The Salt of the Earth

My name is Elara, and I know it’s been a year since I vanished from the forum, but I have a very good reason. If you remember, I’d picked up, or rather, was under attack by, a very malevolent entity. My mentor, a man sent to me by my sister, instructed and assisted me to free myself. The rituals and prayers were intense, every night and every morning. They lasted just over a year. One of his instructions was to avoid anything that might give the entity the ability to draw energy from me and the people around me. He asked what I might be doing to draw the being to me and feed it. This forum was one of the things I mentioned. He said to avoid it until such a time as the creature was completely gone, as remembering and putting things that put pain or fear into the forefront of my mind might embolden or strengthen it. That is why I vanished suddenly. I made other changes in my life, and cultivated a simpler, more organic lifestyle.

I left the city and moved to a small cottage on the edge of a vast salt flat. The land was barren, white, and silent. No trees, no birds, just the crunch of salt underfoot and the endless horizon. I thought the emptiness would keep me safe. I grew my own vegetables in a small greenhouse, harvested salt from the flats, and lived a life of quiet routine. My sister sent supplies and letters, but I kept my distance from everyone. The mentor had said isolation was key, so I obeyed.

For months, it was peaceful. I woke with the sun, performed my morning rituals—lighting a candle, reciting a prayer, and tracing a circle of salt around my cot. At night, I did the same, adding a fresh sprinkle of salt across the threshold. I felt a sense of calm I hadn’t known in years. The nightmares that had plagued me were gone. I was healing.

But last week, something changed. I was out on the flats, gathering salt crystals, when I found a footprint. It was large, bare, and the toes were too long, the heel too narrow. I stared at it for a long time, my heart thumping. There was no one for miles. I told myself it was an animal track, but I knew it wasn’t. The shape was wrong, the depth too heavy. I brushed it away and hurried back to the cottage, double-checking my salt line.

That night, I heard footsteps outside. Crunch, crunch, crunch, slow and deliberate, circling the cottage. I didn’t dare look out. I recited my prayers, my voice shaking, and clutched a small pouch of salt under my pillow. The steps stopped at dawn, and when I finally peered through the window, the salt flats were pristine, not a single mark. But the threshold had been disturbed—the salt line was broken, scattered as if kicked.

I fortified my defenses. I laid a thicker ring of salt, hung dried herbs from the eaves, and wrote prayers on strips of paper that I tucked into the window frames. I called my mentor, but the phone line was dead—static, like a constant whisper. I tried my sister, but the call wouldn’t connect. I was alone, and the panic began to set in.

Two nights ago, I woke to a scraping sound against the outer wall. It was rhythmic, like a fingernail dragging across the wood. Then a voice, soft and familiar, called my name. It was my mother’s voice, but she had died years ago. ‘Elara, let me in. It’s cold out here.’ I pressed my hands over my ears, but the voice continued, pleading, until I feared I would go mad. I screamed for it to leave, and finally, it fell silent.

Last night, the power went out. I lit candles, but they flickered as if a wind was blowing, though the air was still. I saw a shape in the corner of my eye—tall, gaunt, wearing a tattered coat. It stood at the edge of my candlelight, just watching. I grabbed my salt and threw a handful at it, but it didn’t react. It simply tilted its head, and then it was gone.

I haven’t slept in two days. I’m writing this because I don’t know what else to do. I realize now that I never escaped the entity. My mentor was wrong, or perhaps he was part of the trap. I’ve been feeding it all along, not with my fear, but with my isolation. The salt that I thought protected me is just a seasoning. The ‘organic lifestyle’ was just a slow, quiet way to ripen.

I can feel it now, pressing against my mind, waiting for me to let go of this keyboard and face it. I’m sorry I didn’t explain before. I’m sorry I vanished. But this is my final message. If you find this, don’t come looking for me. There’s nothing left but the salt and the silence, and something that wears my skin, waiting for the next solitary soul to claim.