The Mothman’s Coatroom

My obsession with the restless dead began in the musty stacks of my grandfather’s library, where I read tales of phantoms and unfinished business. It grew into a compulsion to find proof, to understand why some souls linger. I’d scoured the damp castles of Scotland and the ancient ruins of Ireland, but it was the unassuming village of Barrow’s End that would test my courage beyond measure.

Every evening, while my parents worked late, I attended the youth club at St. Elian’s Old Hall. The hall sat beside a cemetery that had been in use for centuries, its headstones leaning like drunken mourners. The club room was large, with a high ceiling and a stage at one end, but the back corner held a small coatroom that seemed to swallow the light. A single flickering bulb illuminated the cramped space, and in its darkest corner stood an old fire exit door, its paint peeling, its handle greasy. That door led out to the graveyard, but no one used it—the lock was rusted shut, and the door was said to be sealed for a reason.

One night, after the others had gone home and the caretaker was busy elsewhere, I found myself alone in the hall. The rain drummed against the windows, and the wind moaned through the old building. I decided to test my nerve. I slipped into the coatroom, turned off the light, and stood in the absolute blackness. The smell of damp wool and old wood filled my nostrils. After a few moments, my eyes adjusted, but there was nothing to see. I reached out, my fingers brushing against the cold metal of the fire exit door. I pushed, expecting resistance, but it swung open with a groan, revealing a sliver of pale moonlight from the cemetery.

I stepped through, into the night air. The graveyard stretched before me, a tangle of crosses and angels. I walked among the graves, reading names and dates, feeling the weight of centuries. I paused at an old plot with moss-covered stones and a crumbling marker. The name was illegible, but I felt a pull, a whisper of presence. I knelt, placing my hand on the cold stone, and tried to make contact. For a moment, nothing. Then, a rustle in the grass, a cold breath on my neck. I spun around, but the cemetery was still. My heart hammered. I decided to head back, eager for the warmth of the hall.

As I approached the fire exit door, a figure emerged from the darkness beside it. A tall, thin man in a long coat, his face hidden in shadow. He stood motionless, blocking my path. ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he said, his voice like gravel. I stuttered an apology, but he didn’t move. ‘They don’t like the living,’ he continued, ‘especially those who invite them in.’ A chill ran down my spine. I tried to step around him, but he matched my move. ‘I’ve seen the ones you call ghosts,’ he whispered, leaning closer. ‘They’re not lost souls. They’re anchors, and they’ll drag you down if you let them.’ He reached out, and I flinched, but then he vanished, leaving only the smell of damp earth.

I bolted back through the fire exit, slamming the door behind me. In the pitch-black coatroom, I fumbled for the light switch, but it wouldn’t turn on. Panic rose. I pressed my back against the door, feeling the cold metal through my shirt. Then I heard it—a faint scratching, like nails on wood, coming from the other side of the door. It grew louder, more insistent. I felt a pressure against the door, as if something was pushing from outside. I shoved back, but the door began to inch open. I screamed, and the light flickered on. The coatroom was empty, and the door was shut, the lock intact.

I never went back to that coatroom. But the memory stayed with me, and I began to research the history of Barrow’s End. I discovered that a man named Aldous Pemberton had been the groundskeeper of the cemetery in the 1800s. He was known for his obsession with the dead, and he kept a journal in which he wrote about ‘the anchors’—spirits that were tied to objects or places, unable to move on, but malevolent to those who tried to communicate. His final journal entry, dated October 31st, 1878, read: ‘They will not be summoned. They will not be sent away. They wait, and they feed on the living who dare to approach.’ He was found dead in the old hall, his face frozen in terror, his body cold as the grave.

I’ve since left Barrow’s End, but the fear never truly left me. Sometimes, when it’s dark and quiet, I’ll hear that faint scratching, and I’ll see the shadow of a tall man in my peripheral vision. And I know that the coatroom door in that old hall is no longer locked. It waits, and it knows my name.