The Seventh Creak

It started with the seventh creak of the gate. I knew the sound of our front gate like I knew the sound of my own heartbeat. One creak for each second it took to push open, then a solid click as it met the latch. I counted them out of habit, perched on the flaking paint of the porch swing at our new house in the outskirts of Baguio, where the fog rolled in like a wet blanket and the pine trees whispered in a language I didn’t understand. I was fourteen, the youngest in a family of five, and I’d been left home alone for the first time. My parents were at a faculty meeting at the university, and my older brother, Nico, was at his part-time job at a 24-hour convenience store. They wouldn’t be back until late, and I’d decided to enjoy the rare solitude by sitting outside, the cold air biting my cheeks.

But the seventh creak wasn’t a creak at all. It was a slow, deliberate grind, like metal being dragged over concrete. I froze, my breath misting in front of me. Our gate was old, but it never made that sound. It was always a sharp, rusty complaint. This was different. It was longer, deeper, almost like the gate was being pushed open very slowly, deliberately, by a hand that didn’t want to make a noise. I stared at the gate, but the mist and the encroaching dusk made it a blurry silhouette. The latch didn’t click. Instead, the gate simply rested agaist the fence, as if whoever had opened it had slipped inside without closing it.

I should have gone inside. I should have locked the door and hid. But curiosity, that insidious companion of youth, made me lean forward. ‘Hello?’ I called, my voice sounding small and frail. No answer. The wind rattled the dry leaves on the ground, and a dog barked in the distance. I stood up, my legs unsteady. The porch light was still off; we only turned it on when someone was home. The house behind me was dark, its windows like empty eyes. I took a step toward the gate, my heart hammering. The gravel crunched under my sneakers, announcing every movement. I reached the gate and saw that it was indeed ajar. The street beyond was empty, a ribbon of wet asphalt under the weak glow of a single streetlamp. There was no one there.

I told myself it was the wind. But the wind doesn’t open gates, not like that. It pushes them, slams them, but not silently and slowly. I reached out to pull the gate closed, and that’s when I noticed the handle was warm. Not just warm from the sun; it was searing, like it had been held in a hand just moments ago. I snatched my hand back, a thrill of fear shooting up my arm. Something had touched that handle, something that left a heat signature. I looked down at the ground. There, on the gravel, was a set of footprints. They were impossibly small, like the feet of a child, but they were deep, as if the person carrying them was heavy. And they were wet, even though it hadn’t rained for days.

I backed away, my mind racing. Who could have come through the gate and left no other trace? No car doors, no footsteps on the porch, no sound of a key in the lock. I turned and fled inside, locking the door behind me. The lock clicked with a sense of finality, but it didn’t comfort me. The house felt different now. The hallway was longer, the shadows deeper. I turned on every light I could find, flooding the rooms with harsh yellow light. I checked every room, every closet, under every bed. Nothing. No one. I finally sat on the living room couch, the TV on low, the volume a murmur to drown out the silence. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was not alone.

The kitchen was at the back of the house, with a narrow window that overlooked the garden. I heard a tapping sound, rhythmic and persistent. Tap. Tap. Tap. It was coming from the window. I crept closer, my bare feet cold on the tile floor. The curtains were drawn, but I could see the silhouette of a shape against the glass. It was the shape of a hand. Small, with short fingers, pressing against the pane. I froze, my breath catching. The tapping continued, slower now, almost like a countdown. I inched closer, my own hand reaching out to pull the curtain aside. But my hand was shaking too much. I pressed my face against the cool glass, trying to see past the glow of the kitchen light.

There, on the patio, stood a small figure. It was a little girl, about seven years old, wearing a faded yellow raincoat, even though it wasn’t raining. Her hair was plastered to her face, as if she’d been caught in a downpour. She was staring directly at me through the window, her eyes black and empty. She raised her hand and tapped again, the sound oddly muffled, as if the glass were a drum. ‘Let me in,’ she mouthed. I stumbled back, tripping over a chair. I screamed, a raw, guttural sound that tore from my throat. But no sound came out. I scrambled to my feet and ran to the phone, my fingers trembling as I dialed my mother’s number. It rang and rang. No answer. I called my brother. No answer. I called the police. The line was dead.

I pressed the phone to my ear, hearing nothing but static. And then, through the static, I heard a child’s laughter. It was a sweet, tinkling sound, but it chilled me to the bone. I slammed the phone down. The tapping had stopped. I crept back to the kitchen, peeking around the corner. The patio was empty. But the window was frosted from the inside, with tiny handprints scattered across its surface, as if a child had been pressing her palms against it for a long time. I touched one. It was cold. And it was wet, like the footprints outside.

I didn’t know what to do. I sat in the middle of the living room floor, surrounded by every light I could turn on, the TV blaring a sitcom I wasn’t watching. I don’t know how long I sat there, but eventually I heard the key in the lock. The door opened, and my mother walked in, her face tired but familiar. ‘You’re still up?’ she asked, noticing my pale face. I tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. I just pointed toward the kitchen. My mother frowned and walked in that direction. I heard her gasp. A moment later, she came back, holding something in her hand. It was a small, yellow raincoat, dripping wet. ‘Where did you find this?’ she asked, her voice tight.

I shook my head. ‘It was outside the window.’ My mother’s face went white. She dropped the raincoat as if it were poisoned. ‘Who left this?’ she demanded. I had no answer. My brother came home an hour later, and we huddled in the living room, the raincoat in a plastic bag on the table. We called the police, and they came, but they found nothing. No footprints, no sign of forced entry. They said it was probably a prank, a child from the neighborhood. But I knew better. The prints were small, but the depth of them, the heat on the handle, the wetness that never dried—it was something else.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the house settle. Around two in the morning, I heard the gate creak. I counted the creaks out of habit, my body tensing with each one. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. And then the seventh, the long, grinding creak. I held my breath. The latch didn’t click. I heard footsteps on the gravel, slow and heavy, coming toward the house. They stopped at the front door. I heard a soft knocking, not at the door, but at my window, which faced the street. I turned my head slowly, and through the glass, I saw her. The same girl in the yellow raincoat, now soaked to the bone, her hair covering her face. She raised her hand and pressed it to the glass. And through the glass, I could hear her voice, muffled and hollow: ‘You left the gate open. I’ve been waiting.’

I screamed, and I ran. I ran to my parents’ room, but they weren’t there. I ran to my brother’s room, but he wasn’t there. The house was empty. The lights were out. I was alone again. The knocking grew louder, and the girl’s voice grew more impatient. ‘Let me in,’ she said. ‘I’ve been waiting such a long time.’ I pressed myself against the wall, the cold seeping through my pajamas. The knocking stopped. A silence fell, heavy and oppressive. And then, from inside the house, I heard a giggle. It came from behind me. I turned around, and there she was. Standing in the doorway of my room, her yellow raincoat dripping water onto the floor. She smiled, and her mouth was black, filled with tiny, sharp teeth.

‘You shouldn’t have left the gate open,’ she said. ‘Now I can come in.’ I backed away, but there was nowhere to go. She took a step forward, and then another, and the sound of her wet shoes on the hardwood floor was the only sound in the world. I tried to scream, but my voice was gone. The girl reached out and touched my face with her small, cold hand. And as her touch burned like ice, I understood. The gate wasn’t for people to come in. It was for something else to get out.

In the morning, my family found me sitting in the corner of my room, my hands around my knees, rocking back and forth. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t tell them what happened. They never found the raincoat again. They moved us away a week later, but I know she’s still there, in that house, waiting by the gate, waiting for someone who will answer the seventh creak. I still hear it sometimes, even in our new home, that long, grinding sound. And sometimes, late at night, I see a small hand pressed against my window, and a voice that whispers, ‘I’ve been waiting.’