The Salt Line

My mother and I had been living with Uncle Pete for about three weeks. Pete worked on a fishing trawler out of Dutch Harbor, and he was gone for a month at a time, leaving us alone in his creaking, weather-beaten house on the edge of a small Alaskan town called Greyhook. The house was one of those old cannery foreman’s homes, with salt-stained windows and a porch that listed to one side. My mother said it was a fresh start, away from the memories of my father’s death in a logging accident. I didn’t argue. I just wanted to finish my senior year without being the girl whose dad was a cautionary tale.

The place had its oddities: the way the floorboards groaned when the wind picked up, the smell of brine and rust that never quite washed out of the curtains, and a strange, circular stain on the kitchen linoleum that looked like a giant had rested a cup of coffee there. Pete warned us about the tides and the bears, but he never mentioned anything supernatural. He just laughed when I asked about the stain. ‘Old fish blood,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

One night, about two weeks in, I was up late reading in the living room. The wind was howling off the Bering Sea, rattling the windows. Mom had gone to bed early, exhausted from unpacking boxes of canned goods and wool blankets. I got up to get a glass of water from the kitchen, padding barefoot across the worn-out rug. The linoleum under my feet was cold, and I felt the familiar raised edge of that dark stain as I stepped on it.

Then I heard it: the front door, which was a heavy oak thing with a brass knob, creaked open. It didn’t slam, but it closed with a hard, emphatic thud. I froze, my hand halfway to the cabinet. In the entryway, there was a small square of tile, about four by four feet, then the rest of the room turned to rug. I heard something scuff onto that tile. It sounded like heavy rubber boots, the kind Pete wore when he went out to check his crab pots.

I called out, ‘Pete? Is that you?’ No answer. The scuffing moved off the tile and onto the rug. I heard the soft, muffled sound of boots on carpet, coming closer. Then it stopped at the kitchen threshold. I could feel a presence, a weight in the air, like when a storm is about to break. I turned slowly, expecting to see Pete’s bearded face, maybe surprised to see his niece up. But there was nothing. The kitchen light flickered, and I saw the stain on the floor seem darker, fresher, as if someone had just spilled something.

I backed away, my heart thudding. My mind raced through logical explanations: a draft, a loose latch, the wind playing tricks. But the sound of footsteps had been too distinct, too heavy. I told myself it was just the heating pipes settling, and I forced myself to pour the water. As I walked back to the living room, I noticed that one of the family photographs on the wall—the one of Uncle Pete and his brother Ray—was crooked, as if someone had straightened it and then nudged it askew. I fixed it with trembling fingers.

The next morning, I mentioned it to Mom. She was frying eggs, her back to me. ‘Probably just the house settling,’ she said, but her hand shook a little when she reached for the salt. ‘These old houses make all kinds of sounds.’ I let it drop, but I started paying more attention.

A few nights later, the same thing happened. This time I was in my room, on the second floor, about to sleep. I heard the front door open and shut, and then the unmistakable tread of work boots on the tile, then on the stairs. The stairs were wooden and each creak was like a slow, deliberate announcement. I sat up, heart racing. The footsteps came up the stairs, paused at the landing, and then walked to my door. I saw the shadow fall under the crack of light, blocking the glow from the hallway. I waited, holding my breath. Then the shadow moved away, and I heard the footsteps go back down, into the kitchen, and then silence.

I crept to the top of the stairs and looked down. The light was on in the kitchen, and through the doorway I saw the silhouette of a man, tall and broad, standing at the counter. He wore a heavy coat and a wool cap. I thought it was Pete, come home early. I called down, ‘Pete? Is that you?’ The figure didn’t turn. It just stood there, as if examining the stain on the floor. The kitchen light flickered, and when it steadied, the figure was gone. I ran down, half expecting to see Pete, but the kitchen was empty.

I called my mom, but she was sleeping, so I called Pete on his satellite phone. He answered, groggy. ‘Hello?’ I told him what happened, my voice shaking. He was silent for a long moment, then he said, ‘Doreen, you know about the salt line, right?’ I said, ‘What salt line?’ He explained that in the old days, fishermen used to lay a line of salt across their thresholds to keep away the spirits of the drowned, who were said to come back looking for warmth. He told me to check the front door. I did.

There was a thin line of white salt along the baseboard, but it was broken in the middle, just wide enough for someone to step over. Pete said, ‘That’s been there for years. My brother Ray used to keep it. He was the one who believed in that stuff. After he died, well, I guess no one’s kept it up.’ I asked when Ray died. Pete said, ‘He drowned about ten years ago, right out in the bay. His body never found. He was a heavy drinker, maybe that’s why he slipped.’ I felt a chill. ‘But Uncle Pete, I’ve been here for weeks and nothing happened until now. Why now?’

Pete sighed. ‘Maybe because it’s the anniversary of his death. Or maybe because you’re a woman, and he always did have a thing for the ladies. I should have told you to keep the salt fresh. I’m sorry.’

I hung up, staring at the broken line. That night, I refilled the salt from a box in the pantry, carefully sealing the gap. For a few nights, nothing happened. I started to relax.

But then, one night, I woke up to the sound of the front door slamming. I went to the top of the stairs and looked down. The salt line was glowing faintly, like a line of white fire. The footsteps came, and I saw a shape at the door—a tall, dripping figure, water pooling on the tile. It stepped over the salt line, not through it, and walked onto the carpet, leaving wet footprints. I screamed for my mom, but she didn’t come. I watched as the figure climbed the stairs, each step leaving a soggy mark. It stopped at my mother’s door. I heard the door creak open.

I rushed down, but the figure faded as I approached. My mother was sitting up in bed, wide-eyed. She said, ‘I had a bad dream. Someone was drowning me.’ I told her we had to leave. She nodded, and we packed our bags in the middle of the night.

As we drove away from Greyhook, the rising sun casting long shadows, I looked back at the house. In the upper window, I saw a man’s face, white and bloated, staring out. He was smiling. I floored the gas pedal.

We never went back. I have nightmares sometimes, of that salt line glowing in the dark, and the sound of boots on the stairs. And sometimes, when I walk into a new place, I check the threshold for a line of salt. Just in case. The salt line is a promise, I think, but not always a protection. Sometimes it’s an invitation.