The Saltwater Crossing

The July heat in Portharrow was a wet blanket that clung to every breath. My flat above the chandlery was a brick oven, and sleep was a distant memory. At 11 PM, with the thermometer still stubbornly at 28 degrees, I gave up. Grabbing my keys, I headed down to the cobbled lane where my battered Ford Escort waited, its engine a familiar grumble in the oppressive silence.

I drove without purpose, the coastal road winding past shuttered souvenir shops and sleeping houses. The air through the open window was thick with salt and seaweed. An hour passed, and the heat began to ease. On a whim, I turned onto the old coast road that hugged the cliffs—a route I rarely took, especially at night. It had been closed for months after a landslide, but the barriers were down, and a perverse curiosity pulled me forward.

The road was narrow, carved into the rock, with a sheer drop to the churning sea on one side and a jagged cliff face on the other. My headlights picked out a recent patch of asphalt, darker than the rest, and I felt a chill despite the warmth. This was the spot where, a year ago, two teenagers had driven off the edge during a storm. Their car had been found at the bottom, battered by the waves.

I pressed on, the road curving inland then back toward the coast. At 1 AM, I passed a small wooden sign that read ‘Saltwater Crossing’—the old ferry point. Just beyond, the road straightened along a plateau. Ahead, I saw a faint, shimmering light on the road’s center line. It elongated, standing erect like a thin column of moonlight, as if waiting to cross. I slowed, thinking it was a reflection from a buoy, but then it moved.

The light began to drift toward my side of the road. I gripped the wheel, my heart hammering. It was in the middle of my lane, and I couldn’t swerve—the cliff was too close. I slammed the brakes, but it was too late. The light passed through the car, through me, in a soundless instant.

At that moment, the air turned to ice. My breath plumed in the sudden cold, and the world outside seemed to freeze—the waves, the wind, even the rumble of my engine. A deep, resonant hum vibrated through my bones, and I felt a profound sense of grief, as if I were mourning a death that wasn’t mine. My eyes watered, and I saw, in the rearview mirror, a shape dissipating like mist on the sea.

I managed to pull over onto a gravel shoulder, my hands shaking uncontrollably. The cold lingered for a full half hour, even as the ambient heat returned. When I finally regained my strength, I turned the car around and drove back the way I came. As I passed the spot again, I noticed something glinting in the road—a small, silver cross, half melted into the asphalt. I stopped, got out, and picked it up. It was warm, despite the frozen air.

That night, I dreamt of two girls laughing on a beach, their voices carried by the wind. One wore a cross exactly like the one in my hand. I woke in a cold sweat, the cross lying on my nightstand, though I was certain I had left it in the car.

I never drive that road again. But sometimes, on hot summer nights, I stand at my window and look out toward the sea. And I see a faint, elongated light flickering on the water, as if waiting for someone to cross. The cross is still in my pocket, a constant chill against my thigh. I don’t know why it chose me, but I know this: some roads are more than just paths. They are thresholds, and once you cross them, you can never truly return.