The Saltwater Communion

In the summer of 2008, I was a twelve-year-old who believed the supernatural was the stuff of cheap horror films and gullible minds. My father, a marine engineer, had just returned from a long contract in the North Atlantic, and we relocated to a small coastal town in Maine called Port Hope. Our new home was a weathered Victorian house perched on a cliff overlooking the ocean, its paint peeling like old sunburn, and its windows staring out at the sea like weary eyes.

It was two weeks into our stay when I had my first inkling that something was wrong. My mother had gone to the grocery store, and my father was in his workshop in the basement, tinkering with a broken engine part. I was alone upstairs, running a bath in the claw-foot tub. The water ran cold, and as I adjusted the taps, I heard a faint, rhythmic humming emanating from the drain. It was a low, mournful melody, like a whale song played in reverse. I dismissed it as the plumbing—old houses make strange noises, I told myself.

But the next day, when I was home alone after school, the humming was louder. It seemed to come from every direction—the walls, the floorboards, even the bathroom mirror. Curiosity got the better of me, and I knelt by the tub, pressing my ear to the drain. The humming stopped, replaced by a soft, gurgling laugh. I jerked back, my heart racing. Then, the water in the tub, which had been still, began to swirl gently, as if an invisible hand were stirring it.

I called my dad, but he was out on the deck, and my calls were lost to the wind. I grabbed my jacket and rushed outside, finding a neighbor, Mrs. Bell, an elderly widow who had lived in Port Hope all her life. I tried to explain what I had heard, but she just nodded knowingly. ‘It’s the saltwater communion,’ she said, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘They come for the ones who listen.’ When I asked what she meant, she simply told me to keep the windows shut at night and never to leave the bathwater running.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in my bed, listening to the crash of waves against the rocks below. Around 2 a.m., I heard the faint sound of singing—a chorus of voices, but they weren’t human. They were discordant, like nails on a chalkboard, yet strangely melodic. I crept to the bathroom and saw steam rising from the tub, even though I hadn’t run any water. The bathroom walls were wet, and the mirror was fogged. On the glass, written in condensation, were the words: ‘WE WANT THE BOY.’

Terrified, I woke my father. He dismissed it as condensation and my overactive imagination, but I saw the worry in his eyes. The next morning, I noticed that the bathroom mirror was cracked, and the water in the toilet was brown and murky, with a smell of salt and decay. My mother tried to call a plumber, but every line was busy with static, and the only number that connected was a recording of the humming melody.

Over the next few days, the haunting intensified. Objects would move on their own—a toothbrush would leap from the sink; the shower curtain would billow as if in a breeze even with the window shut. I heard tapping on the bathroom window, and when I looked out, I saw the pale, swollen faces of drowned men and women pressed against the glass, their eyes black and empty. They mouthed words I couldn’t understand, but I felt their desire—they wanted me to join them.

I finally confided in Mrs. Bell, and she told me the story of the ‘Saltwater Communion,’ a ritual performed by the town’s ancestors to appease the sea spirits. They would leave a child in a boat on the water, a sacrifice to ensure safe voyages. The tradition had been abandoned for over a century, but the spirits still lingered, seeking a new victim. She gave me a charm made of driftwood and a strand of her own hair, telling me to hold it if I ever felt the pull.

But it was too late. That afternoon, my parents had gone to the shore to check on our small boat after a storm, and I was alone. The house began to tremble, and the air grew heavy with the scent of brine and rot. I heard the front door slam, and the sound of wet footsteps squelching up the stairs. I ran to the bathroom, the safest place I thought, but the door wouldn’t latch. The doorknob turned slowly, and I pressed my back against the tub, clutching the charm.

The bathroom filled with a thick, green mist, and through it I saw the shapes of the drowned converging on me. Their voices were a cacophony of pleas and demands, and I felt their cold fingers brushing my skin. In desperation, I threw the charm into the tub, and immediately the water erupted in a geyser, splattering the ceiling. The spirits howled, and the mist evaporated, leaving me gasping on the floor.

I scrambled to my feet and ran out of the house, down the cliff path to the beach, where I found my parents staring at the boat—it was covered in seaweed and barnacles, but the hull was emblazoned with the words ‘JOIN US’ in fading paint. We never stayed there long after that. We moved inland, and I never spoke of it for years, but even now, when I hear the sound of running water, I stop and listen, fearing I’ll hear that humming again—a siren call from the depths, waiting for me to answer.