The Salt on the Wind

I’ve never been one for the supernatural. My name is Eli, and I’ve lived on Plover Island my whole life—a small, windswept spit of land off the coast of Oregon, not the sunny south of England you might expect. But here, the fog rolls in thick, and the ocean has a way of getting into your bones. I’ve always found comfort in that, in the tangible, salt-crusted reality of it. I never believed in ghosts, spirits, or any of that. Give me science, give me proof. That’s what I’d say. My grandpa used to tell stories about the island, about the old lighthouse and the shipwrecks, but I’d always roll my eyes. They were just stories, ways to pass the long winter nights.

Everything changed three weeks ago, on the night of the annual tide pool cleanup. I was down at the north cove with a few friends, gathering up plastic and debris left by the last storm. The moon was hidden behind a layer of clouds, and the only light came from our headlamps. It was then I heard it—a faint, high-pitched sound, like a woman’s voice carried on the wind. It wasn’t a scream or a cry, but something else, a melody I couldn’t place. I told my friend Maya, but she just laughed, said it was probably a foghorn or a sea lion. I tried to brush it off, but the sound lingered in my ears, even after we’d gone home.

The next night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept replaying the sound in my head. I decided to go back to the cove, alone, to where we’d been. I didn’t tell anyone—it seemed silly. As I stood on the wet sand, the tide coming in, the sound came again, clearer this time. It was definitely a voice, but not human. It was like the moan of a ship’s hull, or the whisper of water through a broken hull. I scanned the water with my flashlight, but saw nothing. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something in the rocks—a glint of metal. I approached and found a tarnished silver locket, half-buried in the sand. I picked it up, and the smell of salt and decay washed over me. Inside was a tiny, faded photograph of a woman with wild hair and sad eyes. On the back, in faded script, were the initials ‘A.M.’

I pocketed the locket, thinking it was a piece of some old shipwreck, and went home. But that night, I had a dream. I was underwater, and I could see a sailing ship, its masts broken, sinking into the dark. And standing on the deck, looking up at me with that same sad face from the photograph, was the woman. She opened her mouth, and the melody came out—the same one I’d heard on the beach. I woke up drenched in sweat, the song still in my head.

The next day, I started researching. Plover Island had a history of shipwrecks, but I found no record of a ship called the Alcyone or anything that would match that locket. I scoured old libraries, talked to the island’s sole historian, old Mr. Hargrove, but he just gave me a strange look and said, ‘Some things are best left buried.’ That only fueled my curiosity.

Every night since, I’ve gone back to the cove. The melody grows louder, more insistent. The locket feels cold against my chest even when I’m not wearing it—I’ve taken to keeping it in my pocket, but I can feel its weight, like a stone tied to my soul. And now, I see her everywhere. In the reflections of windows, in the foam of the waves, in the faces of strangers for just a split second. She’s always mouthing the same words, but I can’t read her lips. I feel like I’m losing my mind.

Last night, I had enough. I brought a voice recorder and a camera to the cove. I stood where I’d found the locket and called out, ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ For a moment, there was silence. Then, the wind picked up, and the melody turned into a scream—a sound of pure anguish that drilled into my ears. My recorder went static. My camera battery died. And then I saw it: a shadowy figure at the water’s edge, shaped like a woman, her hair streaming out like kelp. She raised her arm and pointed directly at me.

I ran. I didn’t stop until I was back in my room, gasping, with the locket burning in my hand. I’ve tried to find answers online, but there’s nothing. No reports, no legends about Plover Island, nothing that matches. I’m starting to think it’s not the island. It’s me. I’m the one who’s changed. But how? I’ve never been a believer. But now, I can’t stop hearing the song. It’s in my head, echoing with every breath. I don’t know how to stop it. I don’t know what she wants. And I’m terrified that the next time I go back to the cove, she won’t just point—she’ll reach out and take me with her.

I’ve taken to sleeping with the locket under my pillow, hoping it will anchor me, but the melody only grows clearer. Tonight, I feel her presence in my room. I can smell the brine, feel a cold draft that circles my bed. I’m about to look up, because I know she’s there. I just don’t know if I’ll survive seeing her face to face.