The Gatekeeper’s Pace

In our cramped university flat, we four—Mara, Jax, Nell, and I—had carved out a fragile routine. The room was a perfect square, each corner claimed by a semi-bunk: bed above, desk and dresser below. The door stood on the right wall, flanked by two bunks, and opposite it, the bathroom door. Every night at midnight, we’d climb into our nests, and Mara, whose bed was nearest the light switch, would flip it off after we all settled.

That particular night was no different. The fluorescent hum died, plunging us into a darkness so complete that even the faint glow from the hallway seemed like a distant star. I lay on my back, listening to the usual symphony: Jax’s rhythmic snoring, Nell’s occasional murmur, the creak of the old building settling. But then, a sound cut through—heavy, deliberate footsteps pounding down the corridor. Not the casual shuffle of a late-night wanderer, but a relentless, accelerating pace, like a runner sprinting toward something.

The footsteps grew louder, closer, until they were just outside our door. And then—silence. The abrupt stop was almost worse. I held my breath, straining to hear any sound. A soft scraping, like fingernails on wood, traveled from the door to the bathroom. Then, the doorknob to the bathroom rattled, as if someone was testing it. We all froze. The bathroom was empty; we’d left the light off, but the door was slightly ajar.

‘Did you lock it?’ Jax whispered, his voice trembling.

‘I didn’t,’ Nell admitted.

Mara, calm as ever, whispered, ‘Everyone stay still. It’s probably just the RA doing rounds.’ But the footsteps had resumed, now moving away, down the hall, fading into nothing.

We exhaled, convincing ourselves it was a prank or a sleepwalker. But sleep didn’t come easily. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, when I heard it again—but this time, the footsteps were inside our room. The sound of heavy boots on the linoleum floor, moving from the door toward the center. I turned my head, and in the faint light from under the bathroom door, I saw a pair of shoes—scuffed, black leather, like a guard’s—standing right by my desk.

I squeezed my eyes shut, praying it was a dream. But then I felt a cold breath on my face. ‘You forgot to lock the bathroom,’ a low, raspy voice said. ‘You always forget.’ I opened my eyes, and a figure was leaning over me, its face a void. I tried to scream, but no sound came out.

I heard Mara’s voice, sharp and urgent: ‘Everyone, stay calm. It’s the gatekeeper. It only wants us to remember something.’

‘What?’ Nell’s voice shook.

‘Our names. It takes your name if you don’t say it out loud every night.’ Mara had told us this before, a dorm legend about a ghost who patrolled the halls, stealing the identities of those who remained silent.

I felt the figure’s hand on my shoulder. ‘Say your name,’ it hissed.

I croaked, ‘Elena.’

It withdrew, moving to Jax. ‘Jax,’ he stammered.

Nell whispered, ‘Nell.’

It stopped before Mara, but she didn’t speak. The figure leaned closer. ‘Your name?’ it asked.

Mara’s voice was steady: ‘I am not a name. I am the one who guards the switch.’

A terrible silence. Then the figure stepped back, and the bathroom door slammed shut. The footsteps retreated, out of the room, down the hall, fading into the night.

We didn’t sleep. When dawn broke, we found that the bathroom mirror was covered in frost, and written in the condensation was a single word: ‘MARA.’ But Mara was gone. Her bed was empty, her belongings vanished, as if she’d never existed. We never spoke of it again, but every night, we say our names out loud before we sleep, and we always, always lock the bathroom door.