The Saltwater Visitor

Six years ago, when I was eleven, we were at my great-aunt’s cottage on a remote island off the coast of Maine. The cottage was old, with creaky floorboards and windows that rattled in the wind. My sister, two younger cousins, and I had set up sleeping bags in the den, which had a massive entertainment center that hugged the far wall, leaving a narrow gap between its back and the corner. We watched horror movies until our eyes grew heavy, and one by one, we drifted off, leaving the TV on a low volume and a single lamp glowing near the stand.

I woke suddenly, my heart pounding, with the unnerving sensation of being stared at. The room was dark except for the faint glow from the TV, which was now showing static. I turned my head toward the entertainment center, and there, in the gap behind it, I saw a girl. She was perhaps my age, with hair plastered to her face as if she had just been pulled from the ocean, and her skin was a sickly pale, almost translucent. Her eyes were dark, almost black, and they were fixed on me with an expression of pure rage. I gasped and scrambled backward, fumbling for the remote. I clicked the TV on, and as the light filled the room, she vanished. I lay there, frozen, for nearly an hour before I dared to close my eyes again.

The next morning, we were all jolted awake by a scream from my great-aunt’s bedroom. She was trembling, her face ashen, and she told us she had dreamed of my youngest cousin, who was back home with our parents, drowning in the cold Atlantic. When I heard that, my blood ran cold, and I must have turned white, because my great-aunt noticed and asked, ‘What’s wrong, child?’ I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about the girl, so I just shook my head and said I had a bad dream too.

But the feeling of being watched didn’t leave me. I was the only one who had seen her, and I knew she wasn’t a part of my imagination. Over the next few days, I began to notice odd things: the bathroom mirror would be fogged up even when no one had showered, wet footprints would appear on the wooden floor in the morning, and sometimes I’d hear a faint giggling from the direction of the entertainment center, just out of sight. My sister and cousins thought I was being dramatic, but my great-aunt seemed to grow more anxious with each passing day, muttering about the sea and old tales.

I couldn’t shake the image of that girl, and my great-aunt’s dream haunted me. I started to do my own research in the cottage’s small library, and stumbled upon a local legend about a young girl who had drowned in the cove near the cottage over a century ago. The story said she was a jealous child, and that her spirit would cling to anything she loved, trying to drag it down with her. Our family had been coming to this cottage for generations, and I began to wonder if she had latched onto us.

On the last night before we were to leave, I couldn’t sleep. The house was silent, save for the distant crash of waves. I felt a cold draft from the corner where the entertainment center stood, and when I looked, she was there again, this time standing right in front of the TV, blocking the static. Her wet hair dripped onto the floor, forming a small puddle. She raised a hand and pointed at me, her mouth opening as if to speak, but only a gurgling sound came out. I backed away, hitting the wall, and she advanced slowly, her bare feet leaving wet prints on the hardwood.

I stumbled to my feet and ran to my great-aunt’s room, throwing open the door. She was sitting up in bed, as if expecting me. ‘I’ve seen her too,’ she whispered, her eyes wide. ‘She’s angry because you saw her, but she can’t leave now. She wants one of us.’ The next morning, we packed in a hurry, but as we drove away, I looked back at the cottage and saw her standing at the window, watching us, her dark eyes filled with a sorrow that almost made me feel sorry for her.

It’s been years, and I’ve never returned to that cottage. But sometimes, I’ll catch a glimpse of a girl with wet hair in the corner of my eye, or find a puddle of salt water in a place it shouldn’t be. And I can’t shake the feeling that she’s waiting for me to come back, or for someone else to see her, so she can finally drag one of us down to her watery grave.