The Fence Runners

In the autumn of 2015, our family settled into a rented house on the edge of a small town in Ohio, not far from an old railway line and a patch of woods that separated our street from a sprawling farm. My daughters, Emma (seventeen) and Lily (thirteen), shared a room at the back of the house, with a window that faced a long stretch of wooden fence, half-hidden by overgrown hedges. The previous tenants had left the window bare, and we hadn’t yet gotten around to installing curtains.

Lily, who had always been a light sleeper, began waking in the gray hours just before dawn. She’d lie in her top bunk, staring out at the fence, and see them: three small shapes, dark and indistinct, moving in a line along the fence line. They came from the direction of the overgrown lot next door, hopped the low chain-link fence that bordered our property, then scurried along the top rail of the wooden fence, disappearing into the shadows near the old oak tree. She couldn’t make out any features—just a sense of movement, a flicker of something not quite solid, and an overwhelming feeling that they were aware of her watching.

At first, she thought it was stray cats or raccoons, but the timing was too regular, and the movements were too deliberate. They never paused, never turned, just a steady, relentless progression. Lily tried to ignore them, but the more she tried to look away, the more her gaze was drawn back. She described them as ‘little people’ but not human, and she said they made her skin crawl. She begged me to get curtains, and within a week we hung thick blinds. But even with the blinds closed, she would sometimes feel their presence, a prickling at the back of her neck, and she knew they were just outside, waiting.

Weeks passed, and the sightings continued, though Lily grew more accustomed to them. Emma, who was older and more skeptical, dismissed them as a trick of the light or her sister’s imagination. But I noticed that Lily began to sleepwalk. She’d be found in the living room, facing the back door, her eyes half-open but unseeing. Once, we found her outside in her pajamas at 5 AM, barefoot on the wet grass, staring at the fence. When we asked what she was doing, she said, ‘They’re not coming over the fence anymore. They’re coming through the gate.’

It was a chill November morning when I decided to investigate. I woke up at 4:45, dressed quietly, and went to the back yard. I stood near the fence, waiting. At 5:03, I saw them—three shapes, about a foot tall, dark and blurred as if they were made of heatless shadow. They emerged from the underbrush, hopped the chain-link, and moved along the wooden rail. They didn’t seem to have feet or legs; they glided, but with a hopping motion, like toads. And they were heading toward the gate that led to the front yard, not the oak tree as before.

I followed them at a cautious distance. They reached the gate, which was closed, and without pausing, they seeped through the gaps between the boards. I opened the gate and ran to the front, but they were gone. I stood barefoot on the cold pavement, feeling a dread that had nothing to do with temperature.

Back inside, I woke Emma and Lily. Lily sat up, her eyes wide, and said, ‘They’re in the house now.’ We searched every room, but found nothing. But from that day on, strange things began to happen. Objects would move—a kitchen chair would be found turned to face the wall, a book would be on the floor when we left it on the table, and at night we would hear faint scratching sounds coming from inside the walls, like something small trying to get out.

One night, I couldn’t sleep and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. As I passed the hallway mirror, I saw a reflection in the darkness: three small shapes standing in the hallway behind me. I spun around, but nothing was there. My heart hammered. I turned on all the lights, but the house felt different, as if the very air had thickened.

The last straw came when Lily started speaking in her sleep, in a voice that wasn’t hers—a low, raspy mutter. ‘The fence is down, the fence is down, the way is open, we come through.’ I told my husband we had to leave, but he thought I was overreacting. So I took matters into my own hands.

I contacted the local historical society and learned that our house was built on the site of an old poor farm, a place where abandoned people with disabilities or illnesses were sent in the 1800s. Many had died there, and their unmarked graves were scattered along what used to be a boundary fence. The fence we saw was a modern replacement, but the boundary line was the same.

What we saw were not monsters, but forgotten souls—children, maybe, or those who were small and overlooked. They had been trying to get back home, but the fence had blocked their path. When we installed the blinds, we didn’t block their way; we just made them more desperate. And they found a way through the gate.

We moved out at the end of that month. But even here, in our new apartment, I sometimes see them out of the corner of my eye, scuttling along the baseboards. And last night, Lily told me that they’re outside the window, hopping the railing of the fire escape. She’s not scared anymore. She says they just want to be seen, to be remembered. But I’m not sure if letting them in is a good idea. They’ve already crossed the fence once. What will they do now that we’ve opened a door?

We never put up curtains in the new place. Lily said they don’t need to watch us anymore. They’re already with us. And I fear she’s right.