Salt Wraith of Cullercoats

Cullercoats knows fog. But this fog—the haar—comes in wrong: bell buoy tolling with no swell, lantern light turned sickly, footfalls on the pier where no boots should be. Fishermen bring nets ashore threaded with names. The lifeboat house door stands open to the sea as if answering a call no one gave. And on the harbour wall, a figure of salt keeps the count. When the wraith begins to take what the village "owes"—a drowned man's minute, a lost boat's course, promises once made to the sea and carelessly left unpaid—someone must reckon with the ledger the North Sea keeps. Our narrator follows quiet clues: a foghorn that speaks out of order, a rescue log with gaps where time should be, a child's toy washed up full of sand that tastes of tears. To lift the haunting, they'll have to pay the right debt in the right coin—and walk the wraith back to where grief belongs. The Salt Wraith of Cullercoats is a taut, stand-alone North-East gothic—industrial salt and chapel hush, lifeboat courage and harbour superstition. Read it in one sitting; carry it for days. You'll enjoy this if you like: Coastal hauntings with real weather (fog, bell buoys, harbour walls) Ghost stories about duty, debt, and names—not jump scares Slim, atmospheric reads with exact, quotable lines Content notes: Maritime peril, grief handled gently; no graphic gore. Curl up with a mug, listen for the buoy, and mind the ledger the sea keeps—some accounts are closed only when the right name is spoken back to the water.