The Salt of the Living - 2

 

Chapter Two: The Water That Burned

By L. Chinedu

The door shuddered once, then stopped. Rain hissed against the roof like a thousand whispers. My breath came in short bursts, each one louder than the thunder outside.

“Obinna,” the voice said again, barely above a murmur. “You used my salt against me.”

The words crawled into my ear like cold air. I could almost feel the breath behind them.

I held the silver flask Father Dominic gave me, gripping it so hard the metal bit into my palm. Mummy was still praying, voice shaking as she called on the Blood of Jesus. Adaora clung to her waist, sobbing quietly.

I forced myself to stand, even though my knees were weak. “You’re not my father,” I said, though my voice cracked halfway through.

The shadow behind the door laughed — soft, hollow, and wrong. “If I’m not your father, why do I sound like him? Why do I know what he whispered to you before he died?”

My throat tightened. I didn’t answer.

The handle turned again. The wooden frame groaned. The candle had gone out completely, but a faint glow — blue and sickly — began to leak through the gap under the door.

Mummy screamed, “Obinna, the holy water!”

I opened the flask with trembling fingers. The faint scent of frankincense rose from it, clean and sharp. I stepped closer, whispered, “He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty…”

The voice outside hissed, “Stop that.”

I sprinkled a few drops across the door. The blue light flared brighter, then sputtered and recoiled like smoke caught in a gust. There was a sound — not human — half growl, half moan.

“Why won’t you let me in?” the thing asked, voice trembling like it was trying to cry. “I just want to rest.”

I wanted to believe that, but something deep in my chest — maybe faith, maybe fear — told me that nothing from God would beg to enter.

Mummy started reciting Psalm 91 louder, her voice breaking but steady. Adaora covered her ears, whimpering. I poured some of the holy water in a cross pattern on the floor, praying faster now, my words stumbling over each other.

Then came the scream.

It wasn’t loud — it was deep, so deep it shook the walls and made the pictures on the shelf rattle. The door thudded once, hard enough to crack one of the hinges. A smell like burning rubber filled the room.

I fell backward, still clutching the flask.

When I looked up, the blue glow was gone. Only rain and thunder remained.

For a long time, none of us spoke. When dawn came, the door looked normal again — no burns, no cracks, no light. But the smell lingered.

Mummy didn’t send us to school that morning. She sat in silence on the sofa, rosary in hand, eyes swollen from tears. Adaora slept beside her, exhausted.

I went outside to clear my head. The compound was muddy, the air heavy and cold. The guava tree where Papa — or whatever that was — had stood was dripping with rain. Beneath it, the earth looked freshly disturbed, as if something had been digging.

There were footprints. Bare, large, deep enough to fill with water. They led from the gate straight to our door — and stopped there.

I followed them back toward the gate, heart pounding. Outside, the narrow road was quiet, washed clean by the night’s storm. Only one thing stood out — a small pile of ashes on the ground, still steaming faintly.

I knelt to touch it. It was warm. And mixed within the ashes was something shiny — a piece of a wristwatch.

Papa’s wristwatch.

The one we buried with him.

My hand shook so badly I almost dropped it. The metal was warped, half-melted, and smeared with something dark.

When I went back inside, Mummy was sprinkling the last bit of holy water around the windows. “It’s not finished,” she said when she saw me. “Evil doesn’t knock once.”

I told her about the footprints and the ashes. Her face went pale. “Obinna,” she whispered, “don’t go near that place again.”

“But what if—”

“Nothing from God burns in holy water,” she said firmly. “Remember that.”

That evening, Father Dominic returned. We told him everything — the light, the voice, the burning. He didn’t speak for a while. Then he looked at me.

“You said you used most of the holy water?”

“Yes, Father.”

He nodded slowly. “Then we must bless the house again. But before that, you and I will go to your father’s grave.”

Mummy tried to stop him. “Father, please, let the dead rest.”

He shook his head. “Something else is resting in his place.”

The cemetery sat at the edge of the village, where the road ended and the bush began. We went after sunset, carrying a lantern, a small Bible, and another flask of blessed water. The air was thick with the smell of wet earth and flowers left to rot.

When we reached the grave, I felt my stomach twist. The soil was disturbed — sunken in places, raised in others. And someone had placed something new at the headstone: a black candle, half melted, still smoking.

Father Dominic frowned. “Who has been here?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “We buried him properly. No one has touched this place.”

He knelt, opened his Bible, and began to pray. His voice was calm, steady. I stood beside him, holding the lantern, trying not to shake.

Then, from somewhere in the bush, came a sound — the faint rustle of feet dragging through leaves.

Father Dominic kept praying, his voice growing firmer. “The Lord is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear?”

The sound grew louder. A smell of petrol drifted through the air.

“Father,” I whispered, “do you smell that?”

He nodded but didn’t stop praying.

Suddenly, the lantern flickered. The flame bent sideways, like something had breathed on it.

And then — the voice came again.

“Obinna…”

It came from behind the grave.

I swung the lantern toward the sound.

There — just beyond the headstone — stood the shape of my father. But this time, his skin was wrong. It looked like cracked earth soaked in oil, glistening under the dim light. His eyes burned faintly red, and when he smiled, I saw the blackened edges of his teeth.

Father Dominic rose immediately, raising the flask of holy water. “In the name of Jesus Christ, begone!”

The thing laughed, a terrible, hollow sound that echoed through the trees. “You can’t send me away. He called me.”

My stomach turned to ice. “What do you mean?”

The thing turned its head toward me. “Your tears… the night you cried for me. You begged heaven to bring me back. You opened the door.”

I shook my head violently. “No—”

“Yes,” it hissed, stepping closer. “Every tear, every word, every longing — they fed me. And now, I am home.”

Father Dominic splashed the holy water. The drops struck its chest and hissed like acid. Smoke rose from its skin. It screamed, stumbling back, its voice layered — half human, half something crawling.

“Keep praying!” Father shouted.

I tried. My voice was shaking, but I forced the words out. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want—”

The creature lunged. The lantern fell, glass shattering, flame scattering into the wet grass. Father Dominic thrust the cross toward it, shouting, “By the blood shed on Calvary, I command you—!”

Before he could finish, the creature struck him. The old priest flew backward, landing hard. His flask rolled toward me.

I grabbed it, heart pounding, and without thinking, flung the remaining holy water directly into the creature’s face.

The effect was instant. It screamed — a sound so high it pierced my ears — and its skin burst into blue fire. The smell was unbearable, like burning tar and sulfur.

It staggered backward into the open grave — the same one that had once held my father — and as it fell, the ground trembled. A gust of wind roared through the trees, extinguishing every light.

Then silence.

Only the sound of my own breathing and the rain beginning again.

I found Father Dominic conscious but weak. He said little on the way back, only whispering, “Salt and water… both blessed by faith, not by fear. Remember that.”

When we reached the compound, Mummy ran to meet us. “What happened?” she cried.

Father Dominic looked at her with tired eyes. “Your husband’s body must be re-blessed. Evil tried to wear his face. But it’s not over yet.”

He handed me the half-empty flask and pressed something into my palm — a small packet of new blessed salt.

“Keep this, Obinna. If it calls again, don’t listen. Don’t answer. Just stand, and pray.”

That night, I couldn’t sleep. My ears kept ringing with that scream. Every shadow in the room felt alive.

Around midnight, thunder rolled again. I sat up, clutching the salt packet. Adaora was asleep beside Mummy. Everything was quiet — until the smell returned.

Petrol. And smoke.

I turned toward the window.

There, pressed against the glass, was a hand — blackened, half-burned, dripping with ash.

And from outside, that same trembling voice whispered,
“Obinna… you burned me.”

To be continued…
Chapter Three: “Ashes Beneath the Door.

Admission! Admission!! Admission!!!

Admissions are now open at Good Shepherd Old Catholic Theological Seminary.

To learn more, click here.