The Painted Gate

I was working a stretch of highway near the old mill town of Derryfield, where the road cuts through a hollow of scrubby pines and the only company is the occasional flatbed truck hauling logs. The asphalt shimmered with heat haze even though the morning was cool, and my post was a patch of gravel opposite a field that hadn’t been tended in years. Behind me stood a farmhouse with a rusted tin roof and a porch that sagged like a tired old man. No cars in the driveway, no barking dog, just a curtain moving in a window that had no glass.

At 9:47, my supervisor, a wiry bloke named Dave, came by in his ute with a thermos of tea. ‘Take your fifteen, mate. I’ll hold the fort.’ I nodded, grateful for the break, but I had a different need. The coffee I’d downed at dawn was making its presence known. There was no portable toilet on this job, so I’d planned to use the bushes at the edge of the field. But as I walked toward the tree line, the farmhouse caught my eye. The front door was slightly ajar, and a strange pull, like a hand on my collar, steered me toward it.

I told myself I was just being practical. The house offered privacy. The door swung open with a creak that hung in the air like a low note. The kitchen inside was dim, lit by a single grimy window. There was a wood-burning stove, a scarred wooden table, and a calendar on the wall from 1987. The silence was so thick I could hear my own heartbeat. The toilet was down a narrow hallway, and on the way, I passed a room with the door closed. I didn’t open it. I had no interest in prying. I just needed to use the facilities.

The bathroom was surprisingly clean, with a porcelain sink and a clawfoot tub. The mirror above the sink was cracked, and the reflection split my face into mismatched halves. I avoided looking at it. After I finished, I washed my hands, and as the water ran, I heard a faint scratching from behind the wall. I turned off the tap, and the sound stopped. I waited, but nothing came. I dried my hands on a towel that was strangely dry, considering the house had been abandoned for years.

On my way out, the closed door in the hallway now stood open. I couldn’t help but glance inside. The room was a study of sorts, with a large desk and a wall covered in maps. On the desk lay an open ledger, its pages yellowed. I leaned in to read. The handwriting was spidery, and the entries were dates and times, each followed by a number. The last entry was today’s date, and the number was 10:02. I felt a cold prickle on my neck. That was three minutes from now. I heard a floorboard creak behind me.

I spun around, but the hallway was empty. The front door, which I’d left ajar, was now closed. I walked to it, my heart thudding, and pulled the handle. It didn’t budge. I jiggled it, then yanked. Nothing. The lock was engaged, and there was no key. I ran to the kitchen window, but it was painted shut. I tried the back door, but it was bolted from the outside. I was trapped.

A sound came from deeper in the house—a soft, rhythmic thumping, like a heartbeat. I followed it, my breath quickening. It led me back to the study. The ledger now lay open to a different page, and the entries were all the same: a name, a time, a checkmark. I saw my name, ‘Marcus,’ with a time of 10:05. The clock on the mantelpiece read 10:04. I grabbed the book, intending to tear it, but the pages were as tough as leather. As I struggled, a figure appeared in the doorway—a hunched shape, wearing a coat that seemed to absorb the light. It had no face, just a smooth, pale expanse where features should be. It spoke in a voice that was both dry and rustling, like dead leaves: ‘You’ve seen the gate. Now you must guard it.’

I didn’t understand. I backed away, colliding with the desk. The figure glided closer, and with a long, thin hand, it pointed to a spot on the wall. There, almost hidden among the maps, was a small painting. It depicted a gate—a simple wooden gate in a field, with a view of the same pines I saw outside. But the painting was wrong. The gate was open, and through it was not the field but a darkness that seemed to move. The figure said, ‘Every day, the gate must be closed by dawn. You are now the keeper.’

A wave of dizziness swept over me. I felt as though the house was shifting, and through the windows, the light outside had changed. The pines were taller, the sky a different shade of grey. The figure was gone. I was alone, but I could hear, from far away, a sound like a thousand whispers. The ledger on the desk now had my name at the top of a long list of keepers, and the final entry was for a date a century from now. I looked at the painting again. The gate was closing, slowly, of its own accord. But I knew, with a sickening certainty, that when it closed all the way, I would be the one who had to open it again.

I spent the rest of the day trying to escape. I broke a window with a chair, but when I looked out, the field was gone. In its place was a vast, empty plain under a starless sky. The road, the pines, everything was gone. I was in the painting. The only thing that existed was the house, the ledger, and the gate. I am still here. I write this in the ledger, hoping someone will find it, but I know that the only way to leave is to find a successor. The traffic control job was just a pretext. The house was waiting for me, and it has its keeper. The gate will not close until I die, and I am dead already.