The Gatekeeper’s Ledger

It was the summer of 2019 when the heat in Kolkata became unbearable. I lived in a rented flat on the third floor of an aging building, its walls stained with decades of monsoon rains. My balcony faced a narrow, winding lane that ended at the massive iron gates of an old Christian cemetery, established in 1842. The cemetery’s high walls were draped in moss, and the tombstone spires peeked over like crooked teeth. During the day, the lane was quiet; at night, the gas lamps that lined it would flicker, casting shifting shadows among the overgrown roots.

I had always been a light sleeper, and often dragged my cot onto the balcony to catch any stray breeze. There was a peculiar feature right below me: a small, rusted door set into the cemetery wall, barely visible under the tangled vines. It was locked from the inside; I had checked once while walking by. The building’s maintenance man, an old Bihari named Shankar, once told me that this door was used in the 1800s to bring the dead in through a back passage, but it had been sealed for a century. He chuckled and said, ‘Some say the gatekeeper still opens it for those who are late.’

One night, after a power cut, I was lying awake, staring at the moonlit rooftops. The heat was oppressive, and the air was thick with the smell of rain. I heard a faint, rhythmic scraping sound coming from the lane below. I leaned over the railing and saw a figure standing by the small door, cloaked in black. The scraping was the man dragging a heavy iron key against the stone, trying to find the lock. I watched, my heart thudding, as he inserted the key and turned. The door groaned open, revealing only darkness. The figure slipped inside, and the door shut with a soft ‘thud.’

I dismissed it as a guard or a groundskeeper, but something felt wrong. The cemetery had a single main entrance; why would anyone use that forgotten door? Curiosity gnawed at me, and over the next few weeks, I saw the same figure at odd hours – 2 AM, 4 AM – always entering, never leaving. I decided to ask Shankar about it, and he grew pale. ‘You saw him? The one in the black coat? That is the Gatekeeper’s ledger keeper. He marks the names of those who will soon be buried, but he only comes when someone in the neighborhood is about to die.’ I laughed it off, but Shankar’s eyes were sincere.

A month later, my neighbor, Mrs. Dutta, who lived on the second floor, passed away suddenly from a heart attack. I had been at the balcony the night before, and sure enough, I had seen the figure enter the door at 3 AM. When I heard the news, a chill ran down my spine. I started recording in a journal every time I saw the figure, and each time, within 48 hours, someone in the building or the nearby shops would die – a vegetable vendor, a young man from the staff quarters, an old professor. I became obsessed, my sleep ruined. I would sit on the balcony every night, waiting, dreading.

One night, the figure appeared, but instead of entering, it stood still, looking up. I froze. It slowly raised an arm and pointed directly at me. I felt a cold sweat break out. It then turned and entered the door. The next morning, I was not feeling well, but I brushed it off. However, a small lump had formed on my neck. The doctor said it was nothing, but it grew. I knew I had to confront the gatekeeper. One night, I waited downstairs, hidden behind a pillar, and when the figure came, I followed it through the door. Inside, it was not a passage to the cemetery, but a descending spiral staircase leading to a huge underground chamber, lit by candles. The walls were lined with books, each page a name. The figure, its face hidden under a hood, sat at a desk, writing in a large ledger. It looked up and spoke in a raspy voice, ‘You are not supposed to be here yet.’

I panicked and ran, but the stairs seemed endless. I finally emerged back at the door, but the necklace of the cemetery had changed; the lane was now lined with unfamiliar shops, and the people wore old-fashioned clothes. I had stumbled into the past, a century earlier. I saw the gatekeeper in an old uniform, locking the door. I begged him to let me return, but he laughed. ‘You have seen too much. Now you will take my place.’ I screamed, and then I woke up in my bed, the morning sun streaming in. I ran to the mirror; the lump was gone.

But that was only the beginning. Since that night, I have been the one in the black coat. Every night, I open that door and mark the names of the dying. I still live in the same flat, but now I know why the neighbors avoid my balcony. They see me standing by the gate below, waiting. And the worst part is, I cannot stop. The ledger demands it, and I am its servant.