The Hollow Gate

It was a late October evening when my daughter Maya and I settled onto the worn couch in our farmhouse, a thick quilt draped over our legs. The television flickered with a grainy documentary about abandoned asylums—not our usual fare, but Maya had insisted, claiming she wanted to ‘face her fears.’ The truth was, she loved being scared, and I loved watching her clutch my arm during the jump scares. The old house creaked and groaned around us, but that was normal; it had been in my family for three generations, and every timber had a story.

Outside, the wind had died down by nine, leaving a dead calm. The only sounds were the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen and the occasional rustle of leaves skittering across the porch. I had just taken a sip of my lukewarm coffee when I heard it—a faint, rhythmic thumping, like a fist striking wood, coming from the front of the house. Maya looked up, her eyes wide. ‘Probably that stray dog again,’ I said, trying to sound dismissive. But the thumping grew louder, more insistent, until it seemed to vibrate through the floorboards.

I rose, leaving Maya on the couch, and moved to the front door. The porch light cast a sickly yellow glow over the empty yard, but I saw nothing. The thumping stopped, replaced by a low, guttural growl that seemed to come from right outside the door. I pressed my ear to the cold wood and heard a wet, slobbering sound, like a large animal licking its chops. My skin prickled. I grabbed the iron doorstop—a heavy, rusted thing shaped like a wolf’s head—and swung the door open.

The porch was empty. But the air was thick with a stench of rotting meat and damp earth. The growl now came from the dark treeline beyond the gravel drive. I squinted, and there, just at the edge of the shadows, I saw a pair of amber eyes, unblinking. They vanished when I took a step forward. I slammed the door and locked it, my heart hammering.

Maya had turned off the TV and stood in the hallway, hugging a throw pillow. ‘What was it, Mom?’ she asked, her voice thin. ‘Nothing, just a fox or something,’ I lied. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching us, something that had been waiting for the perfect moment to reveal itself.

We decided to call it a night. I walked Maya to her room, which faced the backyard. As I tucked her in, she whispered, ‘Mom, the gate.’ I looked out her window. The old wrought-iron gate that led to the back pasture was swinging slowly, as if someone had just passed through. It was padlocked, and the chain was still intact. The gate had been locked for years; nothing but dry grass and an abandoned well lay beyond.

I checked the lock—solid. I shook the gate, but it didn’t budge. Yet as I turned to go back inside, I heard a whisper at my ear, so close I felt the breath: ‘Let me in.’ I spun around, but no one was there. The gate was still now, perfectly still.

That night I didn’t sleep. Every creak and groan of the house seemed amplified, each one a potential intruder. Around three in the morning, the sounds changed. There was a sharp, metallic clang from the backyard, and then a gate swinging on its hinges. I rushed to the window. The gate was wide open, the chain dangling loose on the ground, as if it had snapped from the inside. And in the moonlit pasture, I saw a figure—a man, gaunt and tall, wearing a black coat that hung to his ankles. He stood beside the old well, facing me, and even at this distance, I could see his mouth moving, as if repeating something over and over.

I woke Maya and we huddled in the living room, barricading the doors with furniture. But nothing happened. The rest of the night was silent, until dawn broke and I dared to peek outside. The gate was closed, the chain intact, and the pasture was empty. The only trace was a set of bare footprints in the dust leading from the well to the gate—and they were too large for any human I knew.

I tried to convince myself it was a dream, a product of an overactive imagination. But Maya pointed to the kitchen window. There, pressed against the glass, was a handprint—smudged, as if made with dirt and something darker. And written in the condensation on the glass was a single word: ‘Hollow.’

We left that day. I packed a bag and drove to my sister’s place in the city, leaving the farmhouse to the crows and the memories. But even now, two weeks later, I can’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t over. Last night, at my sister’s, I heard the same rhythmic thumping on her front door. And when I looked through the peephole, I saw the same amber eyes, and the same tall figure, only this time it had my daughter’s face, smiling with too many teeth.

I have not slept since. And in the quiet moments, I hear a whispering, like wind through hollow reeds, saying, ‘The well is open. The gate is unlocked. Come home.’