The Wet Apron

I moved to the coastal town of Windlass Point three months ago for a job at the old cannery museum. The apartment I rented was above a shuttered bakery, and the landlady, a shriveled woman named Mrs. Halvorsen, warned me with a wink that the place had ‘character.’ I didn’t mind the peeling paint or the salty smell that clung to everything. The rent was cheap, and the sea was a five-minute walk away.

My routine was simple: work, eat, sleep. I had no friends here, and my phone rarely buzzed. The loneliness was a constant hum, like the distant foghorn that sounded every night at 2 a.m. But then, I started feeling a presence when I cooked. At first, it was just a faint warmth at my back, like someone standing too close. Then, I felt arms wrap around my waist while I stirred the soup. Not constricting, just… hugging. And I felt a weight against my shoulder, like a head resting there. I would turn, expecting to see a person, but there was no one. The strange part? I never felt afraid. I felt comforted.

I named the presence ‘Frances’ after my grandmother, who used to hold me just like that. I started talking to the empty kitchen, telling Frances about my day, about the funny things tourists said at the museum. And the hugs became more frequent. But sometimes, when I reached for an apron hanging on a hook near the window, I’d find it wet, as if it had been freshly wrung out. I never hung it there wet. I mentioned it to Mrs. Halvorsen, who just smiled and said, ‘Aye, he liked his tea with salt.’ That made no sense to me.

One stormy Tuesday night, I was making chowder when the door to the pantry slammed shut. I jumped, spoon clattering to the floor. The wind howled outside, and I wrote it off as a draft. But then the light in the hallway flickered, and I heard a voice—a low, gurgly voice, like someone speaking under water—say, ‘You’re making it with milk.’ I spun around, but the kitchen was empty. The voice had come from the pantry, where the door was now slightly ajar.

My heart pounded, but I forced myself to breathe. ‘Frances?’ I called out. No answer. I approached the pantry, pushed the door open. Inside, the jars of spices were arranged in a strange order, spelling out, ‘SALT.’ I felt a chill. That night, I didn’t sleep. I lay in bed, listening to the rain, and the feeling of arms around me returned, but this time they were cold and clammy. And they wouldn’t let go.

Morning came, sickly grey. I tried to laugh it off as a nightmare, but when I walked into the kitchen, the apron was hanging there, dripping water onto the floor. And on the counter, a cup of tea had been made, and the teabag was floating in it, looking like a drowned insect. I called Mrs. Halvorsen, and her voice was crackly on the line. ‘Ah, you’ve met him, have you? My grandmother always said the ghost in that kitchen is a sailor who drowned himself after his wife left him. He can’t stand to see anyone happy. He’ll hug you to death if you let him.’

I wanted to move, but I had nowhere to go. So I tried to appease him. I added extra salt to everything, I left out a small glass of rum at night, I even tried to cook a fish dish he might have liked. But the hugs became suffocating. I started waking up gasping for air, my chest feeling crushed. The presence was no longer warm; it was a heavy, wet blanket of despair.

On Halloween, I decided to confront it. I stood in the kitchen, holding a photo of my grandmother, and I said, ‘Frances, if you’re here, please stop. You’re hurting me.’ The lights flickered, and the pantry door creaked open. I saw a shadow in the shape of a man, but his face was a swirling vortex of dark water. He reached out a ragged sleeve—and for the first time, he spoke clearly, in a watery whisper: ‘You make me soup with cream. She used milk. You must use milk.’ Then, he pointed to the window, where the rain hammered against the glass, and I saw my reflection… but it looked like a drowned version of me, with eyes as black as bottomless wells.

I fled that night, leaving everything behind. I moved to the mainland, to a dry, dusty apartment inland. I haven’t felt a hug since. But sometimes, when I cook, I see a drop of water fall from the ceiling, and I wonder if he followed me. And tonight, as I write this, I feel a cold hand on my shoulder, and a voice says, ‘You didn’t use salt.’ I turn, and the kitchen is empty, but the apron I bought last week is soaking wet, hanging on the wall. I think he’s here to stay, and he’s not leaving until I learn his recipe.