The Salt Harvest

The summer before my senior year, my cousin Marcus told me about a dried-up lakebed called the Salt Flats, where the ground was cracked like old porcelain and nothing grew. He said that his friend’s older brother had driven out there one night with a group of friends, looking for a good place to drink and stargaze. But when they got there, they found a single wooden shack standing in the middle of the barren expanse, with a rusted windmill creaking beside it. The door was half off its hinges, and inside, the walls were covered in dark, crusty stains that looked like dried blood but smelled like brine. There were strange symbols scratched into the floor, and a circle of salt in the center, with a single black candle melted down to a stub. Marcus said his friend’s brother swore he heard a low humming coming from the ground, like the earth itself was vibrating. They all got creeped out and left, but as they drove away, they saw a figure standing in the doorway of the shack, watching them. Marcus is a liar, and everyone knows it, so I didn’t believe a word he said.

But now, in the last week of summer before senior year, me and my two best friends, Jenna and Tyler, were bored and looking for an adventure. Tyler had just gotten his license and his dad’s old truck, and we were driving around the county roads with no destination. Jenna brought up the Salt Flats, half-joking, saying we should check it out since it was supposedly ‘haunted.’ I laughed, but Tyler looked interested. He said he’d heard the same story from a different friend, and that it was a local legend. So, with nothing better to do, we decided to go. The sun was already dipping low, casting long shadows across the fields, and the sky was turning a bruise-like purple. We drove down a gravel road that got progressively bumpier, until the trees thinned out and we were surrounded by flat white ground as far as the eye could see. In the distance, I could make out a dark shape that had to be the shack.

We parked about a hundred yards away, and I could feel the crunch of salt under my boots as we walked. The air was thick and dry, and there was a strange taste in my mouth, like I’d licked a battery. The shack was even more decrepit than I’d imagined. The wood was gray and splintered, and the windmill’s blades were bent at odd angles, like they’d been twisted by some force. The door was lying on the ground just inside, and the doorway gaped like a mouth. Tyler went in first, holding his phone up as a flashlight. Jenna and I followed, our footsteps echoing hollowly. Inside, it was worse. The walls were covered in that dark crust, and there were indeed symbols scratched into the floor, but they looked fresher than I expected, the lines sharp and clean. In the center, there was a circle of salt, but it was broken, with a gap on one side. The black candle was there, but it was lit, a small flame flickering in the gloom. The humming was faint at first, but it grew louder, a deep thrum that seemed to come from the ground itself. Jenna started to fidget, and Tyler’s eyes were darting around nervously.

‘We should go,’ Jenna said, her voice shaky. ‘This is too creepy.’

I nodded, but Tyler seemed frozen. ‘Do you guys hear that?’ he asked, his voice barely a whisper. I could hear it, a low moaning that seemed to be coming from all around us. It sounded like a woman crying, but also like the wind through a hollow bone. Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw a figure in the doorway. It was tall and thin, wearing a tattered dress, and its face was featureless, just a smooth, pale oval. It took a step towards us, and the humming intensified. I grabbed Tyler’s arm, and we bolted. We stumbled out of the shack, and I risked a glance back. The figure was standing in the doorway, but it didn’t follow us. We ran to the truck, and Tyler fumbled with the keys, his hands shaking. The engine finally roared to life, and we sped off, the Salt Flats shrinking in the rearview mirror. As we hit the gravel road, I heard a sound that made my blood run cold: a scream, high and piercing, that seemed to come from right behind us. Jenna was crying, and Tyler was gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white.

We didn’t stop until we were back in town, under the orange glow of a streetlight. We sat in the truck for a long time, not saying anything. Finally, Jenna whispered, ‘What was that?’ I didn’t have an answer. We drove home in silence. That night, I couldn’t sleep. The humming was still in my head, an endless drone. The next day, I went to the library to do some research on the Salt Flats. I found an old newspaper article from the 1950s about a woman named Elsie Granger who lived there with her husband. She was said to have gone mad, claiming that the ground was ‘singing’ to her. One night, she disappeared, and her husband was found dead in the house, his throat cut. The murder was never solved, and the shack was abandoned. The article mentioned that locals believed she was a witch, and that she had made a pact with something in the salt. I closed the book, my hands shaking. The humming I heard wasn’t just from the ground—it was her song, and she had been waiting all these years for someone to break the circle and let her out.

A week later, Tyler called me, his voice frantic. Jenna had gone missing. Her parents said she went out for a walk and never came back. I knew where she had gone. I drove to the Salt Flats alone, my heart pounding. The sun was setting, and the sky was blood-red. I found Jenna’s car parked near the shack, and her footprints leading towards the door. I followed them, stepping into the dim interior. The circle of salt was now complete, but there was someone kneeling inside it. It was Jenna, her eyes vacant, her lips moving silently. The figure stood behind her, its hand on her shoulder. It turned its featureless face to me, and I heard the humming again, but this time, I understood the words: ‘Help me.’ I ran, and I didn’t look back. I drove to the sheriff’s office, but they dismissed me as a hysterical teenager. They searched the Salt Flats, but they found no trace of Jenna, only her car, and a single black candle, still burning. I know she’s still there, trapped in that circle, and that one day, the circle will be broken again, and something else will come through. But now, I keep a bag of salt in my car, and I never drive past the Salt Flats at night. Because I can still hear the humming, and I know that it’s not just a story—it’s a warning.