The Rusted Gate

I was nine when we moved into the house behind the rusted gate. It wasn’t a gate that closed anything in, just a broken chain-link fence that leaned toward the house like a tired drunk. Mama said it was cheap, and that’s all that mattered. She had a new man again, Dale, with a grin like a cracked window and hands that knew how to fix things until they broke.

Our place was a two-room shack in the piney woods of East Texas, where the air was thick with moisture and the smell of decay. The house had a porch that sloped to one side, and when you walked, the floorboards sang a song of rotten wood. Dale said it was a fixer-upper, but he never fixed it. He spent his days at the liquor store and his nights on the porch, drinking beer and staring at the dark tree line.

My room was a tiny box off the kitchen, with a window that looked onto the backyard. The first night, I saw it: a shape at the edge of the woods, tall and thin, darker than the night. I blinked, and it was gone. I told Mama, but she just said, ‘You got an imagination, girl. Don’t let it scare you.’ Dale laughed, a wet, ugly sound, and said, ‘Maybe it’s the bogeyman. You better watch out.’ He laughed again, and I saw the bruise on Mama’s arm she tried to hide.

Then the whispers started. They came from the walls, or maybe the ground, or maybe from the sound of the wind through the pine needles. They said my name. ‘Elaine.’ It was a hiss, like dry leaves skittering. I’d lie in bed, covers over my head, and try to breathe. I’d pray to God, but He seemed far away, like the moon behind clouds.

The first time I saw the old woman, I was digging for worms near the gate. She was standing there, on the other side, with a grin that showed too many teeth. Her dress was green and mossy, like it had grown from the swamp. She didn’t move. She just watched. I ran inside, but Mama was in the kitchen, and I told her. She said, ‘There’s no old woman. The woods behind those trees are empty. You’re seeing things.’ Dale came in, and when I repeated, he said, ‘Maybe it’s Miss Hattie’s ghost. They say she was a witch who drowned in the creek. But don’t you worry, she only comes for bad children.’ He pinched my arm hard, and I yelped, and he laughed.

After that, I started seeing things everywhere. A shadow that didn’t belong to anything. A face in the grain of the wood on my wall. And the whispers became more distinct: ‘Elaine, come to the gate.’ I tried to ignore it, but it was like an itch in my brain. I started sleepwalking. One night, I woke up at the gate, my hands on the cold metal, staring into the woods. The old woman was there, closer now, and she was holding something out to me – a little rag doll, stained with mud. I screamed, and Dale came out and dragged me inside, cursing. He had his belt in his hand, and that night he taught me not to go wandering.

I think it was the creek that broke the covenant. The creek behind our house had a name that nobody spoke. They said a girl had drowned there years ago, a girl with a blue ribbon in her hair. I found the ribbon one day, caught on a root, and I picked it up. It was old and faded, but it felt warm, like it had been alive. I kept it in my pocket. That night, the whispers were loud, almost like a chant. ‘Give me back my soul.’ I woke to find myself at the creek, the ribbon in my hand, and the water was dark and still, waiting. I saw the old woman in the water, reaching for me, and I dropped the ribbon and ran.

After that, things got worse. Dale’s drinking increased, and so did his violence. Mama took to wearing long sleeves, and she’d flinch when the phone rang. The house seemed to sag deeper into itself, as if the rot was spreading. The smell of decay, which had been faint, now clung to everything. And the whispers never stopped. I started talking to the air, saying, ‘Leave me alone,’ but it didn’t help.

One night, I heard a cry from the backyard, like a child’s sob. I crept to the window, and there, under the rusted gate, I saw a small shape, huddled. It was a boy, maybe six, with wet, dark hair. He looked up at me, his face pale and streaked with tears. ‘Help me,’ he said. I opened the door and went to him. He reached out, and his hand was cold, so cold, and he said, ‘I fell in the creek, and the lady took my hand.’ I looked at his hand, and it was missing two fingers. I tried to pull away, but he held tight, and I could feel the cold creeping up my arm. Then I saw the old woman standing behind him, and she smiled, and she said, ‘Now you’re mine.’

When I came to, I was lying in the mud by the gate, and the sun was up. I had mud in my mouth, and my hand was cold. Mama was standing over me, and she looked old, her face hollow. ‘Elaine, you were gone all night,’ she said. She didn’t ask where I’d been. Dale was behind her, and he didn’t look at me. They took me inside, and I saw that my hand was black, like frostbite. The whispers were quiet then, but they were still there, humming beneath the surface.

I never left that house again, not even when I grew up. I stayed because I had to. I see them now, the children, gathering at the gate. They come when the moon is full, and they stand there, silent, their cold hands reaching through the bars. I’m the one who stands on the other side now, and I know my work is to keep them from getting out. The old woman is in the woods, but she’s patient. I can feel her waiting, and sometimes, when the mist is thick, I see her smile, and I know that one day, when I’m old and tired, I’ll open the gate, and she’ll take my hand, and I’ll lead the children down to the creek, where we’ll all be together, in the cold, dark water, forever.