The Mulberry Gate

In the autumn of 2016, I was pregnant and staying with my parents at their old farmhouse in the rural outskirts of Maple Hollow. The property had been in our family for generations, but the land’s history was murky; it had once been a tuberculosis sanatorium, then a home for wayward girls, and finally a dairy farm. The farmhouse itself was a sprawling, drafty structure with a wrap-around porch and a weathervane that spun unpredictably, even on still days. My father was away at a cattle auction, leaving my mother, my younger brother, and me alone for the weekend. My mother suggested a movie night to take my mind off the pregnancy discomfort. We picked a psychological thriller and ordered a pizza from the only place that delivered. My brother, however, insisted on watching his own sci-fi marathon in his room, so it was just us two on the sofa.

As the opening credits rolled, a draft slithered through the living room, lifting the edges of the curtains. My mother ignored it, but I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. Then, a strange noise began: a low, rhythmic tapping, like knuckles on wood, coming from the wall behind the television. My mother jested that it was the old pipes, but the sound didn’t carry the hollow echo of plumbing; it was too deliberate, too pattern-like. I tried to focus on the film, but the tapping grew louder and more insistent. Suddenly, the television flickered and the movie paused, though the remote was on the coffee table. On the screen, the frame froze on a close-up of a woman’s face, her eyes wide with terror, but her gaze seemed to shift, fixating directly on me. My mother gasped, fumbling for the remote. The tapping stopped, and the TV resumed as if nothing had happened.

We tried to laugh it off, blaming a faulty cable box. But as the movie reached its climax, I felt a sudden pressure in my abdomen, a tightening that made me wince. I reached for my glass of water, but it was shaking on the side table, the surface trembling like a miniature earthquake. My mother noticed and turned pale. ‘It’s the old sanatorium,’ she whispered. ‘The doctors used to perform experimental procedures on the patients. They say the souls of the neglected still wander.’ I had heard the stories growing up, but I’d always dismissed them as folklore. Yet at that moment, I felt a presence in the room, something watching from the corner where the shadows pooled too darkly. I turned to look, and there, for a split second, I saw a shape—a tall, gaunt figure with sunken eyes—before it dissolved into the wallpaper.

My mother insisted we move to the kitchen, a place she insisted was ‘safe.’ But as we sat at the table, the old rotary phone on the wall rang. We both jumped. My mother hesitated, then answered. Her face went ashen. She said it was my father, but he sounded strange, his voice distorted, as if he were speaking through a mouthful of gravel. He said he was fine, but then he added, ‘Don’t trust the house tonight.’ The line went dead. My mother said he had probably just had a bad connection, but I could see her hands were trembling. We decided to retire to our respective bedrooms, but I couldn’t sleep. The baby was restless, and every creak of the house felt menacing.

Around 2 AM, I heard a child’s laugh from the hallway. It was high and innocent, but it sent a spike of fear through me. I crept to my door and peered out. The hallway was empty, but at the far end, near the attic stairs, the door was ajar. A faint glow emanated from the attic, a sickly yellow light. I knew my brother was still in his room; I could hear his TV through the wall. My mother was in her room, and no one else should be here. I called out, ‘Hello?’ The laugh came again, closer this time, right behind me. I spun around, but there was nothing. I slammed my door shut and locked it, my heart hammering.

I spent the rest of the night huddled under my covers, reciting every prayer I knew. In the morning, the sun streamed through the windows, and everything seemed normal. My brother came down for breakfast, oblivious. My mother was quiet, but she acted as if nothing had happened, only saying, ‘I told you the house has its moods.’ But when I went to the bathroom, I noticed a fresh scratch mark on the inside of my forearm, a thin red line that had not been there before. And on the mirror, written in the steam of my morning shower, was a single word: ‘Beware.’ There was no one else in the bathroom with me. That day, I packed a bag and drove to my in-laws’ house, vowing never to return. But the scratch on my arm never completely healed; it left a faint scar that still tingles whenever the wind blows from the north, and to this day, I cannot hear the sound of knuckles on wood without freezing in place.