everything still. And then I saw it: a dark shape pressed against the outside of the glass window, like a person standing just beyond the pane. But we were on the second floor, and the window faced a sheer drop to the rocks. I blinked, and it was gone. I told myself it was a trick of the light, a gull, a shadow. But I didn’t sleep again.

The next night, the feeling of being watched was unbearable. Paige and I both lay awake, whispering about the strange sounds—footsteps in the hall, a soft tapping on the bathroom door. I finally got up to check, my heart hammering. The bathroom was empty, but the mirror was fogged, as if someone had just taken a hot shower. The air was humid, and it smelled of brine and something else, like rotting seaweed. I stumbled back to bed and pulled the covers over my head.

The following morning, we found the window covered in a thin layer of salt, as if a wave had crashed against it, though the sea was calm and far below. Paige tried to wipe it away, but it smeared like grease, leaving swirls that seemed to form letters. ‘Help’ was the first word, then ‘Stay’ and ‘Go.’ We showed my aunt and uncle, but they thought we were pranking them. They scrubbed the window, and the salt reappeared within hours, thicker this time.

On our last night, I had a nightmare. I was standing in the sunroom, and the window was a mirror. In the reflection, I saw not my own face, but a woman’s, gaunt and hollow-eyed, her skin peeling like paint. She was mouthing something, and I leaned closer. Her lips formed the words, ‘They buried me in the cellar.’ I woke with a scream, and Paige was already on her feet, pointing at the floor. There was a trapdoor we had never noticed, half-hidden under the rug, its metal ring glinting.

We pried it open, and a stench of death and salt rose up. Inside, a narrow staircase descended into darkness. At the bottom, we found a dirt floor and a single, rusted shovel. And there, in the corner, was a woman’s hand, reaching up from the soil, the nails painted chipped crimson. Paige grabbed my arm, and we ran. We didn’t stop running until we were out the front door, into the cold night air, the ocean roaring beneath us.

The next day, we left. We never returned. But sometimes, in the dead of night, I wake to find a film of salt on my bedroom window, and I see the outline of a hand pressed against the glass from the outside, even though I live nowhere near the sea. And I know she’s still waiting, still reaching, still asking for the rest of her to be found.