The Salt Wife

I’ve always been a city girl, but after three years in Toronto, the concrete was wearing me down. So when I moved to a tiny fishing village on the coast of Newfoundland for a job, I thought I’d found paradise. The house was a weathered grey saltbox, perched on a cliff overlooking the Atlantic. It had a wraparound porch, a wood stove, and a strange, mossy stone well in the backyard that the realtor dismissed as ‘decorative.’ I fell in love immediately.

The first week was bliss. I’d watch the waves smash against the rocks, drink coffee on the porch, and breathe in the salt air. But the silence of the village was oppressive. The few locals I met were polite but distant, their eyes lingering on my house a beat too long. Old Mrs. Kavanagh, who ran the general store, told me, ‘You’ll want to keep that well covered, dear. The sea likes to leave gifts.’ I laughed it off.

Then the knocking started. It was a soft, rhythmic tapping, like wet fingers on wood, coming from the backyard. It only happened at night, always around 3 AM. The first time, I dismissed it as the wind rattling the shutters. The second time, I got up and looked out the window. The yard was empty, but the well’s stone rim seemed slick, almost wet, as if something had just been pulled out of it.

The gifts began to appear. A small, perfect scallop shell on the porch. A green glass fishing float nestled among the wild roses. A child’s rubber boot, scuffed and salt-crusted, sitting by the door. I knew they weren’t there before. I started locking my doors even during the day.

The dreams came next. I dreamed of a woman with seaweed hair and skin the color of moonlight, singing in a language I didn’t understand. She would reach for me, her fingers dripping with brine, and whisper, ‘Let me in.’ Each dream ended with me drowning, my lungs filling with cold, endless water.

One evening, I decided to confront the well. I pulled off the heavy wooden cover and peered inside. The water was impossibly deep, dark as ink, and it reflected my face back at me, but with a slight delay. My reflection smiled. I stumbled back and slammed the cover on. That’s when I noticed the carving on the well’s rim: a crude figure of a woman with long hair, holding a small bundle. It hadn’t been there before.

I went to Mrs. Kavanagh, frantic. She finally told me the story. ‘Decades ago, a woman named Aoife lived in your house. She was a healer, brought here from across the sea. The villagers grew afraid of her, said she was a witch. One harsh winter, they dragged her to the well and drowned her, but her body was never found. They say she took their children instead.’ She crossed herself. ‘You’re not the first to live there since. They all leave. Some don’t leave at all.’

That night, I heard the knocking again, but this time it was at the front door. I didn’t answer. Instead, I grabbed a flashlight and went to the backyard. The well cover was off. I approached slowly, my heart hammering. The water was churning, and I could hear a faint, muffled crying, like a child in distress.

I leaned over the edge. The surface was still now, and I saw my reflection again, but it wasn’t just my face. There was a woman standing behind me, with hollow eyes and a mouth full of sea foam. Before I could react, a cold, wet hand grabbed my ankle and pulled me in.

I woke up on my porch, soaked to the bone, gasping for air. I didn’t remember swimming out. The well was covered again, and the knocking had stopped. For a few days, I thought it was over. Then I found a gift on my pillow: a lock of hair, grey and brittle, tied with a bit of seaweed.

I packed my bags that night. As I drove away, I saw her in my rearview mirror, standing in the yard, cradling a small, silent bundle in her arms. She was smiling. But the worst part was, I recognized the smile. It was the same smile I gave when I looked at my own reflection now. The sea hadn’t taken me, not yet. But it had left its mark. And I knew, with a dread that settled deep in my bones, that I would always carry her with me.