The Morning Gate

I have only ever had two encounters with the silent watchers, and both happened before I turned ten.

The first was in the summer of ’97. I woke up in my narrow bed in the attic room of my grandmother’s farmhouse, the light filtering through dusty lace curtains. The room smelled of old wood and dried lavender. I sat up without thinking, my heart already hammering, and there it was: a figure in a dark, hooded robe, standing in the doorway, not entering, just filling the frame. It was as black as the shadow under the barn, and it had no face, only a void beneath the hood. It didn’t move. It didn’t breathe. I knew it was waiting. I remember the strange calm that came over me, a voice inside that said, ‘If you close your eyes, it will be gone.’ So I lay back down, pulled the quilt to my chin, and shut my eyes. I counted the thumps of my heart until sleep took me. When I woke, the sun was higher, and the doorway was empty.

The second time was a few months later, at my aunt’s apartment in the city. My older cousin, Mara, let me sleep in her room because I was afraid of the unfamiliar sounds. The room was small, with posters of bands I didn’t know, and a window that faced a brick wall. I woke the same way, jolting upright, my eyes wide. And there it was again, but this time the robe was white, ghostly in the dim light from the hallway. It stood in the doorway, watching me, and I felt not fear but a strange curiosity. We stared at each other for what felt like a minute. The figure tilted its head slightly, as if it recognized me. Then, without a sound, it stepped back and melted into the corridor’s darkness. I didn’t wake Mara. I just lay there, staring at the empty doorway, until the alarm clock rang.

I’ve thought about those mornings for thirty years. I’ve read about sleep paralysis, about hallucinations, about the mind playing tricks in the half-light. But I know what I saw. And I know that both times, I was in a house where a door had been left open—a door to a closet, a cellar, even the front door—just a crack. I’ve come to believe they are gatekeepers, not of our world, but of a place that lies between. And they wait at thresholds, watching for those who are about to cross. The black one was at my grandmother’s farm, where the old root cellar door was rarely shut. The white one was at my aunt’s, where a small door to the basement stairs was always ajar. Now, as an adult, I live in a house with no basement, no attic, and I make sure every door in my home is always closed. But I still wake up sometimes, in the early morning, and I feel a presence at the edge of my vision. I don’t look. I close my eyes and wait for it to pass. Because I know that if I look, it might step through.