The Gate of Unraveled Dawn

I was eleven when we moved into the house on Corvid Lane, a narrow strip of asphalt that dead-ended into a tangle of wild blackberry bushes. Our new home was a prefab bungalow, so fresh it still smelled of paint and sawdust, set back from the lane by a patch of weedy ground that the landlord promised to fence. Behind the bungalow, a large, windowed kitchen looked out over a stretch of scraggly grass that sloped down to a concrete drainage ditch, and beyond that, an old, gnarled oak stood alone in the middle of a field, its branches twisted like fingers reaching for the sky.

The field was the reason I loved the place. It was overgrown with tall, coarse grass and dotted with the carcasses of rusted appliances—a washing machine with its door hanging open, a refrigerator with its insides torn out. But to me, it was a kingdom. When my mother saw me eyeing it, she shook her head. ‘No, Leo. That field is not a playground. There’s broken glass and who knows what else.’ She paused, looking out the window with an odd expression. ‘And something about that tree… it gives me the creeps.’

I thought she was being silly. The tree was just a tree, old and ugly, but harmless. But on the first night in our new house, I woke to a sound—a rhythmic, wet thumping, like something heavy and soft being repeatedly struck against the earth. It came from the direction of the field. I tiptoed to the kitchen window and peered out.

The moon was bright, casting long shadows. I could see the field clearly. And there, under the oak tree, was a shape. It was tall, impossibly thin, with long arms that hung almost to the ground. It was moving in a circle, its fingers trailing through the grass, leaving a furrow that looked like a spiral. I watched, my breath fogging the glass, as it completed three perfect circles, then stopped. It straightened, and even from that distance, I could feel its gaze on me. It knew I was watching.

I ducked below the window, my heart pounding. When I peered again, the shape was gone. But the grass in that spot was flattened into a spiral pattern, like a crop circle. I didn’t sleep that night.

The next morning, I told my mother. She dismissed it as a dream, but I noticed she avoided looking out that window. I also noticed that a patch of grass near the ditch had been churned up, as if something had been digging. I decided to investigate, despite my mother’s warning.

The field felt different in the daylight. The grass was tall, up to my waist, and the air was heavy and humid. I pushed my way toward the oak tree, my sandals sinking into soft, damp soil. The spiral pattern was still visible, but now I saw something else—at the center of the spiral, the ground was disturbed, and there was a small, dark hole, about the size of a fist. Around the hole, the grass was blackened and wilted.

I knelt down to look closer. The hole seemed to go down endlessly. I picked up a stick and prodded it. It went in easily, but when I pulled it out, the end was wet and sticky. I raised it to my nose—it smelled like copper and rot. I dropped it and stumbled back.

That night, I had a nightmare. In the dream, I was standing at the edge of the field, and the oak tree was gone. In its place was a vast, gaping mouth in the earth, lined with rows of needle-like teeth. The mouth was open, and a voice, like a thousand whispers, rose from it. ‘Feed me,’ it said. ‘Feed me what is innocent, and I will show you the dawn that never ends.’

I woke with a start, drenched in sweat. The room was dark, but I could see the faint outline of my dresser, my closet. And then I heard it again—the thumping. It was coming from the kitchen, or maybe just outside. I crept to the window. The moon had set, and the field was a black void. But there, in the center, I saw a pinprick of orange light. It grew brighter, illuminating the shape of the tall figure. It was now holding something in its arms—a small, furry creature, maybe a rabbit. It placed the creature into the hole, and the thumping resumed.

I didn’t sleep again that night.

The following days, I tried to stay away from the field, but I felt drawn to it, like a magnet. Every night, the thumping returned, and I would watch. The figure would bring different things—a bird, a rat, once a neighbour’s cat that had gone missing. And the spiral pattern would expand, the grass around it dying.

One afternoon, I saw my mother in the kitchen, staring out the window. Her face was pale. ‘Leo,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘I saw something move out there. Under the tree.’

I didn’t have the heart to tell her I knew exactly what it was. Instead, I said, ‘It’s just a bird, Mom. Or a squirrel.’

She shook her head. ‘No. It was tall. Taller than a person.’

I decided that enough was enough. I had to find out what that thing was and why it was here. That evening, before the sun fully set, I grabbed a flashlight and crept into the field. The grass parted around me, as if it didn’t want to touch me. I made my way to the oak tree, my heart thudding in my ears.

The spiral pattern had grown, now covering an area of about three meters in diameter. The hole at the center was bigger now, the size of a large melon. I aimed my flashlight into it. I saw walls of moist, dark soil, and then, far below, a glint of something metallic. I leaned closer, and the flashlight beam caught a shiny surface—a hand mirror, embedded in the earth.

I reached in and pulled it out. It was an old, ornate hand mirror, the glass cloudy with age. As I wiped it clean, my reflection swam into view. But it wasn’t my face. It was the face of a young girl, pale and hollow-eyed, with a wound on her forehead that oozed black blood. She opened her mouth, and a torrent of red ants poured out.

I screamed and dropped the mirror. It clattered to the ground, face down. The thumping started again, but this time it was right behind me. I spun around. The tall figure was there, just a few feet away, stooping under the low branches. In the fading light, I could see it clearly now. It was thin, bony, wrapped in what looked like grey, tattered cloth. It had no face—just a smooth, oval void where a face should be. And it was holding the hand mirror.

It lifted the mirror to where its face should be. In the glass, I saw my own face, but terrified, and behind me, standing in the kitchen window, my mother’s face, also terrified.

The figure tilted its head, and the mirror reflected the last light of the setting sun, blinding me. When I could see again, it was gone. But the hole was still there, and now it was bleeding. A viscous, black liquid oozed up from the earth, seeping into the grass, spreading around the spiral.

I ran back to the house, burst into the kitchen, and told my mother everything. She listened, her face growing whiter. When I finished, she said, ‘I knew. I knew something was wrong when we moved in. That field… it has a name. The old people call it the Gate of Unraveled Dawn.’

‘What does that mean?’ I asked.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. But we need to leave. Tonight.’

We packed our bags and drove away that night. As we turned onto Corvid Lane, I looked back. The field was dark, but I saw a faint orange glow under the oak tree, and in the center of the glow, the tall figure had reappeared. It was holding the mirror again, and it was waving at me.

We never returned. The house was sold months later, and I heard that the new owners moved out within a week. But every once in a while, I still see that mirror in my dreams, and in it, the girl with the ants, and behind her, the endless, hungry dark.

Years later, I found out that a girl had gone missing on that land when the subdivision was being built. They never found her body. But sometimes, at dawn, people driving past the field claim to see a tall figure standing under the oak tree, holding a hand mirror, and if you look into it, you see your own face, but not quite your own. And they say that if you stare too long, you start to hear the thumping, and you feel the pull, the need to go to the tree, and feed what lies beneath.