The Salt Stained Window

Thea and Marcus had been married for eight months, and their friends, Lena and Jonas, had joined them for a long weekend escape to the coastal town of Vermilion Bay. They had booked a room at the Seafoam Lodge, a quaint bed-and-breakfast perched on a cliff overlooking the Atlantic. Thea had chosen it specifically because the reviews raved about its ‘calming, spiritual atmosphere,’ a necessity she believed for a couple still in their first year of marriage. In their tradition, the first year was a vulnerable period, a time when envious spirits might latch onto their joy.

They arrived just past midnight, the winding road to the lodge lit only by the pale glow of the moon. The building was a sprawling Victorian, its white paint peeling in places, but the front porch was adorned with potted ferns and a wooden sign that read ‘Welcome, Travelers.’ The innkeeper, a frail woman named Mrs. Holloway, greeted them with a smile so thin it seemed stretched over her bones. She handed them a brass key, its tag stamped ‘104,’ and pointed down a dimly lit hallway. ‘Your room is at the end. Mind the draft,’ she said, her voice barely above a whisper, and then retreated into the back office.

The hallway was lined with old photographs of ships and lighthouses, the frames crooked. The air smelled of salt and something faintly sweet, like decaying flowers. When Thea pushed open the door to 104, a gust of cold air hit her face. The room was furnished with antique pieces, a canopy bed draped in heavy velvet, and a large window facing the sea. But the window was covered in a crust of dried salt, obscuring the view. Thea ran her finger along the sill, and salt flaked off like snow. ‘That’s odd,’ she murmured. ‘It’s like a layer of salt was purposely smeared on the glass.’

Marcus shrugged. ‘Probably sea spray. We are right on the cliff.’ They dropped their bags and decided to take a midnight walk on the beach to stretch their legs. Lena and Jonas were already in the next room, and they all met in the hallway. The four of them descended the creaking stairs and out onto the sand. The moon cast a silver path across the water, and the waves crashed with a rhythmic, hypnotic sound. As they walked, Thea noticed something in the sand: a trail of small, pointed footprints leading from the water’s edge up to the lodge, then stopping abruptly at the base of the wall. ‘Look at these,’ she said, pointing. ‘They look like they were made by something with claws, but they’re too small for a dog.’ Jonas knelt down and touched one. ‘Maybe a bird, or a crab?’ he offered, but his voice lacked conviction.

Back in the room, Thea tried to sleep but found herself staring at the salty window. The moonlight filtered through the grating, casting strange patterns on the floor. She thought she saw a face pressed against the glass, but when she blinked, it was gone. She attributed it to fatigue. The next morning, they awoke to a strange sound: a low, rhythmic scraping, like nails on a chalkboard, but outside. Thea pulled back the curtain, but the salt made it impossible to see out. She tried to wipe it, but the salt was caked on, and her hand came away gritty. ‘We should ask Mrs. Holloway about this,’ she said to Marcus. ‘It’s like someone deliberately did this.’ Marcus, ever the pragmatist, dismissed it. ‘It’s just an old building. They probably don’t clean those high windows.’

They spent the day exploring the town, but Thea couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched. Every time she looked up at the lodge from the beach, she swore she saw a figure in their window, but the salt frosted glass made it impossible to be sure. By evening, the strange scraping had intensified. It was a frantic, desperate sound, like something trying to get in. Lena suggested they move to a different room, but Mrs. Holloway insisted the lodge was fully booked. ‘There’s only one other room, and it’s taken,’ she said, her eyes darting away. ‘You’ll be fine. The salt keeps them out.’ Thea’s blood ran cold. ‘Keeps what out?’ she demanded. Mrs. Holloway simply smiled and walked away.

That night, Thea couldn’t sleep. She sat by the window, listening to the scratching, which seemed to be coming from directly outside. She pressed her ear to the cold glass and heard a whisper, not in her ear, but inside her head. ‘Let me in.’ It was a woman’s voice, sorrowful and desperate. Thea recoiled. She woke Marcus, but he heard nothing. ‘You’re exhausted, Thea. Get some rest.’ But she couldn’t. She sat up, watching the moon’s slow arc across the sky, and as dawn approached, the scratching stopped. She cautiously touched the window, and the salt crumbled under her fingers, revealing a clear patch. Through it, she saw the beach below, and there, in the sand, was a message written in large, jagged letters: ‘WE WERE ONCE WEDDED.’

Shaken, Thea woke everyone and showed them. They decided to leave immediately, but as they packed, the room grew colder. The door slammed shut, and the scratching began again, louder and more frantic. Thea looked at the window, and through the clear patch, she saw a face – a woman with pale skin and black, hollow eyes, mouthing words. ‘Your joy is mine now.’ Thea screamed as the window shattered inward, and a gust of salt wind engulfed them. They ran out of the room, but the hallway was now a swirling vortex of salt, and the photographs on the walls had turned to images of a bride with a withered face. They finally made it to the lobby, but Mrs. Holloway was standing there, her face contorted into a grimace. ‘You should have left when you could,’ she said, and then the lights went out.

The next morning, the police found the lodge abandoned. There were no signs of the four guests, but in room 104, there was a single photograph on the nightstand: a wedding portrait, but the faces were blurred. On the back, in faded handwriting, were the words: ‘Together forever, in salt and sorrow.’ The window was still intact, but the salt had formed a new pattern, resembling two figures intertwined, forever trapped in the glass. The wind outside seemed to carry a faint, melancholic whisper, repeating the name ‘Thea’ over and over. And from that day on, the seagulls avoided the cliff, and the lodge was never occupied again. The salt on the windows remains, always wet with the spray of the sea, but sometimes, if you listen closely, you can hear a scratching sound, as if something is trying to get out.