The Serpent’s Gate

The gate stood at the end of Blackwood Lane, a rusted iron relic that had once been a magnificent work of art, now choked with ivy and sorrow. Two stone serpents coiled around the posts, their emerald eyes glinting in the waning moon. The left serpent’s eyes were open, watching the road; the right’s were shut, as if in eternal slumber. My partner, Mara, and I had come to investigate the rumors—whispered tales of a cult that once worshipped beneath the hill, and of the albino deer that were said to roam the woods beyond, their white coats like ghosts. We were ghost hunters, or more precisely, banishers, and tonight we sought to cleanse the lingering pain from these grounds.

We had been called by a local historian who claimed that strange lights flickered among the trees, and that the gate itself seemed to move at night. As we approached, I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the autumn air. Mara traced her fingers over the serpent scales, finding a worn inscription: ‘Here lies the keeper of the gate.’ On the left serpent’s belly, between its coils, were the letters ‘M.E.’ and a crude symbol resembling a twisted tree. On the right, ‘R.I.P.’ and a similar mark. We photographed every detail, the flash illuminating the dark.

We pushed the gate open, its hinges screaming like a wounded animal. The path beyond was a tunnel of gnarled oaks, their branches interlocking overhead, blocking the moon. We walked for ten minutes before the trees parted, revealing a clearing dominated by a Victorian mansion, its windows boarded, its porch sagging. But what caught our attention was the rows of albino deer statues lining the drive, each one pristine, their marble bodies glowing softly in the moonlight. They were not alive, but they seemed to watch us.

We entered the mansion through a broken side door. Dust covered everything, but there were fresh footprints leading to the basement. We followed, our flashlights cutting through the black. The basement was a vast chamber with a stone altar, covered in dried blood. On the altar lay a leather-bound book. Mara opened it, and we found pages filled with a strange script, and illustrations of the serpents and the deer. The final page had a diagram of the gate, with notes about the ‘opening of the third eye’ and the ‘night of the red moon.’

Suddenly, the temperature plummeted. The candles we had lit flickered and died. From the shadows, a voice hissed, ‘You have opened the wrong door.’ We turned to see a figure, tall and gaunt, with skin like alabaster, and eyes like the serpents’—one open, one closed. It grabbed Mara’s arm, and she screamed. I swung my flashlight, hitting it, but it dissipated into mist. We ran, but the stairs seemed to stretch, the corridor twisting. We burst out the front door to find the clearing filled with the deer statues, now animated, their milky eyes fixed on us. They advanced, their hooves silent on the grass.

We reached the gate, but it was locked, and the serpents had turned to face us. The left serpent’s eyes glowed red, and its mouth opened, emitting a low rumble. The right serpent’s eyes opened, revealing void. The ground shook, and I saw Mara mouth the words, ‘They’re not statues.’ The serpents uncoiled, their bodies immense, blocking our path. The albino deer surrounded us, their heads low, ready to charge.

In desperation, I pulled out the silver cross I carried, but it did nothing. Then I remembered the inscription: ‘The keeper of the gate.’ I looked at the gate, and on the inside, where we hadn’t noticed, was a small keyhole shaped like a serpent. I dug into my pocket and found a strange key I had picked up at a flea market earlier that week. I inserted it. The gate swung open, and the serpents recoiled, hissing. I grabbed Mara, and we dove through, landing on the road outside. The gate slammed shut behind us, and immediately the serpents returned to their stone positions, the deer froze in place. The writing on their bodies had changed: now it read, ‘You are forever marked.’

We never returned, but we still bear the scars—Mara’s arm has a mark like a serpent’s bite, and I have recurring dreams of the open eye. The gate, we later learned, was destroyed when the estate was condemned, but the new standard gate that replaced it is said to be even more sinister. And on nights when the moon is red, you can see two serpents coiled around the new fence, watching, waiting for the next who dare to pry.