The Salt-Stained Locket

The first time I noticed it, I was standing at the kitchen sink of Rose Cottage, watching the grey Atlantic chew at the cliffs below. The cottage belonged to an old friend of my aunt’s, a retired fisherman named Seamus who had let us stay while he visited his sister in Galway. The place smelled of brine and turf smoke, and every surface was cluttered with oddities: a ship’s wheel nailed above the fireplace, a collection of sea glass in a chipped porcelain bowl, and a framed photograph of a woman whose face had been scratched out with a pin. I told myself it was just old-fashioned decorating, but something about the cottage made my skin prickle, especially the bathroom.

The bathroom was at the end of a narrow hallway, and the light switch was outside the door, so you had to step into the dark and feel along the wall for a pull chain. The room itself was small, with a claw-foot tub that had a ring of rust around the drain, and a mirror above the sink that was mottled with black spots. The first evening, as I reached to turn on the faucet, I saw a figure in the mirror behind me—just a flicker, a suggestion of a shape. I spun around, but the room was empty. My husband, Declan, was in the living room, reading a fishing magazine, and when I told him, he laughed and said it was probably the lighthouse beam reflecting off the glass. I tried to believe him.

But it happened again the next night, and the night after. Each time, the shape was more distinct: a woman, tall, with dark hair hanging over her face, wearing a long dress that seemed to move even though there was no breeze. And each time, I felt a cold draft that smelled of low tide—salt and rot and something else, something metallic. I started avoiding the bathroom after dark, using the bucket in the shed instead, but that was when the sounds began: a slow scratching, like fingernails on plaster, coming from the wall behind the tub. It would start at midnight and stop exactly at three in the morning, when the lighthouse beam swept past the window.

I tried to find a source. I checked the pipes, the foundations, even the attic, but there was nothing. The scratching was methodical, almost rhythmic, like someone writing. And then I found the locket.

It was tucked behind the loose tile at the back of the bathroom cupboard, wrapped in a piece of oilcloth. The locket was tarnished silver, shaped like a heart, with a clasp that had rusted shut. I pried it open with a knife, and inside was a lock of red hair and a tiny photograph of a young woman with a severe look, her lips pressed together. On the back was an inscription: ‘For E. Forever.’ The moment I touched it, the scratching stopped, and I felt a wave of nausea so strong I had to lean on the sink.

That night, I dreamed of a woman standing at the edge of the cliff, watching the sea. Her dress was soaked, and water dripped from her hair, but her face was clear: it was the woman from the photograph, but older, with hollow cheeks and eyes that were nothing but fog. She pointed at me, and her lips moved, but I couldn’t hear what she said. Then she lifted a hand and showed me a small object—the locket—and I woke up with my heart pounding, the taste of salt in my mouth.

The next morning, I told Declan I wanted to leave. He was patient, but he pointed out that we had a week left and that the cottage was free. He suggested I take a walk on the beach to clear my head. I agreed, and I walked along the shore, collecting stones, trying to shake the dread. But as I rounded a bend, I saw a small cove that wasn’t visible from the cottage, and there, half-buried in the sand, was a woman’s shoe—a black leather boot with a broken heel. I should have left it, but I didn’t. I picked it up, and inside was a faded photograph, wet and crumpled, of a man in a fisherman’s coat. On the back, written in shaky handwriting, were the words: ‘E. drowned, 1908. I’ll never forgive myself.’

I ran back to the cottage, the boot still in my hand. I showed it to Declan, and he went pale. He said, ‘That’s Seamus’s grandmother. Her name was Eileen. She drowned in the cove, and he never talked about it. He said she was cursed.’

And then, as if on cue, the scratching started again, but this time it was louder, and it was coming from the living room wall. The locket was still in my pocket, and I could feel it getting warmer. Declan and I stood there, frozen, as the scratching turned into a scraping, and then a voice—a woman’s voice, thin and watery, like it was coming up through a pipe—said, ‘You found me.’

We both heard it. We left that day, driving in silence, and we never spoke of it for years. But sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I see a flicker of a woman behind me, and I feel a cold draft that smells of low tide. And when I reach for my collar, I remember that I buried the locket in the garden before we left, but I know it won’t stay buried. I just hope it stays there a little longer.