The Hollow Gate

I never wanted to move. The old farmhouse on Wrenwood Lane had been my sanctuary, even with its creaking floors and the whispering drafts that carried my grandmother’s name. When my father announced we were selling it, I felt a cold knot tighten in my chest. But time was short, and when my friend Marcus mentioned a cottage in the Pines, I agreed to look. My father, ever practical, told me to take it without even seeing it. ‘It’s a good location,’ he said, ‘and you need a fresh start.’

We drove out on a Tuesday, the sky a dull gray. The cottage sat at the end of a winding gravel path, bordered by tall, skeletal pines. The air smelled of pine and damp earth, and the silence was so deep it felt like the world had forgotten this place. I tried to find comfort in the birds I could hear—a distant woodpecker, a finch—but something about the stillness felt wrong. As we parked, I noticed a gate, rusted and slightly ajar, at the property’s edge. Beyond it, a path disappeared into the woods. I felt an inexplicable pull, like the gate was calling me.

My father strode ahead, his boots crunching on the gravel. I lagged behind, my legs heavy. When I reached the front door, I hesitated. A wave of cold air rolled over me, and I felt as if an invisible hand was pressing against my chest, pushing me back. My skin prickled with goosebumps, and a faint hum, like static, filled my ears. ‘No, Dad, we can’t go in,’ I said, my voice trembling. He turned, his face hard. ‘What is it now? You’re just being skittish.’ He pushed the door open with ease and stepped inside. I had no choice but to follow.

The interior was dim, with cobwebs in the corners and musty curtains. The air was thick, and every step I took seemed to echo louder than it should. My father walked ahead, examining the walls, the floorboards. ‘Plenty of space,’ he said, but his voice sounded odd, as if it was coming from deep within a well. I tried to speak, but my throat closed. I felt a pressure building, like being at the bottom of a pool. Then I heard it—a faint scraping, like nails on wood, coming from the basement door at the end of the hall. My heart hammered. ‘Dad, let’s go,’ I managed, my voice barely a whisper. But he didn’t seem to hear me. He was staring at the door, his expression blank.

The scraping grew louder, and then the door began to open on its own, with a low groan. The darkness inside was absolute, but I could see something—a pair of pale, glistening eyes looking up at me from the void. My body went rigid. ‘No…’ I breathed. My father took a step toward the door, his hand reaching out, and I screamed, ‘Don’t touch it!’ He flinched and turned, his eyes wide. The door slammed shut with a bang, and the house went silent again, except for the rapid thumping of my heart.

I grabbed my father’s arm and pulled him outside, stumbling into the light. The cold lifted, and I could breathe again. We stood by the car, panting. My father’s face was pale, and for the first time, he looked scared. ‘What was that?’ he asked, but I could only shake my head. I knew the answer, though. The cottage was hollow—a shell with a hungry core. I refused to buy it, and my father didn’t argue.

Months later, I still dream of that gate, the rusted one. In my dreams, I walk toward it, and I can hear the scraping sound, ever closer. I wake up drenched in sweat, the image of those pale eyes burned into my mind. They say that cottage was sold to a family, and they went missing within a week. The search party found the gate open, and the doors inside all ajar. But they never found a body. And sometimes, if I listen closely, I can still hear the gate swinging, beckoning me back.