The Tides of Winding Creek

I never thought much about the sea until I started working at the Sandpiper Salon in the fog-blanketed town of Winding Creek, a place that smelled of salt and decay. My friend, Lena, and I had been inseparable since we were kids, sharing secrets in the back of her mother’s van and later, clippers and combs in beauty school. When our boss, Mrs. Gable, announced she was getting married at her beachfront estate in the same town, the staff was thrilled. But Mrs. Gable, always practical, offered us a deal: work the weekend at the new satellite salon, and she’d put us up at the Bayside Inn—a weathered Victorian that overlooked the bay. Lena and I jumped at the chance, eager for a mini-vacation.

We arrived on a Friday, the sky a bruised purple, and the inn’s porch creaked under our feet. The lobby was dim, lit by gas lamps that flickered as if the wind were breathing on them. The innkeeper, a gaunt woman named Mrs. Holloway, handed us a key and said, ‘Room 12, top floor. Mind the tide.’ I thought it was a strange warning, and Lena laughed it off.

Our room was beautiful, with a window that framed the bay, but the bed was a single queen, and we were too tired to argue. We’d worked a double shift, and Lena collapsed onto the mattress while I peeked at the water, which seemed closer than it should be. I noticed a narrow staircase in the hall that led to a locked attic door, and something about it made my skin prickle.

The first morning, I woke to the smell of brine and the sound of gulls. Lena was already sitting on the edge of the bed, her face pale. ‘I have to tell you something,’ she said, her voice trembling. I sat up, heart pounding. ‘When I woke up last night, I saw a woman standing at the foot of the bed. She was dripping wet, her hair clung to her face, and she pointed at me. Then she vanished.’ I felt a chill run down my spine, but I tried to rationalize it. ‘Maybe you were dreaming,’ I said. Lena shook her head. ‘No, I was awake. I swear it.’

That night, we decided to stay up, but exhaustion took its toll. I woke to the sound of dripping water. In the moonlight, I saw a figure by the window—a woman in a tattered white dress, water pooling at her feet. I couldn’t move, couldn’t scream. She turned her head, her eyes black as oil, and whispered, ‘You took my place.’ Then she was gone.

We tried to leave, but the inn’s doors were locked. Mrs. Holloway appeared, her smile too wide. ‘The tide’s in,’ she said. ‘You can’t leave until it goes out.’ We looked at the bay, and I swear, the water was rising, lapping at the steps. We were trapped.

Over the next days, we discovered the inn’s history. A hundred years ago, a bride named Eleanor had drowned in the bay on her wedding night, after her husband left her for another. Her ghost allegedly haunts the inn, seeking revenge on any woman who dares to be happy. The salon job—the wedding—it had all been a lure. Mrs. Gable was a descendant, and we were the sacrifice.

One night, I saw Eleanor in the attic, a noose around her neck, her body swaying. She whispered, ‘The tide comes for you both.’ I knew then that we had to break the cycle. We found her wedding dress in a trunk, and with trembling hands, we burned it in the fireplace. The smoke smelled of salt and roses, and the house seemed to sigh.

That night, the water receded, and the doors unlocked. We fled without looking back. But as I drove away, I felt something icy in my chest, and I glanced in the rearview mirror. Lena was sitting in the back seat, soaked to the bone. I slammed the brakes, but when I turned, she was gone. I drove for hours, my hands shaking, until I reached the city. I never spoke to Lena again. I never saw her, but sometimes, at night, I feel a damp hand on my shoulder, and I hear her voice, soft as the tide: ‘You took my place.’