The Salt Road

It happened in the autumn of last year, when I was still living with my family in a cramped ground-floor flat in the old quarter of Karlstad, just a stone’s throw from the river. Our block was one of those red-brick tenements built in the twenties, and the entrance opened onto a long, cobbled alleyway that twisted between the buildings before joining the main lane. To reach the street, you had to pass under a low brick arch, and then make a sharp left turn along a narrow path that ran beside the old mill wall. The whole route was barely wide enough for a single bicycle, and at night the single lamppost at the arch cast a sickly orange glow that barely reached the doorway.

That particular evening, my mother was making her famous herring stew, and halfway through she realized she had run out of allspice. She sent me to the corner shop, which was a brisk ten-minute walk along the main lane. I was nineteen and foolish, and I had just gotten a new pair of sneakers I wanted to show off. I told myself I didn’t need a flashlight, even though the autumn evenings had already turned dark and misty. The streetlights on the main lane were bright enough, and besides, I knew the way blind.

I left the flat at around half past eight. The air was moist and had that peculiar smell of wet leaves and river silt. As I hurried through the alley, I noticed the lamppost at the arch flickered a couple of times, but I paid no attention. The shop was still open, and I got the spice quickly, but on my way back, I felt a strange, sudden cold that did not come from the wind. It was a deep, bone-chilling chill that seemed to emanate from the damp stones beneath my feet.

As I reached the arch, the flickering light sputtered and went out completely, plunging the alley into darkness. I stopped, letting my eyes adjust, and that was when I heard it: a soft, dry whispering, like salt grains being rubbed together, coming from the wall on my left. I turned my head, and there, just at the edge of my vision, I saw a figure standing at the end of the alley, near our front door. It was tall and thin, and its skin had the dull, greyish sheen of wet paper. It was not wearing any shoes, and its feet were bare, but the strangest thing was that it was completely still, except for its fingers, which were slowly tapping against its thigh.

My heart started to race, but I told myself it was just a trick of the light, or maybe a neighbor’s silhouette. I took a step forward, and the figure took a step back, as if mirroring me. I stopped, and it stopped. I tried to see its face, but the darkness seemed to clot around it, hiding every detail except that pale, motionless hand. Then I noticed that the ground around its bare feet was covered with a fine grey powder, like ash or dried salt. It looked as if it had been standing there for a very long time.

The cold grew intense, and I could see my breath misting in front of me. I felt a desperate urge to run, but my legs were heavy as stone. The figure began to move its lips, and I could hear that dry, rasping whisper, though the words were unintelligible. It sounded like a repeated phrase, maybe, ‘The salt remembers.’ Or it could have been ‘The salt is the memory.’ I couldn’t be sure.

Then, from the distance, I heard my mother’s voice calling my name from the doorway of our flat. The sound was sharp, like a bell, and it broke the spell. The figure stepped back into the deeper shadows, and the lamp flickered back on, revealing an empty alley. The powder on the ground was gone. I sprinted to the door, my heart pounding, and when I crashed inside, my mother scolded me for being out so long in the cold. I didn’t tell her what I had seen.

The incident stayed with me, though. Over the following weeks, I noticed that the alleyway at night always had a faint whiff of salt, even though we were miles from the sea. And on the ground near our door, I would sometimes find small heaps of coarse salt, as if someone had spilled a cellar there. When I asked the old caretaker about it, he just shook his head and said that the old mill used to be a salt depot, and many men had lost their lives in a fire there a hundred years ago. He said their ashes were mixed into the mortar of these walls, and sometimes, when the air is damp, you can feel them still.

But the part that truly changed my mind came a month later, when I had to walk the same route at the same hour. I had my flashlight this time, and I pointed it down the alley as I turned the corner. The beam caught a bare footprint in the dust, but there was only one, and it was not mine. It was long and narrow, and the toes seemed too evenly spaced. As I stared, a thin line of salt began to form around it, as if the ground was weeping. Then I heard the whisper again, clearer than before: ‘You see us now, don’t you?’ I ran, and I never walked through that alley at night again. I know that something from the old salt depot is still there, waiting for the living to wander in, and it will not be forgotten.