The Red Gate

I was only a toddler when we left the city, my parents and I, to live on a piece of land that had been in my mother’s family for generations. It wasn’t a farm anymore, not really, just a few acres of scraggly grass and tangled woods, bordered on one side by the constant hiss of the highway. But to me, it was a world without end.

The house sat at the top of a gentle rise, a white clapboard box with a porch that sagged in the middle. To the left, a gravel drive wound down to a corrugated steel shed where Grandpa kept his rusting tractors and a jumble of tools. In the winter, that shed became a temporary home for our dog, a shaggy mutt named Biscuit, and two barn cats, Patches and Muffin. I remember the smell of motor oil and hay, the way the cats would disappear into the dark corners, their eyes glowing like embers.

To the right of the shed, a field lay fallow, a patchwork of browns and greens. And beyond that, the woods began, a dense wall of oak and pine that seemed to swallow light. The house itself was flanked by trees on both sides. On the east, a battered old pickup truck sat on cinder blocks, its tires flat, its windows fogged with grime. I was told it hadn’t run in years, and it became a landmark, a fixture. I would climb into its cab, pretending to drive, the cracked vinyl seat cold against my legs. But there was something about that truck that always made me uneasy. The way the doors creaked when I pulled them shut. The way the steering wheel felt, as if it had been gripped too many times by hands that weren’t there.

Behind the house, the land fell away into a tangle of wild grass, broken sheds, and a tangle of rusted wire and old farm equipment. And behind that, the woods again, thicker, darker, older. It was in those woods that I found the gate.

I was maybe four, wandering farther than I’d ever been allowed, when I stumbled upon a clearing I didn’t recognize. In the center stood a gate, tall and made of black iron, its bars twisted into patterns of leaves and thorns. It was padlocked, but the lock was rusted, and the gate had sagged slightly, leaving a gap just wide enough for a child to squeeze through. The gate was set into a low stone wall that seemed to go on forever in both directions, disappearing into the trees. I remember thinking, This must be the edge of my kingdom.

I didn’t go through that day, but I came back often, drawn by a strange compulsion. I would press my face against the cold iron, peering into the darkness beyond. There was a path on the other side, barely visible, leading into deeper woods, and I could swear I saw movement among the trees, a flicker of white, a shifting of shadows. But I always told myself it was just the wind.

Then, one afternoon in autumn, with the leaves crackling underfoot, I found the gate slightly ajar. The padlock was gone, snapped clean off, as if bitten. I called for my mother, but she was on the other side of the house, and the sound of the highway masked my voice. So I slipped through.

The path was soft with fallen needles, and the air was colder than it should have been. I walked for a while, following a bend, and then I saw it. A small pond, black and still, its surface covered with floating leaves. On the far bank, there was a white shape. I thought at first it was a deer, but as I got closer, I realized it was a girl, about my age, wearing a yellow dress. She was crouched by the water, her back to me.

I called out, ‘Hello?’ She didn’t turn. I took a step closer. The ground squelched. ‘Hi, I’m Tommy.’ Still nothing. I was close enough now to see her hair, a tangle of dark curls. She was rippling her fingers in the water, but when I looked at the water, I saw no reflection. No ripples. And her fingers were dry.

I felt a sudden dread, a primal fear that made my legs numb. I turned and ran back the way I came, crashing through the underbrush, my heart pounding. I didn’t stop until I was back through the gate, which had swung shut behind me, nearly trapping me. I squeezed through the gap and collapsed on the other side, gasping.

That night, I told my mother about the gate and the girl. She frowned and said I must have been dreaming. But she checked the area the next day, and came back pale. She said the gate wasn’t there. That there was no gate, no wall, no pond. Just trees. But I knew what I saw.

After that, I stayed away from the woods. I played by the house, in the field, with Biscuit, but the memory of the girl stayed with me. And sometimes, late at night, I would hear a tapping at my window, soft and insistent. I would pull back the curtain, but there was nothing there. Just the old truck, silhouetted against the moon, its windows like empty eyes.

Years passed. We moved away when I was seven, and I forgot, mostly. But the image of the red gate haunted me. It wasn’t until I was fifteen, on a trip back to the old property, that I learned the truth. My grandmother, frail but sharp, told me that my great-grandfather had been a gentle man, but his brother, my great-uncle, had been ‘touched in the head.’ He had a daughter, a little girl named Elsie, who one day wandered into the woods and never came back. They searched for days, and eventually, they found her near a pond, but she wasn’t alive. She had drowned. After that, my great-uncle went mad, claimed he could still see her, playing by the water. He built a gate around the pond, a red gate, he insisted, though they painted it black. He said it was to keep her safe, to keep her in. But he was the one who had done it. He had drowned her, all because she had laughed at his clumsiness.

I sat in the kitchen, the old house creaking around me, and I felt a coldness seep into my bones. I hadn’t remembered a red gate. I had remembered black iron. But now, as my grandmother spoke, I saw it clearly. The gate was red, a deep, rusted red, like dried blood. And the girl in the yellow dress, her face, I hadn’t seen it, but I knew now. She had my eyes, the same shade of green, because we were so much alike. She had reached out to me, and I had run.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in the bed that had been my mother’s, listening to the wind. And then I heard it, the tapping at the window. I got up, my legs shaking, and pulled back the curtain. The window faced east, where the old truck had once sat. It was still there, but now, in the glow of the moon, I saw a figure leaning against its door. A small figure in a yellow dress. She looked up at me, and though her face was shadowed, I saw her smile. She raised a hand, and beckoned.

The window was unlocked. I don’t remember opening it. But I found myself climbing out, the cold night air biting my skin. The grass was wet with dew, and my feet were bare. The girl turned and began to walk toward the woods, and I followed. We passed the field, the shed, the old fence, and I didn’t think. I couldn’t. The only thing in my mind was the gate. The red gate.

We reached the clearing, and there it was, exactly as I remembered. Red, rusted, the gate slightly ajar. Beyond it, the pond, black and still. The girl walked through, and I followed. She stopped on the bank, and turned to face me. Her eyes were dark, and her mouth was open, as if she was trying to speak. But no words came out, only a soft, wet gurgle. Water began to drip from her dress. Her hair clung to her scalp. And her hands, which had been reaching for me, slowly drooped, as if she were too tired to hold them up.

I stood there, water seeping into my shoes, and I understood. She wasn’t here to hurt me. She was here to show me. She pointed behind me, to the gate, and I turned. On the gate, in faded letters, were the words ‘ELSIE’S GATE.’ And below it, a date. My birth date.

I woke up the next morning in my bed. The window was closed. My clothes were dry. But on my nightstand, there was a tiger lily, its petals slightly wilted, as if it had been picked the day before. I picked it up, and I knew it had come from her. And I knew, one day, I would go back. She was waiting.

I never did, though. I told myself it was a dream. But sometimes, on rainy nights, when the window rattles, I think I see a yellow dress in the reflection. And I hear a small voice, whisper-soft, calling my name. But I never answer. Not yet.