The Five Fence Posts

The coffee was bitter and strong, just the way I liked it. I sat on the porch of my rented cabin, watching the mist rise off the lake. The morning was quiet, save for the occasional cry of a loon. I’d been here for three weeks, doing odd jobs for the owner, fixing fences and repairing the dock. It was peaceful, but I knew that peace was a thin veneer over something older, something that breathed beneath the surface.

I first noticed the fence posts on the third day. There were five of them, standing in a row along the property line, each one about six feet tall, carved with strange, swirling patterns that looked almost like braided snakes. I’d asked the owner, an old man named Mr. Hale, about them. He’d just stared at me for a long moment, then said, ‘They’ve been there longer than I have. Don’t touch them.’

That night, I woke at exactly 3:33 AM. The clock on my nightstand glowed red. I heard a sound, like a low hum, coming from outside. I got up and peered out the window. The five posts were glowing with a faint, sickly light, and I could see shapes moving between them, thin and tall, like shadows stretched too far. I watched, frozen, as they circled the posts, counting under their breath. ‘One, two, three, four, five.’ Then they stopped, and all turned to look at my cabin. I ducked, my heart hammering. When I looked again, they were gone.

The next night, I was more prepared. I set my phone to record, but the camera battery died the moment I aimed it at the posts. At 3:33 again, I went outside, ignoring the dread that pooled in my stomach. The posts were glowing again, and the shapes were there, but this time they were closer. I could see their faces, if you could call them that, smooth and blank, like a mannequin. They were chanting now, a guttural sound that seemed to come from inside my head: ‘Give us the fifth, free the rift.’ I felt a sharp pain in my chest, as if something was trying to claw its way out. I stumbled backward, and the pain stopped. The shapes were gone.

The third night, I decided to fight back. I gathered the steel posts from the old fence I’d replaced, five of them, and I poured a circle of salt around the carved posts. I waited. At 3:33, they appeared again, but this time they didn’t advance. They howled, a sound like wind through dead trees, and they clawed at the air. I saw one of them reach into the circle, and it recoiled as if burned. But I made a mistake: I stepped over the salt line to get a better look. In that instant, the shapes rushed me, and I felt something cold pass through my body.

When I came to, it was dawn. The posts were dark, but I saw that one of them had a fresh, deep scratch running down the middle, as if something had tried to claw its way out. I touched it, and I felt a jolt of fear that wasn’t my own. I knew then that I had only delayed the inevitable. The following night, I was gone, but the dreams followed me. I still see them, the five posts, and I know that one day, I will be the fifth. The fence will be complete, and the rift will open, and all the shapes will pour through.

I’ve moved to a new town, far from that lake, but the dreams are always there, and I always wake at 3:33, drenched in sweat. I’ve tried to warn others, but they just smile and tell me I need to see a doctor. But I know what I saw. And I know they’re still there, waiting for me to return. The five posts are patient, and so am I. But my patience is wearing thin.