The Salt on the Windowsill

The first night in the old farmhouse, we were all too tired to unpack properly. My stepfather, Dale, had insisted we move in immediately, even though the place needed work. I was twelve, and my sisters—Maggie, Ruth, Beth, and little June—were scattered across the living room in sleeping bags. Mom was in the master bedroom with the baby, who had just turned three months old. I chose the smallest room, the one with the window facing the orchard, because it felt private. I unrolled my sleeping bag on the bare plywood floor, and the smell of dust and old wood filled my nostrils.

I don’t know how long I lay there, listening to the house settle. The wind outside made the bare branches of the apple trees scrape against the glass. I was just starting to drift off when I felt a shift in the air, a weight, like someone was standing in the doorway. I opened my eyes and saw a silhouette—tall, thin, motionless. In the dim light from the hallway, I could make out overalls and a straw hat. I thought it was Dale, coming to check on us, as he sometimes did back in the apartment. I closed my eyes and waited for him to leave. But I didn’t hear footsteps. The presence lingered for a long time, and I eventually fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion.

In the morning, I found Dale at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee. He looked pale, dark circles under his eyes. I asked him if he’d had trouble sleeping, if he’d come to check on us. He frowned, rubbing his temples. ‘I slept like a log,’ he said. ‘Didn’t get up once.’ I felt a cold knot in my stomach. I didn’t tell him what I’d seen. Instead, I mentioned the orchard, how the trees looked old and gnarled. Dale shrugged. ‘Probably been here since the place was built. The old owner was a recluse, lived here alone for decades. Died a few years back. No one wanted to buy it—they say it’s haunted.’ He laughed, but it sounded hollow.

Over the next few days, strange things began to happen. We found the salt shaker empty every morning, even though no one used it. Windows that we’d locked in the evening would be open a crack by dawn. And there was a persistent smell of rotting apples, even though the orchard was bare. Maggie swore she saw a figure in the orchard one afternoon, standing among the trees, watching the house. But when she blinked, it was gone.

One night, I woke to the sound of rustling in the hallway. I crept to my door and peered out. The same silhouette was at the end of the hall, but this time it was moving slowly, dragging something behind it. I could hear a faint scraping sound, like a sack being pulled across the floor. I wanted to call out, but my voice stuck in my throat. The figure paused outside the baby’s room, then vanished. I waited, heart pounding, but nothing else happened. In the morning, I found the baby’s blanket on the floor, even though he’d been tucked in tight.

I started doing research at the local library. An old woman, Mrs. Hargrove, told me that the farmhouse had belonged to a farmer named Abel Crouch. He was known for his apple orchards, but also for being fiercely protective of his land. ‘He didn’t like strangers,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘Especially children. He used to say that the orchard needed ‘feeding’ to stay fruitful. People thought he was just odd, but then children started going missing. They never proved anything, but Abel moved away shortly after, and the place stood empty.’ She looked at me with pity. ‘You be careful out there, child.’

I returned home, my mind racing. That night, I couldn’t sleep. Around 2 AM, I heard a sound from the kitchen—a rhythmic chopping, like someone splitting wood. I tiptoed downstairs and saw the silhouette in the moonlight, standing at the counter, its back to me. It was holding a cleaver, and it was chopping something on a cutting board. The blade thudded against the wood, and I smelled fresh apples, sweet and rotten at the same time. It turned its head slightly, and I saw wispy grey hair, a gnarled face, and eyes that were black as pits. It didn’t speak, but I heard a whisper in my mind: ‘The orchard needs feeding.’

I fled back to my room, shaking. The next morning, I told my mom everything. She looked at me with concern, but Dale just laughed it off. ‘It’s just your imagination, kid. Old houses play tricks.’ But I noticed he started locking his bedroom door at night.

Days passed, and the phenomena grew worse. We found dirt scattered on the kitchen floor in the shape of a circle. The baby would cry for no reason, staring at the corner of his room. And I began to notice that the orchard trees looked healthier, their leaves greener, despite the early spring. I knew then that the spirit of Abel Crouch was still there, and it wanted something.

One night, I woke to find my sisters standing in the hallway, all of them in their nightgowns, their eyes wide and unseeing. They were walking toward the orchard, single file. I screamed, waking mom and Dale. They rushed out and pulled the girls back, but the girls were cold as ice. ‘What’s happening?’ mom cried. Dale looked at me, fear in his eyes for the first time. ‘We have to leave,’ he said. ‘Now.’

We fled that night, driving to a motel in town. We never went back for our belongings. Dale put the house on the market, but no one would buy it. Eventually, the bank took it. But sometimes, late at night, I think I can still smell apples, and I see that silhouette in the corner of my vision. I’ve put salt on the windowsill of my new room, and I keep a light on. I pray that the orchard forgets us, but I know it never will. It’s still hungry, and it’s waiting.