The Keeper of the Gate

Last year, I was preparing for my medical entrance exams, which meant that every spare minute was consumed by textbooks and mock tests. My days were a blur of lectures and coaching classes, so the only time I had for serious study was late at night, after my family had gone to bed. That particular night was freezing, the kind of cold that seeped through the walls and made the floorboards creak. I had returned from my evening coaching at 7:30, grabbed a quick dinner, and settled at my desk by 9:30, determined to get through a few chapters of organic chemistry.

My parents and my younger sister, Priya, had retired to their rooms by 10:30, cocooned in heavy quilts. The house fell silent except for the occasional rustle of pages and the distant hum of a refrigerator. My focus was sharp, and I was making good progress, but as the night deepened, a strange restlessness began to creep in. It was as if the silence itself was pressing against my ears, and I felt an inexplicable urge to look out of the window.

Our house sat at the end of a narrow lane, separated from the main road by a heavy iron gate. That gate was manned by our community’s night watchman, an elderly man who religiously closed and locked it at 9:30 PM, and then patrolled the block until dawn. I had seen him often, a frail figure with a lantern, humming old folk songs. But that night, when I finally gave in and looked out, the gate was wide open, and the lane was bathed in an eerie blue light, the kind that doesn’t come from any streetlamp.

I shook it off, blaming my tired eyes, and returned to my books. But the image lingered, and every few minutes, I found myself glancing towards the window. The light seemed to pulse, and I thought I saw something move in the shadows beyond the gate. I told myself it was a stray dog, or the wind stirring the bushes in the park that bordered our lane. Still, my heart was racing, and I found it increasingly hard to concentrate.

A little past midnight, I heard a sound that made the hair on my arms stand up. It was a scraping, like metal on stone, coming from the direction of the gate. I froze, listening. The scraping stopped, and then there was a soft, rhythmic knocking, three knocks, then a pause, then three more. It was coming from the back door, the one that led to the lane. I knew the watchman knocked like that when he needed something, but why would he be knocking at this hour?

I crept to the kitchen, my heart hammering in my chest. The back door had a small pane of frosted glass, and through it, I could see a faint silhouette. It was definitely human, but the posture was wrong, hunched and trembling, as if in terrible pain. I called out, ‘Who’s there?’ There was no answer, only the sound of labored breathing. I thought of waking my father, but pride and stubbornness held me back. I was almost an adult, after all.

I unlocked the door and opened it a crack. The cold air hit me, and I could smell damp earth and something else, something metallic, like old blood. The silhouette resolved into the watchman, but he looked terrible. His face was ashen, his eyes hollow, and he was shaking violently. ‘Sahib,’ he whispered, his voice barely audible, ‘I need your help. There is something in the park. It has been following me all night.’ He pointed a trembling finger towards the gate, which I now saw was still wide open, though I had heard it clang shut hours ago.

I should have slammed the door, but I didn’t. I stepped out onto the porch, and immediately the lantern in his hand flickered and died. In the ensuing darkness, I heard a sound that did not belong to any animal I knew. It was a low, guttural growl, followed by a click, like a bone snapping. The watchman’s eyes widened in terror, and he grabbed my arm with a grip far stronger than his frail frame suggested. ‘Do not look,’ he hissed, ‘do not let it see your face. It feeds on fear, and it is hungry.’

I was paralyzed, my mind racing. This couldn’t be real. Yet I felt the cold breath on my neck, and I knew that if I turned, I would see something that would shatter my sanity. I squeezed my eyes shut, but I could hear the watchman muttering under his breath, a prayer perhaps, or a curse. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, the growling stopped, and the air grew still. I opened my eyes, and the watchman was gone. The gate was closed, the blue light was gone, and I was alone on the freezing porch, clutching the door frame.

I didn’t sleep that night. I sat in my room, the lights blazing, and I didn’t dare look out the window again. The next morning, I asked my father about the watchman. He said the old man had died two nights ago of a heart attack, right at the gate. When I insisted that I had spoken to him, my father gave me a strange look and said, ‘You must have been dreaming. The new watchman started today, and he’s much younger.’ I wanted to argue, but the memory of that voice, that touch, was so vivid, it haunted me for weeks.

I never found out what was in the park that night, but sometimes, when the nights are cold and still, I hear that growling again, just at the edge of my hearing. And I know that the gate is not just a barrier against thieves, but against something far older. The watchman knew, and he gave his life to keep it contained. But now, with him gone, who will hold the gate? And what will happen when it opens again?