The Saltless Diet

It began with a heartbeat that stumbled. Marcus, a middle-aged archivist, collapsed in his cluttered study on a rain-soaked evening in late autumn. The cardiac arrest was sudden, a fist of pain that seized his chest and drove him to the carpet, where he lay until his wife, Elena, found him. The ambulance came, sirens wailing through the wet streets of the small coastal town of Greyport, and Marcus was rushed to St. Jude’s Hospital, a grim stone building that smelled of antiseptic and old fear.

For a week, Marcus lay in the sterile white ward, his body tethered to tubes and monitors that beeped with monotonous regularity. He drifted in and out of consciousness, aware of the hushed voices of doctors, the sharp scent of iodine, and the occasional glimpse of his family’s worried faces through the glass partition. His mother, Agnes, a stern woman of sixty with iron-gray hair, and his two brothers, Daniel and little Thomas, visited daily, their presence a flicker of warmth in the cold room.

The day of his discharge arrived with a pale, watery sun. Marcus was wheeled to the hospital entrance, clutching a paper bag of prescriptions and a strict dietary plan. The car ride home was silent, the streets of Greyport eerily quiet, the sea a gray smear on the horizon. When they pulled into the driveway of their Victorian house—a looming structure with peeling paint and a sagging porch—Marcus felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the chill.

Over the next few days, Marcus rested in the upstairs bedroom, his bed propped with pillows, the curtains drawn against the oppressive light. Elena hovered, bringing him bland meals: boiled chicken, plain rice, and a bowl of daliya so devoid of flavor it tasted like wet sawdust. Agnes insisted on cooking everything herself, banishing the maid, Rosa, to the basement. ‘No salt, no spice, no oil,’ she declared, her voice sharp. ‘Only pure, clean food to heal you.’ Marcus complied, though each tasteless bite left him longing for the vibrant meals of his past.

On the third night, Marcus woke to a strange sound. It was a low, rhythmic thumping, like a heartbeat, but louder, deeper. It seemed to come from the floor, from the walls, from the air itself. He sat up, his chest aching, and listened. The sound stopped. He dismissed it as a side effect of his medication.

The next morning, at breakfast, Daniel mentioned it. ‘Did you hear that noise last night? Like a drum or something.’ Thomas nodded, his young face pale. ‘It kept me up. I thought it was the sea.’ Agnes slammed a plate of unsalted eggs onto the table. ‘It’s your imagination. Eat your food.’ Marcus exchanged uneasy glances with Elena, but no one spoke further.

That evening, Marcus insisted on taking a short walk around the garden, despite Elena’s protests. The garden was overgrown, with withered rose bushes and a cracked stone path. As he shuffled along, he noticed a patch of earth near the back wall that seemed disturbed, the soil darker and freshly turned. He knelt, his knees protesting, and saw a small, smooth stone half-buried, etched with a symbol he didn’t recognize—a spiral within a circle. He pocketed it, feeling an inexplicable coldness.

Back inside, Marcus handed the stone to Agnes, who was washing dishes. She froze, her knuckles whitening. ‘Where did you find this?’ she demanded. ‘In the garden,’ he said. She stared at him, her eyes wide, then quickly shoved the stone into her apron pocket. ‘It’s nothing. Just a rock. Go rest.’ Her voice was too firm, and Marcus felt a knot of unease.

The next day, the maid Rosa, who had been silent and fearful since Marcus’s return, cornered him in the hallway. ‘Senhor Marcus, beware. The house is not as it was. Your mother… she does things at night. She goes to the basement with the stone. She whispers to the walls.’ Marcus tried to question her, but Rosa shook her head, her eyes darting. ‘I cannot say more. She will know. She always knows.’ She fled, leaving Marcus with a chill.

That night, Marcus decided to investigate. When the house fell silent, he crept out of bed, his limbs heavy, and made his way to the kitchen. The basement door, usually padlocked, stood ajar, a sliver of yellow light spilling out. He descended the creaky stairs, each step a groan. At the bottom, he found Agnes, her back to him, crouched over a small altar made of bricks. On it, the stone rested, surrounded by candles and what looked like strands of hair—his hair, he realized, from the hairbrush. Agnes was murmuring in a language Marcus didn’t recognize, her voice a low, guttural chant. On the altar, a bowl of daliya sat, and as Agnes chanted, the porridge began to bubble, even though no heat was present.

Marcus gasped. Agnes whirled around, her face a mask of fury and fear. ‘You shouldn’t be here!’ she screamed. She lunged at him, and he stepped back, tripping on the stairs. He fell, hitting his head on the edge of a step, and the world went black.

When he woke, he was in his bed, Elena holding his hand. ‘What happened?’ he asked, groggy. ‘You fainted in the kitchen,’ she said. ‘Your mother found you. She said you were sleepwalking.’ But Marcus remembered everything. He told Elena, but she looked at him with concern. ‘Marcus, you’re on strong painkillers. Maybe it was a dream.’ He tried to insist, but her eyes were placid, almost glassy. He noticed that his mother had come into the room, and she gave him a cold smile. ‘Rest, my son. The saltless diet will cleanse you.’

Days passed. Marcus grew weaker, his meals becoming more bland, more tasteless. The heartbeat sound returned, louder, more insistent, especially at night. He felt his own heartbeat slow, as if in sync with the sound. He began to see figures in the shadows—thin, gaunt shapes with hollow eyes, reaching for him. He screamed, but no one came. Elena stopped visiting as often; when she did, she seemed distant, her eyes empty, her voice flat.

One night, Marcus crawled to the basement again, driven by a desperate need to understand. This time, the door was locked. He pressed his ear to the wood and heard Agnes’s chant, and the thumping was so loud it vibrated through the floor. He beat on the door, shouting, but the sound drowned him out. He felt his chest tighten, a familiar pain. He collapsed.

He woke in the hospital again, the bright lights blinding. Elena sat beside him, her face streaked with tears. ‘You had another cardiac arrest,’ she whispered. ‘They saved you, barely.’ Marcus looked at her, and for the first time, he saw fear in her eyes. ‘She did this to me,’ he rasped. ‘Mom. She’s doing something to me. The food, the stone.’ Elena hesitated, then said, ‘I don’t know what you mean. She’s just trying to help.’

Marcus was discharged again, this time with a home nurse. The nurse, a stout woman named Marta, seemed to sense the wrongness in the house. She would watch Agnes with a wary eye, and she insisted on cooking Marcus’s meals herself, seeing that Agnes’s daliya was too bland, almost devoid of nutrients. Marcus began to feel stronger, the color returning to his cheeks. But the thumping persisted, and Agnes grew more agitated.

One evening, Marta found the basement key in Agnes’s pocket. She unlocked the door and descended, Marcus behind her despite his frailty. The altar was gone, but in the corner, they found a sack of salt—pure, unrefined sea salt—and a photograph of Marcus at the beach, his face crossed with a slash of red paint. There was also a jar of what looked like dried herbs, but they smelled rank, like decay. Marta picked it up, sniffed, and recoiled. ‘Belladonna,’ she whispered. ‘Nightshade. She’s been poisoning you slowly, and the saltless diet was to mask the taste.’

Marcus felt a surge of horror. Agnes appeared at the top of the stairs, her face twisted. ‘You were never meant to survive,’ she hissed. ‘This house has always belonged to the deep ones. They demand a sacrifice, a new heartbeat to fuel their hunger. I chose you.’ She threw something—a handful of the stone dust—and the room filled with a choking, salt-scented fog. Marcus and Marta stumbled up the stairs, coughing, as the lights flickered and went out.

In the darkness, Marcus heard the heartbeat everywhere, immense and crushing. He felt his own heart falter. But Marta grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the house, into the cold night air. The sea roared in the distance, as if angry. They ran to the car, Agnes’s screams fading behind them. Marcus looked back, and for a moment, he saw the dark silhouette of his mother standing in the doorway, her eyes glowing a sickly yellow, and behind her, the shadows moved with a life of their own.

They drove to the police, but by the time they returned, the house was empty. Agnes was gone. The basement was clean, the altar vanished. The only evidence was the stone, which Marcus had clutched in his hand the whole time. The police dismissed his story as a delusion, a symptom of his condition. But Marcus knew the truth. He could still feel the stone’s chill, and he heard the heartbeat in the walls of his new apartment, in the silence of the night, a constant reminder that the deep ones were patient, waiting for another heartbeat to claim.