The Salt in the Floorboards

In the autumn of 2014, I moved into a Victorian house that had been divided into flats, taking the top floor. The previous tenant, an elderly woman, had died in the bedroom, but the landlord assured me it was peaceful. I didn’t believe in ghosts, but I was a writer, and the isolation was perfect for my novel. My cat, a gray tabby named Ash, was my only companion.

On the third night, Ash began to stare at the far corner of the living room, his ears flat, his tail twitching. He didn’t hiss or growl, just watched, as if following a slow-moving figure. I laughed it off, thinking he was chasing dust motes. But when I lay down to sleep, I heard a rhythmic creak from the attic above, like footsteps, slow and deliberate. I told myself it was the house settling.

A week later, I woke at 3 a.m. to a heavy, wet breathing just outside my bedroom door. The door was ajar, and I could see the hallway dark beyond. I switched on the bedside lamp, and the breathing stopped. But then the footsteps started in the attic again, this time faster, running from one end to the other, then stopping directly above my bed. I didn’t sleep the rest of that night.

I tried to rationalize it: loose boards, draft, a squirrel. But Ash refused to enter the bedroom, and he would sit in the hallway, staring at the attic hatch, growling low. I called a friend who knew about such things. She suggested I sprinkle salt along the floorboards and doorways, an old remedy to keep spirits at bay. I did, though I felt foolish.

The salt made things worse. The next night, I felt a presence in my room, a coldness that crept over my left arm, stroking it gently, back and forth. My windows were sealed, the door closed. I turned on all the lights and read until dawn, but the cold continued, a persistent, tender touch, as if something was trying to soothe me.

In the morning, I found the salt lines disturbed, broken in the shape of bare footprints leading from the attic hatch to my bed. I followed the prints to the attic and found an old trunk. Inside were letters, dating from the 1920s, from a woman named Margaret to her sister, describing a sudden illness and a strange doctor who visited at night. The letters stopped abruptly, and I found a newspaper article: ‘Woman Dies of Consumption – Husband Buried in Backyard.’

That evening, I heard the breathing again, but it was clearer now, like a whisperless exhale. I felt a hand on my shoulder, and a voice in my ear, saying, ‘You shouldn’t have moved.’ I turned, and for a split second, I saw a woman in a long dress, her face pale, her eyes hollow. She reached out to touch my cheek, and I screamed.

I fled the flat that night, leaving everything behind. I stayed with a friend, but the cold followed me, always on my left arm. I began to wear long sleeves, but I could feel it, a gentle stroking, a caress from a ghost who refused to let go. I eventually moved across the country, but in every new place, I find salt lines in the doorways, and I know she’s there, waiting, because I am the last to hear her story, and she wants me to write it.