The Marrow Gate

In the autumn of 1986, I worked in a cramped office on the top floor of a crumbling Victorian warehouse in the heart of Portsmouth, a city whose naval history had left it riddled with forgotten tunnels and whispered legends. Our building, once a chandler’s store, had a rear entrance that we used—a rusted iron gate that squealed like a wounded animal, leading to a narrow cobbled alley and a rickety wooden staircase that climbed past abandoned storerooms reeking of damp and old rope. The office itself was bright and airy during the day, with skylights that let in the grey English light, but as dusk crept in, the corners seemed to swell with shadows that didn’t quite match the angle of the sun.

I shared that space with two women, both in their fifties. Margaret was a quiet, practical soul who kept a pot of tea always brewing, her hands worn from years of typing. Ellen, on the other hand, was a bundle of nerves, her eyes darting at every floorboard creak, her cup forever half full of cold tea she’d forgotten to drink. We got along well enough, the three of us, filling the silence with chatter about the weather and the latest episodes of ‘EastEnders’.

One morning, as the rain lashed against the skylights, Margaret looked up from her ledger and said, ‘You know, last night I had the strangest dream. I was walking down these tunnels—the ones they say run under the old dockyards—and I came to a door. It was green with age, but the handle was polished brass, like someone had been turning it for years.’ She paused, taking a sip of her tea. ‘And on the other side, I could hear children singing. But it wasn’t a happy song—it was one of those old sea shanties, but twisted, all wrong.’

Ellen shivered. ‘Don’t talk about it. My grandmother used to warn me about the tunnels. Said they were full of the souls of drowned sailors, trapped in the dark.’

I laughed it off, but something in Margaret’s words stuck with me. That afternoon, I had to fetch some files from the basement—a dim, dusty space we rarely used. As I descended the stairs, I noticed a door I’d never seen before, half-hidden behind a stack of rotting crates. It was green, just as Margaret described, with a brass handle that gleamed despite the grime. My breath caught. I hadn’t heard of any tunnels here; the stories were all about the naval underground, but this door looked ancient, older than the building itself. I turned the handle. It was locked, but as I pulled my hand away, I could swear I felt a faint vibration, like something on the other side was pressing back.

I didn’t mention it to the others, but I couldn’t shake it. That night, I dreamed of a gate—a massive iron thing in a wall of dark bricks—and on the other side, the sound of water, and a voice, low and guttural, chanting in a language I didn’t know. I woke with a start, my heart pounding, the image of that gate burned into my mind.

The next day, the atmosphere in the office had changed. Ellen was pale, her hands trembling as she clutched her cold tea. ‘I saw it,’ she whispered. ‘The door. It was open last night—I came back to get my umbrella, and it was standing open, just a crack, and there was this—this smell. Like brine and rotting wood. And a sound, like something dragging itself across stone.’

Margaret tried to calm her, but I saw the fear in her eyes too. We decided to investigate, after a fashion. We waited until the day staff had left, then, with a torch from the office, we crept down to the basement. The door was exactly where I’d found it, still ajar. Ellen whimpered. The air that drifted through was cold and damp, carrying a foul odor. We pushed the door open fully, revealing a narrow spiral staircase descending into utter blackness. I didn’t want to go down, but something compelled me—a morbid curiosity, a need to face what I felt.

We descended, our footsteps echoing on wet stone. The staircase opened into a tunnel, its walls slick with moisture, a thin rivulet of water running along the floor. The tunnel sloped downward, and the air grew heavier. After what felt like an hour, we came to a gate—a great iron portcullis, rusted but still firm, with bars thick as my arm. Beyond it, the tunnel continued, but we could see nothing. Ellen clutched my arm. ‘There’s something down there,’ she breathed. ‘I can feel it.’

I pressed my face to the cold iron and squinted. In the torchlight, I thought I saw movement—a pale shape, like a face, but wrong. Then a sound, like a hollow knock, echoed from the depths. And then, a voice, clear as a bell, calling out my name. ‘Eleanor…’ it said, in a high, childish pitch. My blood turned to ice. I stumbled back, pulling the others with me. We fled up the stairs, slamming the door behind us, and didn’t stop until we were back in the light of the office.

We agreed to never speak of it, but the dreams continued. Every night, that gate, that voice, calling. Ellen began to waste away, her nervous nature turning to a deep melancholy. Margaret grew distant, her tea always cold, her eyes hollow. I knew I had to go back, to end it. I went alone, one evening when the moon was full. I took a candle and a length of rope, and I descended the spiral stairs, through the tunnel, to the gate. The iron was cold. I pulled on it, and it swung open with a groan, as if it had been waiting for me.

Beyond, the tunnel widened into a cavern. In the center, there was a pool of black water, and in the water, something floated—a bundle of rags that, as I stared, resolved into the shape of a child, its face pale and bloated, its eyes wide and white. It opened its mouth, and from it came the voice that had haunted my sleep. ‘Set me free,’ it said. ‘The gate binds me, but your blood can open it.’ I realized then that the gate wasn’t meant to keep things out—it was meant to keep something in. The thing in the pool was the ghost of a sailor’s child, lost in the tunnels a century ago, and it had been feeding on our fear, growing strong.

I didn’t have time to react. The thing surged from the water, its arms like wet ropes, and wrapped around me. I screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the darkness. I thought I was dead, but then I remembered the candle. I thrust it into the creature’s face, and it recoiled with a shriek that tore through my skull. I scrambled backward, through the gate, and with the last of my strength, I swung it shut, latching it with a chain I found on the floor.

The crying stopped. The cold receded. I found myself standing in the basement, the door to the stairs shut behind me, as if I’d never left. I cleaned myself up, went back to the office, and found Margaret and Ellen waiting, their faces etched with concern. ‘Where were you?’ Margaret asked. ‘We were worried sick.’

I could only shake my head. We never went down again, but the memory of that thing, that voice, stayed with us. I left Portsmouth soon after, but I still dream of the gate, and I know it’s still there, waiting. The marrow of that place—the very essence of its dread—is in that tunnel, and I can’t shake it. Sometimes, when the wind howls through the streets, I hear the faint echo of a child’s cry, and I know it’s not done with me yet.