The Salt-Stained Door

The house on Gull Point Road had stood for over two centuries, its grey stone walls weathered by salt and storm. From the attic window, you could watch the North Sea churn against the black rocks below, but no one ever lingered there. The property had belonged to the Ashworth family for generations, and after old Mrs. Ashworth passed, her son and his wife rented it out as a holiday cottage. That’s how we came to be there, my brother Theo and I, looking for a quiet week by the sea.

The interior was a maze of cramped rooms connected by narrow doorways, as if the house had grown organically over the years. The kitchen was a dark, low-ceilinged space with a massive hearth that swallowed light. Next to it, a tiny washroom with a corroded sink, and beyond that, the dining room with French doors that led to a small patio. Those doors were always unlocked, even at night, because the latch was jammed and no amount of force could fix it. We tried the first evening, but the wood had swollen with damp.

That first night, I couldn’t sleep. The wind howled through every crack, and the house creaked and groaned like a ship at sea. I got up for a glass of water and passed the dining room. Through the French doors, I saw a figure standing on the patio—a tall, thin shape that seemed to waver like heat haze. I blinked, and it was gone. I told myself it was the reflection of the moon on the glass.

The next day, we explored the beach. Theo found an old coin embedded in the sand, and I noticed a peculiar marking on the back doorframe: a spiral carved deep into the wood, half-hidden under peeling paint. I ran my finger over it, and it was warm to the touch, though the day was cool. I said nothing to Theo.

That night, I woke to the sound of the French doors creaking open. I crept down the stairs and saw them ajar, the night wind whipping the curtains. I closed them, but the latch clicked shut with a sharp noise, and for a moment, I could have sworn I saw a face pressed against the glass—pale, with hollow eyes. I was too frightened to move, and then the face was gone.

On the third day, we drove to the village and asked about the house. The old man at the pub went pale when we mentioned it. ‘The Ashworth place,’ he said, his voice low. ‘They say old Mr. Ashworth went mad in there, kept his wife locked in the attic. She fell to her death from the window. The house remembers.’ We laughed it off, but I couldn’t shake the chill that ran down my spine.

That night, Theo went to bed early, and I stayed up reading in the living room. Around midnight, I heard a faint scratching from the dining room, like nails on wood. I followed the sound and saw the French doors slightly open again. On the patio, the figure from the first night stood motionless, its arm raised, pointing at the sea. I stepped closer, and it turned its head—but it had no face, only a smooth, grey void. I stumbled back, and the doors slammed shut on their own.

I ran upstairs and woke Theo, but he just grumbled and rolled over. I lay awake until dawn, listening to the house sigh and settle around me.

The last night, I decided to solve the mystery. I took my flashlight and examined the spiral marking again. As I traced it, I felt a pulse beneath my fingers, a heartbeat. Then the floorboards under me began to tremble. From the attic above, I heard a woman’s voice, clear as day, singing a lullaby. I climbed the attic stairs, my heart pounding. The door was locked, but the key was in it. I turned it and pushed.

In the dim light, I saw a rocking chair moving on its own, and on the bed, a patch of damp that spread like a stain. The air was thick with the smell of salt and old perfume. I backed away, and the door slammed shut behind me, trapping me inside. I pounded on the wood, but my fists made no sound. The singing grew louder, and I felt something cold touch my neck.

The next morning, Theo found me sitting in the kitchen, staring at the wall. I couldn’t speak for hours. When I finally did, I told him we had to leave. He didn’t argue. We packed without a word and drove away, never looking back.

But sometimes, at night, I still hear that lullaby, and I see the spiral burned into my eyelids. And I know that the house on Gull Point Road is waiting for me to come back, to become another ghost in its halls.