The Gate of Yellowed Bone

I was twelve that summer, and the world was a place of dust and cicadas. My friend’s older sister, Marisol, was eighteen and carried an air of secret knowledge that made my spine tingle. She spoke of ‘the old ways’ and ‘the thin places’ and had a collection of candles and stones that she kept in a velvet-lined box. I was fascinated and terrified in equal measure, but when she invited me to join her at the Old Barlowe Burying Ground, I couldn’t say no.

The cemetery was a forgotten patch of land off a gravel road, miles from the nearest house. A rusted gate, its iron bars twisted into shapes like frozen fingers, creaked open with a sound that seemed to echo into the silence. The moon was high and fat, casting long shadows from the few scrub pines that dotted the field. Marisol carried a small burlap sack and a lantern that threw a weak, warm light against the encroaching dark.

‘You’ll feel it when we cross,’ she said, her voice a low murmur. ‘The weight of the other side.’ I nodded, my heart thumping against my ribs. We walked among the headstones, many of them tilted or broken, their inscriptions worn smooth. Marisol stopped at a particular grave, one with a simple stone marker, the name barely legible: ‘E. Whitmore.’ She knelt and began to arrange a circle of small, smooth stones around the grave, placing a black candle at its center.

‘This is a safe place,’ she said, glancing up at me. ‘I’ve been coming here for a month, just to listen. The man buried here, Whitmore, he was a farmer who died in 1901. But his spirit is restless. He has something he wants to say.’ I knelt beside her, my hands cold despite the warm summer air. She lit the candle, and its flame flickered as though a breeze were blowing, though the air was still. ‘I’m just going to ask him to speak,’ she said. ‘If you feel scared, just step outside the circle.’

I watched, frozen, as she began to murmur words I didn’t understand—a mix of Latin and something else, perhaps from a language long dead. The candle flame grew tall and thin, and the air around us grew cooler. I felt a prickle on the back of my neck, as if I were being watched. The leaves on a nearby pine shrub rustled, though there was no wind. Then, from the darkness between the trees, a shape began to coalesce—a man, tall and gaunt, dressed in tattered overalls, his face a shifting blur of features, like looking at a reflection in disturbed water.

‘He’s here,’ Marisol whispered, and I could have sworn she smiled. The figure hovered at the edge of the circle of stones, and I felt a pull, as if it were trying to speak, but the words were lost in the wind. Then, the flame sputtered and died, and the figure vanished, leaving us in the sudden dark. Marisol stood, brushing dust from her knees. ‘He’s shy tonight. But he’ll come back. Will you come with me tomorrow?’

I should have said no. But the thrill of the forbidden, the taste of something ancient and unremembered, was already in my blood. I nodded, and we returned home under a sky that seemed to have darkened, the stars hidden behind a veil of clouds.

The next night, we returned. The gate seemed heavier, the creak louder. The cemetery was enveloped in a thick mist that rolled off the fields, muffling sounds. Marisol positioned me inside the circle of stones, which she had left from the previous night. ‘He wants you here,’ she said, her eyes glinting. ‘He says you have a gift.’ I didn’t ask how she knew; I just stood there, the cold seeping through my shoes.

She lit the candle again, and this time the flame burned blue. The air became so cold that my breath misted. The figure appeared more solid, its face gaining definition—a man with a gnarled face, eyes like black pits. He opened his mouth, and a sound came out, not a voice but a low rumble, like a wagon crossing a wooden bridge, but it formed words in the space between us. ‘You must find the gate,’ it said, its lips moving in a way that didn’t match the words. ‘The gate of yellowed bone. It is the only way to free me.’

Marisol listened, her face rapt. ‘Where is the gate?’ she asked. The figure pointed a long, thin finger toward the back of the cemetery, where a stand of old oaks stood, their branches tangled. And then it was gone, the flame sputtering to a normal orange.

We walked to the oaks, the ground soft underfoot. There, between two roots, we found it: a small, triangular plaque, only a few inches wide, made of a bone-like material, yellowed with age. It was carved with symbols I couldn’t read. Marisol bent to examine it, her breath quick. ‘This is a key,’ she said. ‘To the other side. He wants us to use it.’

I felt a wave of nausea, a primal revulsion. ‘We shouldn’t,’ I said. ‘This is wrong.’ But Marisol ignored me, pulling the plaque free from the earth. It made a sucking sound, and the air around us seemed to groan. She pocketed it, and we left, the mist following us to the gate like a trailing shroud.

The next day, Marisol called me. Her voice was strange, echoing. ‘You have to come. He wants you here, alone.’ I rode my bike to the cemetery, the sun low in the sky, painting the world in shades of orange and red. The gate was open, swinging slightly as if someone had just entered. I walked inside, and the mist was back, thicker than before. I found Marisol at Whitmore’s grave, the candle lit, but she was different. Her skin was pale, her eyes glassy, and she was speaking in a voice that was not her own—a man’s voice, low and gravelly. ‘You have the key,’ it said, my name on its lips, a name I never told anyone. ‘Open the gate.’

I stepped back, but my legs were lead. The plaque was on the ground before me, the symbols seeming to writhe. Marisol’s hand, her fingers long and white, picked it up and thrust it toward me. ‘Take it,’ she said, her voice alternating between his and hers. ‘Place it on the ground and say the words.’ I couldn’t move. The world seemed to spin, and I felt the cold fingers of the dead wrap around my heart. I took the plaque, its surface smooth and warm, and I turned it over. On the back, etched in tiny script, were words: ‘Speak the name of the one who is forgotten.’

I looked at Marisol, and I saw that her eyes were now black, entirely black, like the figure’s. I dropped the plaque and ran. I ran through the gate, which clanged shut behind me, and I didn’t stop until I was home, my lungs burning. I never spoke to Marisol again. She moved away a week later, and I heard that she had been committed to a mental hospital. But sometimes, late at night, I still see the plaque in my mind, and I hear a voice whispering a name—the name of the one who is forgotten. And I wonder if, by refusing to open that gate, I left it open for something else to find.