The Salt Lick

I was crashing at my buddy’s place in the desert, helping him house-sit for his folks while they were at some distant relative’s funeral. His name was Cole, and he hated being alone, especially out there where the nearest neighbor was a mile of scrub and dust. We were making grilled cheese sandwiches on the old stovetop when I heard it: a voice, like gravel scraping against bone, calling my name. ‘Dan…nnn…’ It dragged out, full of static and something ancient. Then, louder, angrier: ‘I’m back.’

I froze, the butter knife shaking in my hand. I walked into the living room where Cole was watching TV, his face pale under the flickering light. ‘Did you hear that?’ I asked. He didn’t answer. He was staring at the corner of the room, his mouth open, his hands gripping the armrests. Then his body went rigid, and he started choking, his eyes bulging. I screamed, ‘Get off him!’ and just like that, he slumped forward, gasping for air. ‘Thanks,’ he wheezed, rubbing his throat. I turned off the stove, my heart pounding, and as I did, a sharp pain shot up my spine, like a needle made of ice. His dog, a scruffy mutt named Pepper, ran in and started whimpering, licking my hand frantically, as if trying to soothe a wound I couldn’t see.

When Cole’s mom, Mrs. Harlow, got home from the funeral, we told her everything. She just nodded, her face pale. ‘I’ve been hearing my name called too,’ she said quietly. ‘But nothing ever attacks me. It’s been happening since I was a girl. It’s the land, it remembers.’ She wouldn’t say more, just told us to stay inside after dark.

That night, I had a nightmare. I was in the house, but everything was wrong—the walls were sweating, the windows were black, and Cole was on the floor, a shadowy shape kneeling on his chest, clawing at his throat. I screamed, and I woke up to a sound that wasn’t my own voice. It was a low, guttural whisper, right by my ear: ‘You can’t leave.’ I turned, and there it was—a black shape, not a figure, but a shifting mass of darkness that seemed to drink the moonlight from the room. It was looming over Cole’s bed, where he lay sleeping, and it had its shadowy hands around his neck.

I didn’t think. I grabbed the old iron cross from the wall and swung it at the thing, but my hand passed through it like smoke. The blackness turned toward me, and I felt a cold so deep it burned my bones. Then Pepper burst in, barking, and the thing recoiled, hissing like a snake. It vanished into the closet, and Cole woke up, coughing, his face purple. ‘It’s the salt lick,’ I said, remembering a story Mrs. Harlow had told us earlier about the mineral block her father used to keep for the cattle, and how he swore it kept the desert spirits at bay. I raced to the pantry, found the big rock of salt we’d seen earlier, and placed it on the floor between the beds.

We spent the rest of the night huddled together, the dog between us, the salt block glowing faintly in the dark. And as the first light of dawn crept through the blinds, I heard the voice again, but it was fading, like a bad radio signal. ‘I’m back…’ it whispered, then trailed off into silence. Cole and I didn’t sleep again that night, and by morning, we were packed. We left without looking back, but as we drove away, I saw in the rearview mirror a black shape standing in the window of the house, watching us leave. And I knew, deep in my bones, that it wasn’t done with us. It was just waiting for us to come back, or for the next person to be alone.