The Salt In Her Blood Ayesha Mansoor   © Copyright 2026 by Ayesha Mansoor

Photo by Marlon Alves at Pexels.

Chapter one: The Birth

Most maps ignored the colony.

Built around Halcyon Station, a British research facility, this unsaid community sat on the boundary of a frozen coast in East Antarctica. Prefab homes tinted rust-red, a medical unit whose walls were stained over decades of hopelessness, a chapel no one visited but to keep emergency food, and a weather tower moaned like a dying animal in violent gusts.

Those who had lived there were meant to leave promptly.

Still others did, however.

Winters discovered a method of grabbing both decisions and bodies. The darkness fell from May to August. Temperatures dropped to sixty below. Yelling like a living being tossing in her sleep, the ice sounded below the small village. People went mad in that darkness in little, secret ways—not abruptly, not all at once. A technician who quit talking. Geometrically, a chef first organized bean can. One evening a biologist went out onto the shelf ice and never returned.

Eleanor Whitcombe passed away on a day when the wind stopped.

People most remembered that after that. Not the screams; they weren't heard. Not the blood was seen to be much. Still the calm. Complete, crushing quiet.

Halcyon had infrequent silence. The wind was unrelenting, booming, scratching, breathing through metal wall cracks, rattling window frames, and singing across radio antennas like a chorus of the damned. People would be sleeping through it. Learned how to get beyond it. Learned to live in it like fish floating in a current.

That evening, however, it came to a complete stop at precisely 2:17 a.

The log of the weather showed the strangeness: Wind speed: 0 knots. Barometric pressure: sudden rise. -41 degrees Celsius. The morning duty officer reminded himself to inspect the anemometer. He forgot to wake anybody up.

Eleanor bore her fourth child in the medical facility.

One female.

Healthy. Breath. Excellence by any possible metric.
All four of Eleanor's children had been born by Dr. Halvorsen. The first three were unremarkable: shouting, red-faced, hungry babies latching swiftly and vying for attention. This was not something else. This one made her eyes still open. Underway already now. Anything the nurse unconsciously backed away from already.

Dr. Halvorsen ordered, Grab Eleanor's wrapped infant chest.

Eleanor started at the bottom.

Nothing happened for a long time.

She then giggled, an unusual, remote smile as though she were watching something far distant. She behaved as if she could see things others couldn't.

Mumbled Eliza is her name,.

Eleanor Whitcombe passed away at 4:03 a.m.

Little attempt was expended. None at all. Medical reasoning fails. Having provided more than two hundred children over three decades of difficult treatment, Dr. Halvorsen stared in blank stillness as the monitors went into a single, never-ending beep. The sound poured into the little chamber like a second presence—cold, mechanical, last.

He insisted she was stable, as though the words might turn around. Time. absolutely corrected. Usual blood pressure. Regular cardiovascular speed. No markers of pain. Not that she was

He halted.

Looking at Eleanor's face was Petra, a four-month-young nurse in Antarctica. Her face had also grown the hue of ancient cheese.

"Doctor," she said softly. Think of her mouth.

Nothing: no embolus, no harm, no blood.

Apart from

A little browning on Eleanor's lip. not at all damaging. Nor frost, not the blue-gray she had read in books. Still, something more. Anything almost crystalline came to light beneath the dim illumination of the medical wing. Eleanor's mouth appeared as though a tiny, shimmering thing had struck.

Dr. Halvorsen approached closer.

He touched the stones; they vanished. disappeared completely. Only a faint chemical smell was left by salt and ozone. Under something, he was not as able to recognize what. something limiting his throat.

His essay left this out.

Twenty minutes thereafter, Thomas Whitcombe got there and sank against the entrance with sounds like a wounded animal.

He declared nobody.

Instead, he looked at the death certificate. The reason is not known. assumed cardiac event.

He fought very hard in the dark to erase Eleanor's flickering lips as well.

Eliza Whitcombe was the name of the tiny youngster.

The community too never accepted her starting point.

Chapter Two: She takes face

Eliza rarely cried as a small youngster.

She noted.

Firstly, that was why people became furious. Newborns search for milk, warmth, and the heartbeat sound by grasping, wriggling, and gazing at nothing. Their eyes are confused and their acts are odd; their lives are a series of responses buried beneath delicate skin.

Eliza watched.

Her brilliant blue eyes followed action with startling precision. Her head spun before she spoke as someone entered the room. As though she were reading the words before they were created, her gaze settled on their lips. Her immobility frightened others in ways they could not rationalize—a primal, natural agitation free of reason and all about instinct.

Should anyone inquire, she just answers silently; her father, Thomas Whitcombe, would argue with everyone. Some babies don't move. Ordinary, no.

He never maintained her long, nevertheless.

He would lift her, mechanically bounce her, and then drop her as custom allowed. He fed her, his head slightly turned. She changed his nappies with the same precision someone executing a dismal task would have. He did not show for her. He stopped himself from stroking her head. He avoided her eyes and failed to discover anything he might identify as his own.

The hamlet women watched carefully. They always get to it.

Over weak tea and difficult cookies, they chatted in the tiny shared kitchen. They saw Thomas pass his tiniest daughter's cradle without thinking twice. Three intelligent, loving, average boys watched the older kids stay away from their little sister's room.

Margaret, the station cook with five children of her own, noted it was unusual. A father should long for a baby to hold.

Yuki, a geologist, said the mother perished. He may link the kid with—

Opening in Margaret as the mother died giving birth. Furthermore, I have come across this statement before. That is not anguish. It differs somewhat.

One last issue.

Eliza's comments followed her everywhere.

As she grew older, overlooking something else got tougher. Mostly innocuous were her characteristics: pale skin, delicate bone structure, light hair darkening slowly to a pale, blurred brown, and bright eyes like the winter sky. According to every conservative standard, she ought to have been beautiful. Photos taken under strong lighting revealed a rather ordinary youngster.

Still despite all...

None of them could look at her quickly.

Her characteristics actually slowed knowledge of itself. Expressions had now lost their ease. She halted little; her smile was intended to stretch to her eyes. Under certain lighting, a frown created to have expressed sorrow appeared calculated. Her blank gaze moved weirdly, as if seeing a mirror in distorted glass or hearing a familiar song played in the incorrect key.

Children fled far from play. Still, they have trouble presenting her such an opportunity. As soon as she spots them, she shies away; she moves across the room; she exits the room right away, at once embarrassed and ecstatic. She is rather understated.

They said nothing to her. Come a little early, maintain their smile, come up with a reason not to speak with her, and—most critically—never touch her again; all they had to do.

She is nothing more than an animal. She is not even a person. Her three brothers—those who love one another as much as she does, deeply and passionately as only those in total isolation can—are just creatures. They hide her as they started to know; they question her despite her need of a place to sleep. They go by her. She was regarded as not quite genuine, expressing herself frankly.

Clara's elder sister uttered something horrible over many years. Eliza turned four years old. Ten-year-old Clara had ordered a family picture for a school project.

She sketched Thomas's face. She created a self-portrait. She formed brother shots.
Missed Eliza so much was

Clara gave some thought to the reasons the teacher performed the specific act for a long time. Clara eventually spoke honestly and frankly about her ideas:

She seems to be getting the face of another person. I just wonder whether she will ever return it.

Chapter Three: The Sensations of the Ice

Six pupils and one teacher near to the glacier. Twelve years after arriving on a two-year contract, Dr. Mira Patel worked. Though Eliza Whitcombe was a bright and tolerant man, she was producing much worry.

Living at Eliza was always found toward the back of the classroom.

Up till then, this was odd for her. Exactly as if she herself carried the corner. Children arranged themselves into circles; therefore, Eliza could not interact with friends. Another requirement was setting two seats one or two meters away. Since Eliza couldn't speak aloud in any scenario, this was needed.

Dr. Patel would just nod without taking Eliza's need for anything from him. Eliza's efforts to mingle with others always resulted in their aversion. This was so, as they did not see eye to eye with Eliza. It also impossible to participate in school bullying. This is so because it was very immoral. No child had struck or pushed Eliza until now. Eliza left alone.

Reader Eliza was. She began writing. She researched geography, mathematics, and the nomenclature of every penguin species breeding along the coast. She learned on her own how to be among others.

Nobody confirmed this to her. She learned language just as other children do.

Nine years old marked the beginning of everything.
It was Tuesday in July, winter without any sunshine or light, only blackness. But as she would sit in class during her studies, her practice of nibbling her lips had become very frequent; she was now very perplexed about the why behind her doing that since no one was speaking to her.

Blood was visibly leaking from her lips.

Other than blood, however, something else was also coming out of her mouth.

Changing stations on the TV set with the remote control had made her very gloomy and dejected; yet, another kind of existence had made her very joyful and happy—just like rain!

Swallowing her spit was already very difficult for her.

Then all of a sudden it struck her.

Given that the globe was vibrant. It was possible for her to feel him completely from head to toe even when he was at the far end of the room instead of listening to Dr. Patel's heartbeats. His heart beat in an aberrant pattern—some sort of anomaly—rather than in a standard.

But it will only persist for some period.

Eliza raised her hand toward her lips. Though there was no blood at all, she could undoubtedly taste some modification in her blood's flavor, which might be defined as 'hunger.'

Right outside the little house, Eliza vomited her saliva onto the snowy ground.

Fear has no place here since, whatever happens to children, Eliza doesn't care about it. Still, there's a reason for everything in life... That is, interest.
A pretty ordinary circumstance.

Although everything happens for some reason, one of such causes is that there was a fox standing just before her.

Thanks to its evident protruding bones, which rendered the fox very thin, it was this extremely thin fox that tried to conceal itself somewhere close to the fuel tank without making any noise. This kind of fox—the arctic fox—has never been observed in Antarctica.
The fox moved close to where Eliza spat. The fox smelled the surroundings. Then, the fox started licking the floor.

There were no feelings between Eliza and the fox initially upon seeing it. All she did was stare at the fox.

All things were well until the fox got injured.

The fox became scared; it began trembling, hanging its head. It all seemed like its body parts were giving way, making some sounds, which conveyed fear and sadness.

After a while,

The fox handed away.

Eliza stood there shocked by what she saw. She could not move and run to save the fox from dying. She stared at the fox's eyes. Snow started falling.

Reader Eliza was. She began writing. She researched geography, mathematics, and the nomenclature of every penguin species breeding along the coast. She learned on her own how to be among others.

Nobody confirmed this to her. She learned language just as other children do.

Nine years old marked the beginning of everything.

It was Tuesday in July, winter without any sunshine or light, only blackness. But as she would sit in class during her studies, her practice of nibbling her lips had become very frequent; she was now very perplexed about the why behind her doing that since no one was speaking to her.

Blood was visibly leaking from her lips.

Other than blood, however, something else was also coming out of her mouth.

Changing stations on the TV set with the remote control had made her very gloomy and dejected; yet, another kind of existence had made her very joyful and happy—just like rain!

Swallowing her spit was already very difficult for her.

Then all of a sudden it struck her.

Given that the globe was vibrant. It was possible for her to feel him completely from head to toe even when he was at the far end of the room instead of listening to Dr. Patel's heartbeats. His heart beat in an aberrant pattern—some sort of anomaly—rather than in a standard.

But it will only persist for some period.

Eliza raised her hand toward her lips. Though there was no blood at all, she could undoubtedly taste some modification in her blood's flavor, which might be defined as 'hunger.'

Right outside the little house, Eliza vomited her saliva onto the snowy ground.

Fear has no place here since, whatever happens to children, Eliza doesn't care about it. Still, there's a reason for everything in life... That is, interest.
A pretty ordinary circumstance.

Although everything happens for some reason, one of such causes is that there was a fox standing just before her.

Thanks to its evident protruding bones, which rendered the fox very thin, it was this extremely thin fox that tried to conceal itself somewhere close to the fuel tank without making any noise.
This kind of fox—the arctic fox—has never been observed in Antarctica.

The fox moved close to where Eliza spat. The fox smelled the surroundings. Then, the fox started licking the floor.

There were no feelings between Eliza and the fox initially upon seeing it. All she did was stare at the fox.

All things were well until the fox got injured.

The fox became scared; it began trembling, hanging its head. It all seemed like its body parts were giving way, making some sounds, which conveyed fear and sadness.

After a while,

The fox handed away.

Eliza stood there shocked by what she saw. She could not move and run to save the fox from dying. She stared at the fox's eyes. Snow started falling.

It was then when she realized that there were some parts in her life where she got to recognize matters for the first time—

Chapter Four: Hunger as a Medium of Learning

She took quite some time to digest the fact of her secret.

Everything that she needed to learn, she learned during one particular instance once she became a mature child. And she was absolutely correct, and none of them mattered a bit for the fox.
None of them mattered from the perspective of her blood flow. All of it was about her mother, all of her secrets, and all of the problems she experienced during her life. It changed to completed at a totally sluggish speed.

That is something that can bring saliva out of your mouth if it were thrown out of your kitchen door.
How ought to this be possible? Don’t you have enough of those food items?
One particular animal by the name of Bjorn was so ferocious that it used to eat up even the chew of Eliza.
This dead dog named Bjorn was allowed to hang for three days.

The dog Bjorn was just hanging there. We did not know what caused the death of the dog Bjorn.

We located a few insects.

The insects scared the bird so much that the bird flew away to the south, and the bird died.

There was a rat in a room where they stored food. The rat was in this room for a few months, and it was eating the rice that was left in the bags.

The rat was eating all the rice from the bags that also had flour in them.

What happened with all these things was always the same.

It turned into something that turned into going to happen no matter what; it was inevitable.

We could not see it; it was invisible.

It was all happening slowly, gradually.

The dog Bjorn and the bird and the rat were all part of this. It all turned into occurring gradually.

She demanded some time for this process. This is her first assignment ever. No organism that's inside her bloodstream, no organism that's transmittable from her saliva into the bite victim’s body, would ever manage to kill him incontinently.
She demanded some time to get relief from his natural system one by one: first his digestion, also his collaboration, mindfulness and incipiently, his heart.
 
The verity couldn't be uncovered. This was the alternate assignment she discovered. Three croakers arrived from this village. She passed three examinations for them to fête her.
The assessments comprised a blood examination, a medical assessment, and a toxicology analysis, but no results surfaced since Her frame had continually been perfect.


No, but the silence.

Not because the dogs stayed away from her.

Or the way the birds dropped from the skies above her.

She had discovered caution.

Restraint.

She learned to smile—a smile that would give the impression that she could not see the empty chairs and those who would avert their gaze upon her entry into a room.

However, her hunger never abated.

Chapter Five: The Visitor

During one particularly chilly period, while being just seventeen, the station was visited by a researcher from Britain, who was here, staying for a relatively long time.

Dr. Adrian Clarke was working on the study of biological creatures that did not fit into any taxonomic categories. It was due to his interest in extremophiles, those living in the most unfriendly conditions of our planet, but he did not come there for this; there was no special reason for his presence except for one—his experience of the visit during his second day in the station.

It happened after dinner when Eliza appeared in the dining room.

The atmosphere changed.

Slightly.

But Clarke had spent almost twenty years studying complicated systems, which enabled him to catch many nuances that others did not pay interest to anymore. And one of those nuanced observations that he made during his first visit was how all the conversation suddenly stopped once the girl appeared in the station.
She picked up her food and sat at the dining table meant for seating six people and had her meal there, while he only observed her having her meal calmly, yet without ever deriving pleasure from her food.

However, she soon realized that she would never catch any attention.

Ever.

Not even when she accidentally drops the spoon at this very quiet place.

Because he had finished his meal and put his plates aside before moving to sit right in front of her.

Absolute silence reigned with inside the room.

“Good evening, my name is Adrian,” he said with a smile upon introducing himself.

He simply looked at her without uttering a single word.

For the very first time in seventeen years, she actually got the attention of someone who did not make her break eye contact immediately.

“And this is why I wanted you to know that I have seen it too,” he told her right after introducing himself.

“Yes, I did." Eliza never spoke a word.

“And that is best due to the fact everybody else around right here acts differently.”
It was there that she found complete harmony. She could not find someone who could understand her thoughts. It used to be quite hot there, but it was just due to changes in the weather conditions since winds blow there at an extremely high speed.

"Eliza, for what number of days have you ever been following me?" she asked.

"For days now, Doctor," spoke back Eliza. "Only for 2 days."

He went beforehand and said, "Eliza, I by no means supposed to harm you, nor did I intend to fulfill you, Eliza." All that happened was done by God."

Chapter Six: Containment Theory

Doctor Clarke performed some experiments.

He carried out his work with dedication and discretion at night when everyone was asleep. Using his equipment, electronic centrifuge, chemicals, and microscope, he could see what the most sophisticated medical facilities would miss. He accumulated samples of her blood. Of her saliva. Even samples from her mouth.

No abnormalities found.

However, Doctor Clarke did not give up.

“Not all traces of existence can be detected,” Doctor Clarke explained to her one night when she sat with him in his laboratory, which was full of rubbish. Once again, they lacked heating, and their breaths could be seen in the air. “There are a few strains that could most effectively be activated via way of interacting, via way of connecting, via way of the gap among objects."
However, he conducted his own experiment, which had nothing to do with her experiments.

Not for knowing who she was,

But for knowing how she affected the environment around her.

Because to culture various cells, he made use of her saliva. He extracted human cells. He extracted animal cells. He extracted plant cells. But in observing their growth under the microscope, he discovered that these cells all died, not because they were affected by any form of poison or bacteria but for other reasons. Some strange energy seemed to be working against them, killing them unwillingly.

"Is this a poison?" she once wondered aloud and asked him. "This is neither a poison nor a bacterium," he said with his other-worldly voice. "I can't separate its ingredients."

He met her gaze, then raised his.

"This is my message."

These words of his, Eliza would always remember.

There was some sort of power within her, which she recognized, but he knew nothing about it.

It wasn't only the saliva and the blood.

It was her entire universe, inclusive of herself.

Chapter Seven: The Long Exile

It terminated a few years ago.

Since Eliza was sent to Halcyon, where she had notable growth, she dramatically changed her surroundings using a number of techniques and new designs. Storms have replaced the incessant cold. Ice would eventually fall after an unsaid era.

Eliza had concluded.

Four decades only. Forty years of tolerance but still no acceptance. I have been staring at the empty chair beside you for forty years, shunning eye contact and hearing faint sounds as I arrive in the room.

Without anybody, Eliza had no one she could regard as a buddy. Nobody was there with whom to express my feelings.

Dr. Clarke was aging. Halcyon's visit lasted longer than any researcher had a good justification for; it lasted longer than his contract, longer than his sanity, and longer than his health should have permitted.
He quietly endured his studies. Notebooks let him gather concepts, notes, and failed experiments. He vanished ghostly and grey.

Finally--

Died.

The medical record revealed a stroke. Excellent; corrected.

Discoverer was Eliza. Sensing somehow that anything was wrong, she had gone to his lab when he didn't come to eat. Holding a pen, she spotted him across his desk; his opened notebook was covered with the last thing he had written.

Reading those letters was almost unattainable.

Though she still read them,

She is not weaponry. She isn't always sick. She isn't a thing. She relays a message. I also think the message is directed at neither of us.

His call becomes written down.

Below in a turbulent, smaller type following:

Keep far, far from her location.

Eliza shut the diary with a thump. She stored it. She went to the hospital and quietly, continuously confirmed the passing that showed nothing.
There was no basis anyone might question her.

Nobody really ever caught her, hence.

Chapter Eight: Awakening

Eliza then quit needing reassurance.

She had lived the truth long enough.

Still, something had shifted. Something had changed over those forty years of solitude, those calm observing evenings, and those endless winters of darkness and tranquility. The starvation had gotten worse. It was wise. It had developed into anything beyond instinct.

She could feel it now—the message, the thing in her blood, the mechanism that had killed her mother, the fox, the dog, the birds, the mice. It beat like a second heart beneath her skin. It silently advised her to herself. She discovered truths shown to her.

She could presently recognize the message in other people. Not their deaths yet but rather their weakness. Their mistakes. The tiny, covert places from which the signal might seep and penetrate.

She might tell it to Dr. Halvorsen, now weak and elderly, his heart a faltering engine. She may see it in Margaret, the cook, whose liver was slowly failing from years of cheap wine and inferior whisky. She saw it in the young scientists who arrived and left; their defenses were down, their bodies powerful but their brains fragile.

She may want to slay everyone.

It would not be hard to prove.

One touch. one breath. In their coffee, just one drop of saliva.

They would also vanish slowly, silently, without comment. The doctors shook their heads and pointed to hidden sources. The households would grieve then keep on. The planet could maintain rotation.
Nobody would ever be mindful.

That could by no means arise to anyone.

Nobody really saw her, hence...

Chapter Nine : The first

It did not originate from hate.

Simple would have been ideal. More simply. Better in a storybook style. Rejection across a lifetime culminating in violent, cathartic vengeance. The monster they had created rose to eliminate them.

That is not, however, what happened.

It clarified me.

All her life she had been treated as anything other than human. unapproachable. Desired: Not visible. The seats were left empty. The appearance grew to become away. The sessions halted as she entered a room. How her father had never held her. The way her brothers had never loved her. The way the settlement had let her be there without not once, never, accepting her as one among them.

And often,

Their judgment becomes perfect.

She was more than what man is. She was invincible. Nobody loved her. Nobody caught sight of her.

They would have known what she was had they actually seen her.

They would have understood what was in her blood.

They would have understood what murdered her mother.

Before she took her first breath, they would have broken her.

She felt no different from the fox in the snow the first time she consciously applied it to another person.

silent, every day, inescapable.

His pen name was Dr. Samuel Cross. At thirty-four years of age, Cambridge glaciologist wed a two children's father. For six months he had Halcyon time. He was courteous but aloof; approachable yet wary. He never fully connected with Eliza—the way everyone was kind to her.
He should not have passed away.

That was the torment a normal person would have gone through.

Still, Eliza was not typical.

She imprinted her cup of coffee. An unseen mark at the rim. One saliva drop went from her finger to the ceramic surface.

Dr. Cross had his final cup.

He detected nothing odd.

Three days afterward, he fell down in the course of a presentation on samples from ice cores. His heart had ceased its beat. He had died even though the medical team had labored over forty-five minutes on him. Death came on from an undiagnosed heart problem.

Nobody had second thoughts about Eliza.

Because nobody ever really looked at her.

Chapter Ten. Spreading

The deaths were distributed, unrelated, and unexplained.

Three thousand kilometers away, a Chilean scientist passed away from unexpected organ failure. Forty-two New Zealand supply workers had a major stroke. As she slept of unknown causes, a passenger on a tourist boat—a woman who had spent one afternoon at Halcyon—passed away.

Among the small group of polar scientists, patterns started to emerge. whispering. Speculative Ideas. Anxiety.

Too sluggish, though.

Because Eliza had developed patience over a life devoid of presence. She took her time. She was cautious. She in no way by chance killed. She selected her victims with caution: people who had ignored her, rejected her, peeked through her as though she were glass, or fully betrayed her.
Those who had made her feel disregarded.

She unveiled them following death.

Every death fed the hunger as well. Calm it. Happy in ways nothing else ever had.

She started to recognize who she was.

No beasts, no armaments, no diseases.

A hunting monsters.

She was the finest predator ever seen on earth, as no one would ever see her approaching. Nobody could ever wonder. Nobody would ever connect the deaths to the calm, unseen woman sitting alone in the mess hall eating her dinner in silence with pale blue eyes watching the world.
She was the silence in between heartbeats.

Among stars, she was the darkness.

She was the sole thing living in the area. Nobody checked out anything.

Eleventh Chapter: The Signal

She looked at her face one night alone in the dim mirror of an abandoned rail station aisle.

That exact unattainable appearance. That distortion was intolerable for anyone. That same face that had driven away her father, her siblings, her town, her life.

This time, though, she found something else in it.

not beauty.

Not error.

not a face borrowed from somebody else.

She found significance.

She felt strength.

She was awake at last, seeing the face of something that had waited forty years to know itself.
Laughs and grins she made.

And for a bit of time-

The roof fell apart.

Twelfth Chapter: What comes next

The wind has started to gather pace again right now.

It sings through radio antennas, shakes the windows, carries snow and ice, and has Halcyon Station's far-off whistling of animals not meant to dwell this far south. People eating, sleeping, working, acting—everything is natural; the community stays as it has.

They have no idea what lies among them.

Taste the air; hear their heartbeats; decide. The walks they take in the evening are unknown to them.

They are ignorant of the spread of the signal.

Nonetheless, nonetheless, they will.

Arrival.
 
Given that Eliza Whitcombe has waited enough.

Her blood, salt, also hungry, hungered.