The Salt Line

I’ve never been the type to scare easy. Growing up on a fishing trawler with my uncles taught me that. But the night the glass broke in the Harborside apartment, I started to believe in things I couldn’t explain.

I was crashing with an old crewmate, Joss, who had two roommates, Mira and Elowen, who called themselves ‘moon weavers.’ Honestly, they were more into crystals and tarot than any real craft, and I’d roll my eyes every time they’d burn sage to ‘clear the energy.’ That night, they were all hunched over a battered Ouija board in the living room, the planchette gliding under their fingers. I was on the couch, half-watching, half-scrolling through my phone. I’d done this a hundred times before; it was always just a game, and I’d usually nudge the piece to make it interesting.

‘Come on, Sam, join us,’ Joss said, waving me over. I sighed, set down my phone, and knelt across from them. I placed my fingers on the cool plastic. Before I could even think of moving it, the planchette shot across the board and hit the floor with a clatter. The other three gasped, but I laughed. ‘Nice trick,’ I said, but Mira’s face was pale. ‘He doesn’t like you,’ she whispered. ‘You need to leave.’

I scoffed and got up, grabbing my jacket. ‘Fine, I’ll go get some air.’ I left the apartment, the door clicking behind me, and walked down to the pier. The night air was thick with salt and the groan of the boats. I lit a cigarette and stared at the black water, feeling a strange unease prickling my skin. It was then that I heard a voice—not in my ears, but inside my head, low and rumbling like the tide. ‘You think you can walk away?’ I spun around, but the pier was empty.

Back at the apartment, I found the door ajar. The lights were off, and the Ouija board lay in the middle of the floor, the planchette spinning in frantic circles. Joss, Mira, and Elowen were huddled in the corner, shaking. ‘It wouldn’t stop,’ Joss said. ‘It kept saying your name.’ I grabbed the board and threw it into the kitchen trash, feeling a surge of anger. ‘That’s just a toy,’ I said, but my hands were trembling.

The next morning, I woke up in my old bed at the marina with no memory of how I got there. My throat was raw, as if I’d been screaming. When I looked in the mirror, there was a thin line of red dust across my forehead, like someone had drawn a line with dried blood. I laughed it off, thinking it was some prank. But then I started to hear the scratching at night, like nails on the hull, and I’d find my belongings moved—keys in the freezer, my boots lined up in a perfect row.

One night, I woke to find myself standing on the roof of the apartment building, the cold wind biting my skin. I was dressed in a thin nightgown, and my feet were bare. I looked down at the street below and felt a pull, as if something wanted me to step forward. It took every ounce of strength to back away and crawl back through the window.

The next day, I went to visit a local woman known for dealing with the ‘old ways.’ She took one look at me and drew a circle of salt on her floor. ‘You’ve got a stowaway,’ she said, her voice gravelly. ‘Something old, something that wants to wear you.’ She gave me a small pouch of herbs and told me to wear it always. ‘But it won’t leave until you face it.’

That night, I sat alone in my room, the pouch pressed to my chest. The voice returned, clearer now. ‘You mocked me. You think I’m a game?’ I realized, with a sinking dread, that it was my own laughter that had angered it. I had taunted the thing on the board, just as I’d done a hundred times before, but this time, it had answered back.

I grabbed a bottle of sea salt from the kitchen and drew a line across the threshold of my door. The scratching stopped. But I felt its presence, waiting on the other side of that line, patient and patient. As I lay down, I heard a faint whisper, like the creak of a dock line: ‘The line only holds while you stay inside.’

I haven’t crossed that threshold in three days. The phone is dead, and the windows are painted shut. I’m writing this on the wall with the last of my lipstick. I can see it now, at the edge of the salt line, just a shadow in the shapes of a woman. It’s wearing my face. And it’s smiling, because it knows I can’t stay here forever.