The Salt-Stained Floorboards

The house on Merrow Lane had stood since before the town’s pier was built, its weather-beaten timber and salt-stained floorboards bearing witness to a century of tides. I’d moved there with my husband, Gareth, after he lost his job at the cannery, and we’d rented the place from an old fisherman who’d retired to the mainland. That night, Gareth was working the graveyard shift at the 24-hour petrol station in Port Blakely, a forty-minute drive along the coast. I was alone with our dog, a wiry terrier named Pip, in the creaking silence that settled over the house after dusk.

At seven-thirty, I decided to watch a film. I popped a bag of popcorn in the ancient microwave, the hum of the appliance like a swarm of trapped flies, and then, because I’m meticulous about such things, I went to the bathroom before pressing play. The toilet was an iron-flushed relic, the kind that groans when you pull the chain. I flushed, watched the water swirl with a final gurgle, and padded back to the couch, where Pip was already curled on the worn cushion. I wrapped myself in a knitted blanket and pressed the remote. The opening credits of a submarine thriller flickered on, the glow painting strange shapes on the walls. Within forty-five minutes, the deep hum of the soundtrack had lulled me into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

I woke with a jolt, as if a hand had shaken my shoulder. My heart was pounding, and the air felt thick, close, like the pressure before a storm. The TV was off, the room dark but for the faint silver of moonlight filtering through the lace curtains. Pip was not on the couch. I sat up, blinking, and saw him in the middle of the hallway, his body rigid, his tail perfectly still, his nose pointed toward the closed bedroom door at the end of the corridor. He wasn’t growling, not barking, just staring, as if something had frozen him mid-sniff.

I called his name, a soft whisper. ‘Pip.’ He didn’t move. A ripple of unease, cold as a sea breeze, ran up my spine. I swung my legs off the couch, the floorboards cool under my bare feet, and walked toward him. As I approached, I noticed a faint, damp smell, like seaweed left to rot in the sun, mingling with the salt that already permeated the house. ‘What is it, boy?’ I said, my voice too bright. He didn’t even blink.

I followed his gaze to the bedroom door. It was ajar, just a crack, though I distinctly remembered closing it before I settled on the couch. I never left it open. I pushed the door with my fingertips, the wood resisting slightly as if swollen from moisture. The room was dark, but as I stepped inside, the floorboards under my feet felt wet. I fumbled for the light switch, and the bare bulb flickered to life, casting harsh shadows. The room was empty, but the window was open. The window. I hadn’t opened it; it had been painted shut for years. A cool gust of air made the curtains dance, and I saw that the window was not just open, but forced, the frame splintered, and on the sill lay a wet, dark stain, like something had dragged itself in from the sea.

I yanked the window shut, my hands trembling, and locked it. My breath came in short gasps. I backed out of the room, pulling the door closed, and looked down the hallway. Pip had not moved. He was still staring at the door, his body now trembling, a low whine escaping his throat. ‘What is it?’ I whispered, but he wouldn’t look at me. I knelt beside him, trying to coax him away, but he was rooted, his eyes unblinking.

Then I heard it. A soft, wet sound, like something dragging across the floor, coming from the living room. I spun around, my heart in my throat. The room was empty, but the sound was there, a slow, rhythmic scrape, as if something was being pulled across the floorboards. I grabbed the flashlight from the kitchen drawer, my only weapon, and crept back into the living room. The sound stopped. I swept the beam of light across the room. Everything was still. But then I noticed the floorboards. Near the edge of the carpet, there was a dark, wet trail, leading from the front door, across the room, and toward the hallway. It glistened in the flashlight beam.

I followed the trail, my feet leaving prints in the moisture. It led to the hallway, past Pip, who was now whimpering, his tail tucked. It stopped at the bedroom door. I pushed the door open again, the light spilling in, and the trail continued, across the room, to the window. I looked at the window. The latch was still locked. But the stain on the sill was larger now, darker, and there were droplets on the floor beneath it.

A cold, terrible certainty settled over me. Something had come through that window, and it was still in the house. I backed away, grabbing Pip by his collar, dragging him toward the front door. But when I pulled the door open, the handle was wet, and the night air was thick with the smell of salt and brine. The streetlight outside flickered, revealing a figure standing at the end of the garden path, where the gate met the seawall. It was tall, gaunt, its skin pale and slick, like a drowned thing. It was watching me, and I could see its eyes, black pits, reflecting the light.

I slammed the door and locked it, my back against the wood, my heart hammering. I looked at Pip. He was no longer staring at the bedroom. He was staring at the front door, his hackles raised, a low growl rumbling in his chest. And from the bedroom, I heard a soft, wet sound again, closer now. The floorboards creaked. Something was moving.

I grabbed the phone, but the line was dead. I screamed for help, but the sound was swallowed by the house. The lights flickered and died, plunging me into the dark. I heard a splash, like something stepping into water, and then the silence was broken by a single, clear noise: the toilet flushed. I hadn’t touched it. But I knew, with every fiber of my being, that something in that house, something that had come from the sea, had just used my bathroom. And I knew, from the way Pip was snarling, that it was coming for me.

I grabbed a kitchen knife and a flashlight, and I made my way to the back door. It opened onto a wooden porch that led to a narrow path down to the beach. But as I reached for the handle, I saw a shadow fall across the window. A tall, pale figure stood just outside, its hand pressed against the glass, leaving a wet smear. I heard the toilet flush again, this time from the hallway bathroom behind me. I spun around. The door was open, and a dark shape was emerging, hunched, dripping.

I ran. I burst through the front door, into the cold night air, Pip at my heels. I ran down the street, my bare feet slapping on the wet pavement, not daring to look back. I didn’t stop until I reached the Port Blakely gas station, where Gareth was just finishing his shift. He saw my face, the blood from my cut feet on the floor, the wild look in my eyes, and he didn’t ask questions. He bundled me into the car and drove to his brother’s place inland.

We never went back to that house. We had a friend pick up our belongings, and he said the place was dry as a bone, no sign of any water damage, but there was a strange, meaty smell in the bedroom, and the toilet bowl was filled with a black, viscous fluid, and seawater had pooled on the bathroom floor even though the roof was intact. He said he flushed it, and the water turned red.

Now, months later, we live in a new town, far from the coast. But some nights, when the wind blows from the sea, I hear it. A soft, wet dragging sound, coming from the hallway. And I smell salt. And I know, deep down, that whatever came through that window is still waiting, patient, in the walls of that old house, and that someday, it will flush my toilet again.