The Salted Threshold

The summer I turned sixteen, my family and I drove from our cramped apartment in Manila to the coastal town of Hinagdanan for my great-uncle’s funeral. He was a man I’d never met, a distant relative from my grandmother’s side, and the only thing I knew about him was that he had been a fisherman and that his death had been sudden. My grandmother insisted we attend, speaking in hushed tones about ‘family obligations’ and ‘respect for the dead.’ I didn’t mind; I was eager to escape the city heat, and the idea of a beach town seemed like a nice break.

The drive took nine hours, the last stretch winding through fields of rice paddies and coconut groves. As we approached the town, the air grew salty, and I could smell the sea long before I saw it. The town itself was a cluster of weathered houses built on stilts near the shoreline, with a single narrow road that followed the coast. Our destination was a small house at the edge of the water, painted with faded blue paint, its roof made of rusted corrugated iron.

We arrived late in the afternoon. The wake was being held in the living room, and the coffin, a plain wooden box, was placed on a table in the center. Around it, a few old women sat on plastic chairs, fanning themselves with palm leaves and murmuring in a dialect I couldn’t understand. My grandmother greeted them with a nod and motioned for us to sit. I felt uneasy. The air was thick with the smell of candle wax, flowers, and something else, something like damp earth and brine.

An old man, my great-uncle’s brother, approached us. He was tall and gaunt, with skin like dried leather. He told us that the custom in that town was that anyone who had never met the deceased must introduce themselves, to ‘make peace with the spirit.’ He said it in a matter-of-fact tone, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. My parents, who were skeptical but polite, nodded. My cousins shuffled their feet. When my turn came, I stepped forward, feeling silly. I looked at the waxy face of the old man in the coffin, and I said, ‘I’m Andoy. We’re relatives. I’m sorry for your loss.’ The old man beside me nodded approvingly. My grandmother whispered, ‘Good child.’

That night, I could not sleep. The sea was unusually quiet, and the only sound was the creaking of the house and the distant barking of a dog. I lay on a mat on the floor, staring at the ceiling, when I heard a faint whisper, like a voice carried on the wind, but there was no wind. I sat up, but the room was still. I told myself it was the wood settling.

On the morning of the funeral, the women of the town prepared a meal. One of them, a young woman with a scar on her cheek, took me aside. She asked if I had ‘spoken’ to the deceased. I said I had. She nodded and then said, ‘Remember, never walk around the coffin clockwise. Go counterclockwise, or you’ll invite trouble.’ I didn’t understand, but I promised I would. She gave me a small pouch of salt and said, ‘Keep this. If you ever feel a draft, throw a pinch over your shoulder.’ I thought she was just being superstitious, but I took it anyway.

The funeral procession went to the town’s cemetery, which was on a cliff overlooking the sea. The wind was fierce, and the sky was a dull gray, even though it was noon. As the coffin was lowered into the ground, I felt a sudden chill, like someone had poured cold water down my back. I turned, expecting to see someone behind me, but there was no one. The young woman looked at me from across the grave, her eyes wide. She shook her head slowly, as if warning me not to speak.

After the burial, we gathered back at the house for a feast. The food was plentiful, and the alcohol flowed. My relatives were laughing and sharing stories about the deceased, talking about his skill as a diver and his love of the sea. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. Every time I moved, I felt a presence in my periphery, but when I turned, there was nothing.

Later that night, my cousins wanted to go to the beach to ‘swim by moonlight.’ I was hesitant, but they insisted. We walked down a narrow path that led to a secluded cove. The moon was full, and the water looked black and oily. My cousins stripped down and ran into the surf, laughing. I stayed on the shore, sitting on a rock, trying to ignore the nagging feeling. Then I saw something in the water. A dark shape, just below the surface, moving toward my cousins. They didn’t see it. It got closer and closer, and then it stopped, just a few feet from them.

I shouted, ‘Get out of the water! Now!’ They turned, looking at me like I was crazy, but something in my voice made them obey. They ran out, shivering, and as they did, the dark shape sank below the waves. When they asked me what was wrong, I couldn’t explain. I just said I saw a jellyfish.

Back at the house, my grandmother waited for me. She looked serious. She said, ‘You felt it, didn’t you? The spirit of your great-uncle. He’s not at peace. He was a fisherman, and the sea took him. He loved the water, but his soul is trapped between worlds. You need to help him.’ I asked how. She gave me an old bottle filled with seawater and said, ‘Go to the pier at dawn, throw this into the sea, and call his name three times. Ask him to go to the light.’ I didn’t want to do it, but she insisted, and she looked so old and tired that I couldn’t refuse.

At dawn, I walked to the pier. The town was quiet, the sky a pale pink. I held the bottle in my hand, my heart pounding. I uncorked it and leaned over the edge. I whispered, ‘Tito Ben, go to the light. Rest in peace.’ I poured the water back into the sea. I called his name once, twice, three times. Then I waited. Nothing happened. I felt a sense of relief, thinking it was done.

But as I turned to leave, the sea began to churn. A wave, taller than any I had seen, rose up and crashed onto the pier, drenching me completely. I fell, and as I looked up, I saw a figure standing at the end of the pier. It was an old man, drenched, with eyes as black as coal. He was pointing at me, his mouth open in a silent scream. Then the sun rose, and he was gone.

I told no one. But from that day on, I could hear the sea whispering in my ears, even when I was far from the shore. I developed an uncontrollable fear of water, unable to even take a shower without trembling. My family took me to doctors, priests, and healers, but nothing worked. They said I was cursed. They said the old man had attached himself to me.

I moved to the city, to a place with no view of the ocean. But the whispering followed me, growing louder and louder, until it became an unbearable roar. I would wake up in the middle of the night, my bedroom flooded with ice-cold water that vanished as soon as I turned on the lights. My mirror would fog up with an oily film, and sometimes, I would see a handprint pressed against it.

Finally, I went to a psychic recommended by a friend. She took one look at me and said, ‘You have a shadow. He’s a fisherman. He wants to take you back with him.’ She gave me a charm made of bones and told me to wear it at all times. She said, ‘He has chosen you. As long as you wear this, he cannot harm you, but he will wait. And one day, you will forget to wear it. Then, he will come.’

I wear it now, every day, even in the shower. I have a new name, a new life, but I know it’s not enough. Because sometimes, when I’m alone, I feel a cold draft brush against my neck, and I hear a deep voice say, ‘I need to rest. Help me.’ And I know that I didn’t help him. I only made things worse by trying to bind him. And someday, when I least expect it, sea will claim me too, and I will join him in his restlessness, forever listening to the whispering of the waves.

(author’s note: The town, the people, and the events are all fictionalized. But the fear is real.)