The Latch on the Gate

I never thought much about the latch on the gate. It was just a small, rusted metal hook that kept the wooden gate closed, separating our boarding house from the rest of the property. We lived on the third floor of a three-story house in a crowded city, but our entrance was a narrow stairway that hugged the side of the building, leading up from a small, grimy courtyard. The courtyard itself was hidden from the street by a tall, corrugated metal fence, and the only way in or out was through that gate.

My name is Mara, and I worked as a data analyst at a telecom company in the city. I had moved here six months ago, leaving my hometown for a job that promised more than the provincial call center I had worked at before. I found a room in this boarding house, which was run by a stern, elderly woman named Aling Nena. She lived on the first two floors with her son and his family, while the third floor was divided into four small rooms, rented out to us, the night owls of the city.

The room I got was small, barely enough for a bed, a desk, and a closet. The window faced the back, looking out over a maze of tarpaulin roofs and the occasional glimpse of the city skyline. But I didn’t mind. It was cheap, and the location was convenient, just a ten-minute walk to my office.

At first, everything was normal. I would come home at midnight, climb the creaky wooden stairs, unlock my door, and collapse on my bed. The other tenants were also call center agents, so we kept odd hours, but we were quiet and respectful. The only sound at night was the distant hum of traffic and the occasional dog barking.

But then, after about a month, I started noticing things. Small things. The latch on the gate would sometimes be undone in the morning, even though I was sure I had latched it the night before. I thought maybe the wind had blown it open, but the gate was heavy, and the latch was stiff. I started latching it with extra care, making sure it clicked into place. Yet, sometimes, when I came down to buy a snack from the small store on the ground floor, I would find the gate ajar, swinging slightly in the breeze.

I mentioned it to Aling Nena, but she just shrugged and said, ‘It’s probably one of the kids playing.’ Her grandchildren were young, but they were usually asleep by the time I came home. Still, I let it go.

Then the sounds started. At first, it was just faint, like footsteps on the stairway, but my room was at the end of the hall, and I could hear the floorboards creak. I thought it was just the house settling. But then, one night, I was lying in bed, scrolling through my phone, when I heard a clear, deliberate knock on my door. Three knocks, slow and distinct. I froze, my heart pounding. I called out, ‘Who’s there?’ but there was no answer. I crept to the door and peered through the peephole. The hallway was empty, lit by a single bulb that flickered sporadically.

I opened the door, and the hallway was indeed empty. I stood there for a moment, listening. The only sound was the soft hum of the refrigerator in the common kitchen. I shut the door and locked it, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched.

Over the next few weeks, the occurrences became more frequent. I would find the bathroom door open when I was sure I had closed it. The kitchen tap would be dripping, even though no one else was up. And the latch on the gate—always the latch—would be undone. I began to feel uneasy in my own home. I started leaving a chair propped against my door at night, and I kept a small knife on my bedside table.

One evening, I came home earlier than usual, around 11 PM, because I had to finish a report. The city was still alive, and the street was busy. As I approached the gate, I noticed that the light in the courtyard was off, which was strange because it was usually on. I fumbled for my keys, and as I unlatched the gate, I felt a cold draft, despite the warm night. The gate swung open with a creak, and I stepped into the courtyard. The air was still, and the silence was heavy, pressing against my ears.

I climbed the stairs, my footsteps echoing oddly, as if something was following me, matching my pace. I paused halfway, and the sound continued for a moment before stopping. I turned and looked down, but there was no one. I hurried to my room, fumbled with the lock, and slammed the door behind me. I leaned against it, breathing hard, my heart racing.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the usual noises—the creaking of the house, the distant traffic. But at around 3 AM, I heard a new sound: a soft, melodic humming, like a lullaby. It was coming from the courtyard. I got up, my body tense, and crept to the window. The courtyard was shrouded in darkness, but I could make out a shape near the gate—the silhouette of a person, small and hunched, humming gently.

I watched, transfixed, as the shape moved. It reached out a long arm and unlatched the gate, pushing it open with a soft click. Then it turned and looked up directly at my window. I couldn’t see its face, but I felt its gaze on me, cold and empty. I stepped back, knocking over a glass that shattered on the floor. When I looked again, the shape was gone.

I didn’t sleep for the rest of the night. The next morning, I went down to talk to Aling Nena. I explained everything, trying to sound rational, but my voice trembled. She listened, her face impassive. When I finished, she was silent for a long moment. Then she said, ‘You must be careful. The gate has a history.’ She told me that many years ago, a child lived in the house—a little girl who used to play in the courtyard. She died in a tragic accident, falling down the stairs. Since then, people have reported strange occurrences, especially at night. Some say the child’s spirit still lingers, waiting for someone to open the gate for her.

I was skeptical, but the fear had already taken root. I started coming home only in the early morning, when the sun was rising, hoping to avoid the night. But the incidents continued. The latch would still be undone, the humming would still echo in the silence, and sometimes I would see the shape out of the corner of my eye, standing in the courtyard, watching.

I decided to move out. I found a new apartment near the office, and on the day I was packing, I told Aling Nena. She nodded, as if she expected it. ‘Just be sure to latch the gate on your way out,’ she said, a strange smile on her face.

That evening, as I carried my last box down the stairs, I paused at the gate. The latch was open, as usual. I reached out to close it, but something stopped me. I felt a cold hand grab my wrist. I looked down and saw a small, pale hand, its fingers wrapped around my arm. I screamed and stumbled back, the box falling to the ground. The gate swung shut with a loud bang, and the latch clicked into place on its own.

I fled, not looking back. I moved into my new place, and for a few weeks, I was fine. But then, last night, I woke up to the sound of humming. It was faint, but unmistakable. I got up and went to the window of my new apartment. The street below was empty, but I saw the shape again, standing under a flickering streetlight. It looked up at me, and even from that distance, I could see it smile—a wide, unnatural grin.

I closed the curtains and tried to calm myself. But when I went to the bathroom, I saw that the latch on the window was undone. I had locked it before going to bed. I stared at it, my blood running cold. I heard the humming again, closer now, coming from inside the apartment.

I don’t know how long I can keep running. But I know that wherever I go, the latch will be undone, and the humming will follow. And she will always be waiting, just outside, for someone to open the gate and let her in.