The Iron Gate on Foxglove Lane

I never could resist the pull of the iron gate at the end of Foxglove Lane. Most folks in Marrow County had sense enough to keep their distance, especially after dusk, but I had always been drawn to the old cemetery perched on the hill like a stone crown above the floodplain. It wasn’t just the thrill of the forbidden, though that was part of it. There was something else, a hum in the ground that I felt through the soles of my shoes, a whisper of air that stirred the tall grass even on still nights. My friends called it reckless, my mom called it disrespectful, but I called it my secret. And I had my board.

That night, the last Saturday of June, I convinced three others to come with me: Maya, who believed in everything and anything; Derek, who went along for the laughs; and Josh, who was quiet and pale and carried a pocketknife for comfort. We met at the abandoned gas station at the edge of town, and I drove us down the dirt road that wound through the black pines until the headlights caught the glint of the gate. It was padlocked, but I knew the shortcut through the broken fence at the back, near the old mausoleum that had lost its door. I’d been there so often I could walk the paths blindfolded, stepping over sunken graves and ducking under the low branches of a dying elm.

We set up at the center, where the ground was flat and the markers were old, some so weathered you could barely read the names. I lit a candle, though the wind kept trying to snuff it out. Maya passed out the board and planchette, and we placed our fingertips on it lightly, as I’d always done. We called out like we always did, ‘Is anyone here?’ and the planchette moved, but it was just Derek pushing it to make Maya gasp. Then I felt it, a coldness that settled on my skin like a damp cloth, and the planchette slid to ‘YES’ without any of us pushing. My heart hammered. Maya’s eyes went wide. Derek pulled his hands back and said, ‘Very funny, who’s doing that?’ But I saw his fingers were off the planchette.

The planchette began to glide in slow, deliberate sweeps, spelling out a name: ‘MARGARET.’ We asked questions, and she responded. She was polite, even kind. She said she had died in 1887 of a fever, and that she liked the roses that grew near her grave in spring. She told us we shouldn’t be there at night, that the hill was restless, but she didn’t mean us harm. She even gave us a warning: ‘BEWARE THE GATE THAT SCREAMS.’ We asked what that meant, but she didn’t answer. After a while, we said goodbye, and she sent the planchette to ‘GOODBYE’ and the cold lifted. We left soon after, laughing nervously, but I felt a strange sense of peace. I wanted more.

The next night, July 1st, I went back alone. I didn’t take the board, just a flashlight and a bottle of water. I sat on the steps of the mausoleum and thought about Margaret. I wanted to ask her more, but I didn’t have the board. I felt a presence, a warmth like sun on my shoulders, and I heard a woman’s voice, soft as wind in leaves, say, ‘You’re the one who listens.’ I turned, but no one was there. I went home and couldn’t sleep.

On July 2nd, I convinced Josh to come with me again, just the two of us. We used the board at the same spot. This time, we didn’t call out. We just placed our fingers and waited. The planchette started moving on its own, forming letters: ‘CLARA.’ We asked if she knew Margaret. She said, ‘MARGARET WAS MY SISTER.’ Her tone felt different, sadder. She told us that Margaret had been accused of witchcraft and drowned in the river that ran below the hill. She said their father had built the iron gate to keep the dead from wandering, but it didn’t work. ‘THE GATE SCREAMS WHEN IT FEEDS,’ she said. I asked what that meant. The planchette spelled, ‘ASK THE MAN WHO WALKS.’ Then the candle flickered and went out. We heard a sound like rusty hinges, and then a high-pitched shriek that pierced the night. Josh grabbed my arm, and we ran, tripping over headstones, not stopping until we reached the gate. It was closed, though we’d left it ajar. We scrambled over the fence, and I swear I felt something brush my ankle.

On July 3rd, I decided to hold a seance, partly to apologize for disturbing the spirits, partly to satisfy my hunger for the unknown. We gathered again, the four of us, at midnight. We sat in a circle, hands touching, and I tried to summon Margaret or Clara. But instead, the air turned thick and the temperature dropped so fast we could see our breath. The planchette shot to ‘NO’ and then spelled ‘RUN.’ Then the gate at the entrance, which was fifty yards away, swung open with a violent bang. In the moonlight, we saw a silhouette standing there, tall and thin, wearing a long coat that billowed in a wind that didn’t touch us. It took a step forward, and the ground shook. We were frozen. Then it screamed, a sound that came from everywhere and nowhere, and I felt something pull at my chest. We broke the circle and fled, but the gate had closed again. We climbed the fence, our clothes tearing, and we didn’t look back.

We never went back, and my friends stopped talking to me for a while. But I couldn’t let it go. A week later, I went alone, in daylight. I found the gate and I touched it. It was cold, even in the sun. I pushed it, and it swung open with a groan. I walked the paths, searching for Margaret’s grave. I found it near the back, a simple stone: ‘Margaret Harlow, 1862–1887, Beloved Sister.’ There was a rose bush beside it, blooming despite the heat. I knelt and said, ‘I’m sorry.’ I thought I felt a breeze, and I heard a whisper: ‘You were the only one who listened. Don’t come back.’ I stood up and left. But as I walked away, I heard the gate close behind me, not with a bang, but with a whisper. And through the bars, I saw a woman in a white dress standing by Margaret’s grave. She waved. I didn’t wave back.

I still have the Ouija board, but I haven’t used it since. Sometimes, I drive by the cemetery at night. The gate is always closed, but sometimes I see a light moving among the graves. And I hear a scream, but it’s not human. It sounds like rusty iron. And I wonder if the gate is hungry again. I know it’s waiting. And I know that someday, I’ll be the one who walks.