The Salt Line

The summer of 2003 was supposed to be a fresh start for us. Dad had landed a job as a caretaker for a sprawling estate in the Welsh Marches, a region of rolling hills and ancient forests where the veil between worlds was said to be thin. The property, called ‘Bryn Eithin’, was a monstrous Victorian pile of grey stone, all gables and chimneys, with a garden that tumbled down to a dark, tangled river. We were to live in the main house, but the owners, a reclusive couple named Mr. and Mrs. Pritchard, would be staying in a converted coach house at the end of the long driveway. It seemed odd, but Dad said they were ‘eccentric’.

I was nine, my brother Tom was twelve, and our little sister Elen was barely three. The first day, we explored. The house was a maze of dusty rooms, and the air smelled of mothballs and dry rot. But the best part was the garden—an overgrown wilderness of rhododendrons and fountains choked with weeds. At the very back, behind a mesh of brambles, we found a stone circle, half-swallowed by the earth. The stones were small, no taller than my waist, but they were arranged in a perfect ring. Tom said he felt a weird humming coming from them, but I thought he was just being dramatic.

That night, Elen started to cry. Not her usual hungry cry, but a deep, gut-wrenching sob that shook her tiny body. Mum tried everything—feeding, rocking, singing—but nothing calmed her. Finally, exhausted, Mum laid her in the cot and we all tried to sleep. But the crying continued, a low, rhythmic wail that seemed to come from all directions at once. Around midnight, Dad got up to check on her, and I heard him gasp. I crept to the nursery door and saw him staring at the window. There, pressed against the glass, was a face. It was white, with long, black hair, and its eyes were empty voids. It smiled at us, a wide, lipless grin, and then it was gone.

The next morning, we told Dad what we saw, but he dismissed it as a trick of the moonlight. But he also noticed that Elen was covered in tiny red marks, like pinpricks, on her arms and legs. He called the doctor, who said it was probably a heat rash. But Mum knew better. She took me aside and whispered, ‘That was a Gwrach y Rhibyn, a wandering spirit. It feeds on the life of the young.’ She drew a line of salt across the threshold of the nursery and hung a sprig of rowan above the cot. That night, the crying stopped, but I woke to find the salt line broken, as if something had crossed it.

Days passed, and the strange occurrences grew. Doors would slam by themselves. Tools would go missing and turn up in the strangest places. The air in the house grew thick and oppressive, and we all felt a constant, creeping dread. Then the owners, the Pritchards, started visiting. Mr. Pritchard was a tall, gaunt man with a nervous twitch, and Mrs. Pritchard was a stout woman with a perpetually worried expression. They would stand in the doorway, as if reluctant to enter, and offer vague warnings: ‘Keep the children inside after dusk. And whatever you do, don’t venture to the stone circle at night.’ When Dad asked why, Mr. Pritchard only said, ‘It’s the old ways. They must be respected.’

One afternoon, Tom and I decided to ignore the warning. We were bored, and curiosity got the better of us. We snuck down to the stone circle. The sun was setting, casting long, twisted shadows. As we approached, I felt a sudden chill, and the humming Tom had mentioned grew louder—a low, discordant drone that seemed to vibrate in my bones. The stones were covered in strange carvings—spirals, concentric circles, and odd, angular symbols that looked like they were meant to be read. In the center, there was a depression in the earth, as if something had been buried there and removed. As we stood there, I saw a movement at the edge of my vision. I turned, and for a split second, I saw a woman. She was tall, wearing a flowing black gown, and her face was obscured by a veil. She raised a hand, as if sending something toward us, and then she dissolved into the trees.

We ran back to the house, scared out of our wits. We told our parents, but they didn’t believe us. That night, I had a dream. I was standing in the stone circle, and the ground beneath my feet began to churn. Pale, thin arms reached up from the soil, pulling at my ankles. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. I woke to find Elen standing over me, her eyes wide and blank. She was whispering a name, over and over: ‘Aranrhod. Aranrhod.’ I didn’t know what it meant, but it filled me with dread.

The next day, Dad finally decided to talk to the Pritchards. He went to their coach house, but they were gone. The place was empty, except for a single piece of paper on the kitchen table. It was a handwritten note: ‘The circle is a doorway. We opened it years ago, and something came through. We’ve been feeding it ever since. We thought the salt line would hold, but it’s growing stronger. The only way to stop it is to close the circle, but you need the same blood that opened it. You have a child with the sight. You must decide what to sacrifice.’ Dad came back pale and silent. He didn’t tell us the details, but that night, we packed our bags. We left in the middle of the night, driving down the long, moonlit driveway. As we passed the stone circle, I saw a lone figure standing there—the woman in black, but this time her veil was lifted, and her face was a gaping void. I screamed, and Dad floored the accelerator.

We never went back. The memory of that summer faded, but it never completely left. Now, at seventeen, I know the truth. I’m the child with the sight. Elen was just a conduit. The Gwrach y Rhibyn was a guardian, and the salt line had kept it at bay. But the thing in the circle is still there, waiting. It feeds on the memories of those who disturb it. And every time I close my eyes, I see that void, reaching out for me, and I know that if I ever sleep too deeply, I’ll wake up on the other side of the line. The salt line. My line to walk. My burden to bear.