The Salted Grove

We’d been in Bakersfield for barely a month when my husband’s job fell apart. The plant manager, a man named Gerald, took one look at Miguel’s surname and the way his skin darkened in the California sun, and decided he didn’t like what he saw. He found some trumped-up violation and sent Miguel packing. We knew it was discrimination, but there was no proof, no union, no money for a lawyer. So we packed our bags and headed back to the arid town of Merkel, Texas, in late August of 2006. Our savings had been gutted by the move and the temporary housing, and we had no home to go back to. A couple from the local church, the Hendersons, took us in for a few days while Miguel looked for a place. Then another family, the Petries, offered us a small rental house on the edge of town, free for six months until we got on our feet. We were grateful, but the house had a strange history. The Petries mentioned it had been vacant for years, and the land around it was barren, salt-crusted, dead. They warned us not to dig in the yard. We thought it was just old folks being quirky.

The house was a squat, adobe structure with a rusted tin roof and a porch that sagged in the middle. The windows were boarded up when we arrived, but Miguel pried them open to let in the hot, dry air. The inside smelled of dust and old wood. There was a single light bulb in each room, and the water from the tap tasted faintly of minerals. The back door led to a yard that was a patch of white, crusted earth, encircled by a ring of dead cottonwoods. In the center of that circle was a deep, circular pit, maybe six feet across, lined with crumbling bricks. It looked like an old well, but the Petries had told us not to touch it. My daughters, Rosa and Alma, were young—seven and five—and they were curious. They asked what the pit was. I said it was just an old well, off-limits. But I saw Alma’s little fingers tracing the edge of it through the window, and a chill ran down my spine.

We settled in as best we could. Miguel found work at a hardware store, and I took a waitressing job at a diner downtown. The kids started school. But there was an unease in that house. At night, I’d hear a faint scratching, like fingernails on brick, coming from the backyard. I’d get up and look out the window, but the yard was empty under the pale moon. One afternoon, Rosa came in from playing outside, her face pale. She said she’d seen a woman standing by the pit, dressed in a long white gown, with hair that blew in a wind that didn’t exist. I told her it was the heat playing tricks. But I felt a knot tighten in my stomach.

Weeks passed. The lease was short, but the Petries were kind, and we planned to stay until spring. The scratching persisted, growing louder. The kids started having nightmares. Alma would wake up screaming about ‘the lady in the hole.’ Miguel tried to comfort her, but I saw the fear in his eyes too. One day, while Miguel was at work, I decided to investigate the pit. I walked out into the salty yard. The sun was high, but the air felt cold around the circle. I peered over the edge. It was deep, maybe twenty feet, and at the bottom, I saw something glinting—a small, metal box. My heart raced. I scrambled down the crumbly brick sides, my boots slipping on loose mortar. At the bottom, I picked up the box. It was tarnished silver, about the size of a shoebox, with a strange symbol etched on the lid—a spiral. I pried it open. Inside was a bundle of old, yellowed papers and a photograph of a woman with hollow eyes, standing next to the pit. The papers were letters, written in shaky handwriting, dated 1923. They told the story of a farmer named Ephraim, who lived on this land with his wife, Mariah. Mariah was barren, and in desperation, she made a pact with something she called ‘the salt spirit’ to conceive. The spirit granted her a child, but in return, it demanded a soul at the next full moon. She refused, and the spirit took her unborn child, and then her own life, leaving her body at the bottom of the well. The letters warned that the spirit was still there, waiting, and that anyone who disturbed the well would be cursed.

I stumbled back into the house, shaking, the letters clutched in my hands. I showed them to Miguel. He was skeptical, but he saw the fear in my face. We decided to leave, but we had no money for another move. That night, the full moon rose, huge and yellow over the dead trees. The scratching turned into a wailing, a sound that seeped through the walls. The kids hid under their covers. Miguel and I sat in the kitchen, holding hands. Suddenly, a knock came at the back door. We froze. It was a soft, rhythmic knock, like knuckles on wood. Miguel slowly opened the door. There was no one there. But on the doorstep, there was a small, hand-carved wooden doll, with a blank face and a string that led to the pit. Alma came running into the kitchen, crying, ‘She wants me to play with her!’

In that moment, I understood. The spirit had been watching Alma, the youngest, the most innocent. It had been calling to her. We had to get out, now. We packed as much as we could into our old truck in the middle of the night. The wailing grew louder, seeming to surround the house. As we drove away, I looked back in the rearview mirror. In the moonlight, I saw a figure standing by the pit—a woman in white, holding the wooden doll. And her face was Alma’s face. I slammed on the brakes, but when I blinked, it was gone. We drove until dawn, never stopping, and we’ve never spoken of it since. We settled in a small town in New Mexico, and we never returned to Merkel. But sometimes, when the night is quiet, I hear a faint scratching from the backyard of our new house. And I see Alma staring out the window, her fingers tracing patterns on the glass. I know we left something behind, something that took root in that salt-crusted ground. And I fear it followed us home, coiled in the shadows, waiting for the next full moon.