The Salt-Stained Window

The summer of 1999 turned our lives into a slow unraveling. My daughter, Mia, was just over a year old, and we were driving from our small apartment in Biloxi to the coastal town of Port Aransas, Texas, to bury my mother’s sister, Aunt Celia. My father, Raymond, was in a hospital there, fighting the same cancer that had taken Aunt Celia. My brother, Dale, and I were making the trip together, but the real reason was to see Dad one last time before it was too late.

Port Aransas was a town of salt and sand, where the Gulf of Mexico whispered against the shore and seagulls cried like lost souls. We arrived at my sister-in-law’s beach house, a weathered structure on stilts that smelled of fish and mildew. The funeral was the next day, and we went straight to the hospital to see Dad. He was gaunt, his skin stretched over bones, but his eyes lit up when he saw Mia. He sang her a lullaby, his voice like gravel, and I held the moment like a fragile shell, knowing it would crumble.

After the funeral, we returned to the house. My sister-in-law, Elena, had prepared a meal, but no one had much appetite. The house was old, with creaking floorboards and windows that rattled in the wind. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I wandered into the living room and found Dale staring out the window at the dark water.

‘She used to tell me stories about this place,’ Dale said, not turning around. ‘Aunt Celia, I mean. She said the house was built on an old graveyard. She said sometimes, when the wind is just right, you can hear them humming.’

I laughed it off, but later, alone in my room with Mia asleep in a portable crib, I heard it: a soft humming, like a song I almost recognized. I convinced myself it was the wind through the screen, but the melody was too structured, too human. It seemed to come from the walls, from the floorboards, from the very foundation.

The next day, I explored the house. The basement door was locked, but I found a key in a kitchen drawer. The basement was damp, with exposed dirt and old boxes. I found a photograph album with pictures of Aunt Celia as a young girl, standing on this same beach, but the faces in the background were blurred, as if they were never meant to be captured. I took the album upstairs and showed it to Elena. She went pale.

‘That’s not her,’ Elena whispered, pointing to a figure in the background. It was a woman in a long dress, her face barely visible, but her eyes were dark hollows. ‘I’ve seen her in my dreams,’ Elena said. ‘She’s always humming.’

That night, the humming was louder. Mia woke up crying, and I went to her, but she pointed to the corner of the room. ‘Woman,’ she said. It was her second word. I looked, but saw nothing. But the humming continued, and I felt a cold draft despite the closed windows.

I confronted Dale. ‘What do you know about this?’ I demanded. He admitted that Aunt Celia had told him a secret on her deathbed. The house was built on a site where a shipwreck had occurred in the 1800s, and the bodies were never recovered. The survivors built a church, but it burned down, and the congregation moved away, leaving their dead behind. ‘She said her grandmother saw the dead rise from the water one night, and they danced on the shore. She said they might come back when the family returns.’

I didn’t want to believe it, but the evidence was mounting. The humming grew louder each night, and Mia began to hum along. She started talking to empty air, calling someone ‘Lily.’ I asked Elena if there was a Lily in the family. She thought for a moment. ‘Aunt Celia had a sister who died in the water when she was six. Her name was Lily.’

The next morning, I decided we needed to leave. But as I packed, I heard Mia humming in her crib. She was facing the window, and outside, I saw a group of figures standing on the beach, waist-deep in the surf. They were not moving, just watching. The humming was coming from them. They were singing to Mia.

I ran to grab Mia, but as I lifted her, she pointed and said, ‘Lily is coming.’ The figures on the beach began to walk toward the house. Their steps were slow, but they made no ripples in the water. I slammed the shutters and locked the doors, but the humming permeated every pore of the house.

Dale burst into the room, his face pale. ‘It’s them,’ he said. ‘They want to take one of us. They always do.’

‘No!’ I shouted. ‘We’re leaving now.’

We gathered our things and ran to the car, but the engine wouldn’t start. The humming was everywhere, and the figures were at the stairs. I saw Mia’s face pressed against the window, and she was smiling, as if she saw a friend.

That’s when the floor beneath us gave way. We fell into the basement, into the dirt, and the humming was all around us. I held Mia tight, and Dale held me. The last thing I saw was a woman with dark eye sockets, reaching for Mia.

Now I live in a different city, far from the ocean. Mia is five, but she still hums that song. Sometimes, when she asks to go back to the salt-stained window, I pretend not to hear her. Because I know that if we return, the others will be waiting, and they will not be so patient this time.