The Iron Gate on Hollow Hill

The week before New Year’s, 2008, I was staying at my cousin’s place in the small town of Graywood, a place that seemed to have more dead than living residents. My cousin, Lena, and I had grown up visiting her grandmother’s farm nearby, but we hadn’t been back in years. The town had a certain melancholy, with its boarded-up shops and the constant hum of the old sawmill that still ran on the edge of town.

One evening, over reheated chili, Lena mentioned that the local cemetery, Hollow Hill, was a hotspot for ‘ghost hunters’ and the like. She’d been there once with a boyfriend and had seen a light in the mausoleum. I laughed it off, but something in her voice made me uneasy. She suggested we go, just for a laugh, to see if we could catch something on our phones. I agreed, mostly to shake off the boredom.

We drove up the winding gravel road, the headlights cutting through the thick fog that seemed to cling to the hill. The iron gate at the entrance was rusted and slightly ajar, creaking in the wind. On the gate, a plaque read: ‘Hallowed Ground, No Trespassing After Dusk.’ We slipped through, the gate groaning behind us as if it didn’t want us to enter.

The cemetery was older than I expected, with lichen-covered tombstones leaning at odd angles. The mausoleum stood in the center, a squat marble structure with a heavy door that was slightly ajar. Lena pulled out her phone, switching to video mode, and began to film the rows of graves. I followed, my own phone ready.

We walked for about ten minutes, recording nothing but the wind and our breathing. I was about to suggest we leave, when my phone’s battery died. Lena’s was still at half, but then she stopped, her jaw dropping. On the video, she showed me a flicker of light near the mausoleum, a quick flare that was there and gone. We looked up, and sure enough, a faint glow emanated from the mausoleum’s broken window.

We inched closer, our hearts thudding. The door was heavier than it looked, and we had to push together to open it fully. Inside, the air was cold and smelled of dust and old flowers. In the corner, a small oil lamp sat on a stone shelf, lit, casting a warm, flickering light. Someone or something had been here recently. Lena zoomed in with her phone, and we saw a figure in the shadows behind the lamp, but it vanished when the light flickered.

We backed out, but the door slammed shut with a force that shook the walls. We were trapped inside. Panic rose as we pushed and pulled, but the door wouldn’t budge. Then, from the corner, a whisper, barely audible: ‘You shouldn’t have come.’ We spun around, but the mausoleum was empty.

A scratching sound started on the roof, like fingernails on marble. We huddled in the center, watching the ceiling. The lamp flickered, and in the darkness, we saw dozens of pairs of tiny red eyes peering from the shadows. They belonged to small, withered figures, like children, but with elongated limbs and cracked, gray skin.

They began to crawl toward us, making a low, chattering sound. Lena screamed, and that seemed to agitate them. They rushed forward, swarming us, their icy hands touching our ankles, our arms. I grabbed Lena’s hand, and we forced the door open using all our strength. The hinges groaned, and we burst out into the fog.

We ran, not stopping until we were back at the truck, our hands shaking as we fumbled with the keys. As we sped down the hill, I looked in the rearview mirror and saw the iron gate now closed, and the silhouette of a tall, thin figure standing just inside, watching us.

We didn’t sleep that night. Lena kept replaying the video, but all she captured was a black void. I couldn’t shake the feeling that those eyes had imprinted on my skin, and that I could still feel their cold touch.

The next day, we went back to the cemetery, determined to find an explanation. The gate was unlocked, swaying slightly. We walked to the mausoleum, but the door was sealed as if it hadn’t been opened in years. A new plaque had been added: ‘Do Not Awaken What Sleeps Below.’

On New Year’s Eve, we attended a party in town. Everyone was celebrating, but I felt a dread I couldn’t explain. At midnight, as the fireworks exploded, I felt a cold hand on my shoulder. I turned, but no one was there. Since then, I’ve been seeing those small, gray figures in the corner of my eye, and I hear scratchings in the walls of my apartment. I know they followed me home.

I’m writing this as a warning. If you ever find yourself near Graywood, and you see the iron gate on Hollow Hill, know that what lies inside is not the dead, but something far more ancient and hungry. And it knows your name.