The Pilgrim’s Gate

I have always believed the veil between worlds is thinner than most suspect. My family has witnessed things that would make skeptics shudder, but we have learned to accept them as part of our reality. I am 34 now, but my earliest memory of the other side came when I was just four years old.

My parents had taken me to the old monastery at the edge of our town, a crumbling stone structure that had been converted into a museum. We were in the courtyard, near the ancient gate that led to the graveyard beyond. I remember tugging at my mother’s coat and pointing to the gate. A figure stood there, a man in a long brown robe with a rope belt, his hands clasped as if in prayer. His head was bowed, and his face was hidden in the shadow of his hood. I asked my mother why the monk was standing by the gate, but when she looked, there was no one. She saw only the rusted iron and the overgrown path.

The nun was a recurring presence in my childhood, but it was the monk who truly unsettled me. He would appear at odd times, always near thresholds or doorways, never speaking, always praying. As I grew older, I began to research the monastery’s history. I learned that it had been a pilgrimage site for centuries, and that the monks who lived there were known for their devotion. But there was a darker story, one that had been suppressed by the Church. A monk named Brother Aloysius had been accused of heresy in the 16th century. He was said to have performed forbidden rituals in the crypt beneath the abbey, attempting to communicate with the dead. The Church condemned him, and he was bricked up alive within the walls.

When I turned 30, I inherited the cottage near the abbey, left to me by a distant aunt I had never met. My husband, Marcus, and our son, Ethan, moved there, hoping for a quiet life. But the presence felt stronger. I began having dreams of the crypt, of a door sealed with stones and a symbol I did not recognize. One night, I woke to find Ethan standing at the foot of the bed, staring at the wall. He was only five, and he whispered, ‘The monk is waiting for you.’ I looked where he pointed, and there, in the corner of the bedroom, stood the hooded figure, his hands clasped, his head tilted as if watching me.

I decided to confront the mystery. With the help of a local historian, I discovered the entrance to the crypt, hidden beneath a stone slab in the monastery’s ruin. We opened it, and the air inside was thick with dust and age. The walls were lined with niches, each containing a skeleton wrapped in rotting habits. At the far end was an unmarked wall, newer than the rest. I felt an inexplicable pull, and I touched the stones. They were loose, and I worked one free. Behind it was a void, and from that void came a sound, a low chanting, as if a hundred voices were praying in unison. I stepped back, and the wall began to crumble, revealing a narrow passage.

I entered, with Marcus behind me, holding a flashlight. The passage led to a small chamber. In the center was a stone altar, and on it lay a book bound in black leather. I opened it, and the pages were filled with a language I had never seen, but somehow, I understood it. It was a ritual, a prayer to bring a soul back from the dead. The final page had an inscription in Latin: ‘He who seeks the departed must be willing to offer one of his own.’ I felt a cold hand touch my shoulder, and I turned to see the monk, his eyes now visible, burning with a fierce light. He spoke, his voice like grinding stones, ‘You have found my work. Now you must finish it.’

I slammed the book shut, but the damage was done. That night, Ethan fell ill. The doctors could find nothing wrong, but he grew weaker, and his eyes would sometimes flash with a strange light. Marcus and I took turns watching over him, and in that vigil, I saw the monk more clearly than ever. He stood at the foot of Ethan’s bed, his hands no longer clasped, but outstretched, as if waiting to receive something. I realized that Ethan was the offering, and that the monk intended to use his life force to reanimate the body I had disturbed.

I remembered the old tales, that a soul can be bound to this world by an object of great significance. I searched the chamber, and behind the altar, I found a small reliquary containing a bone from Brother Aloysius’s finger. I took it, and I returned to the abbey, to the spot where the wall had crumbled. The monk was there, and he turned to me, ‘You cannot stop me. The bond is formed.’ I held up the bone and said, ‘Then I break it.’ I brought it down on the stone altar, shattering it. The monk let out a terrible shriek, and the air around him twisted. He began to fade, but as he disappeared, he whispered, ‘This is not the end.’

Ethan’s fever broke that night, and he recovered. But the monk’s words haunted me. I feared he was right. A week later, I found Ethan playing in the garden, speaking to someone I could not see. He was talking to a man in a brown robe, a man who looked exactly like the monk. I pulled him away, but I knew it was only a matter of time before the monk returned, stronger, more determined. I had broken the relic, but his soul remained, tethered to this world by his own will. And now, it was tethered to my son.

I have since learned that Brother Aloysius was not a heretic in the way the Church thought. He was a man who had lost his own child to the plague, and in his grief, he sought a way to bring her back. His rituals failed, but his faith never wavered. He was entombed alive, and his rage and sorrow became something else, a spirit that seeks to complete its work through anyone who disturbs its rest. And now, Ethan has become his new vessel.

I keep the reliquary safe, though it is broken. I keep a journal of all that has happened, hoping that someday someone will understand. But every night, when I tuck Ethan into bed, I see a shadow move in the hallway, and I hear the faint sound of praying. The monk is patient. He will wait until Ethan is older, until his soul is ripe for the taking. And I do not know if I have the strength to stop him.

My family has always believed in life after death. But now I know that some souls should never be allowed to return.