The Grim Gate

Suspense Stories | Sep 11, 2011 | 4 min read
168 Votes, average: 4 out of 5
Amid the stormy night, 3-Toad Diner's blue neon sign glowed as a beacon, attempting to safely guide some lone, desperate ship ashore. I was that ship, Evan Fletcher--was being the operative word. You'll probably discover that I'm dead now, after one year of relentless mental and physical torture at the hands of a secretive foe. But I've left this message as a warning so all would know of the horrors I encountered during a trip to a rain-soaked, sleepy town. Horrors that thoroughly stripped me of my sanity, tainting my soul with an incurable sickness, which should by now have delivered me unto the grave. But enough of my raving.

There I was, tattered, drenched, cold and weary. I stumbled my way inside the cafe for protection and sustenance. I was shaking with fright. A man, a lawman in fact--due to his attire--was seated in a booth nearby, glancing out into the night as he devoured a plateful of food. He was rabidly gnawing away at ribs saturated with some favored brand-name sauce...

"Easy there, buddy," said a man from behind the counter. "Can I get you something warm to drink? Coffee? Tea?"

I nodded, trembling. "Strong coffee, please." I became lightheaded. But before my legs gave way, the man rushed to my side, led me to a diagonally adjacent booth that faced the sheriff, then dabbed my face with a dry towel.

"Everything okay, Harold?" the sheriff inquired before stuffing his face once again.

"Don't know. Guy acts like he's seen a ghost."

"No ghost," I assured. "M-Much worse."

"Now you just calm down, friend," Harold said. "I'll be right back."

My head spun, my body ached, quaked, and fell into a completely irrational state of super-acuteness. And though my senses were being tested beyond the scope of human tolerance, I could still process the sheriff's disgusting chomp-slurp routine. I looked at him again; and it was only then that I realized his food was not covered in sauce after all. He finished his last rib, peered up at me, lips pursed, then wiped blood from his mouth, which only smeared. If there was something more unsightly under heaven, I didn't know what it could've been.

"Here you go, Buddy," Harold said, placing the coffee in front of me. "Sip this slowly now, okay. I'll be right back with the best dish of barbecued legs this side of Gaul's Grove."

I sat dazed, starring at my coffee, oblivious that Harold had already vanished through the kitchen door.

"You in, uh, some kinda trouble? Huh?"

The sheriff had just spoken to me, though I didn't realize it at first. I looked at him; at his bloodied mouth.

"Hey!" he yelled. "You hear what I just said?"

When he spoke this time, his face was aglow with an angry grin. Those teeth: they were big, off-toned, greenish-yellow things. He was big. Very big. A tank-sized man, though at the same time had an old and withered-looking appearance. Maybe a pale complexion is a better description. Come to think of it, Harold also lacked that visual color-quality one would expect to exude from the living.

I then imaged a town with no crime. And then imaged why, picturing that slab of meat on the sheriff's plate as one less criminal.

"W-What?" I managed.

The sheriff sucked air through his teeth. "I said, are you in trouble?"

"You w-wouldn't believe me if I told you."

He looked away. Took a huge gulp of his drink. The liquid streamed down his face, merging with the blood, then stained his uniform which seemed unwashed to begin with.

"Why?" he asked, setting his glass down on the formica surface with an irritating clack. "Think I'll take you for some kind of crackpot?"

I slammed my fist down. "I'm not crazy! My name is Evan Fletcher! I know my name! And I know what I saw! I saw it: the gate! I went through it! W-We--my wife and I--went through it! She died in there... she died! Those things! Those awful, wretched things!"

I slumped forward, buried my face in my hands, elbows resting on the table. For a long moment all was silent except for my sobbing, and the humming of the overhead florescent lights.

"My wife and I... we were just curious. We were just sight-seeing, hiking through the woods. We found the gate. I pulled on the handle until the door budged."

Lightning crackled outside; a noise fizzled inside, and all the power failed. I looked up and into total darkness, save for the neon sign that mysteriously continued to glow with an eerie, bluish hue. The sheriff's features were now obscured in shadow. I watched closely as his silhouette gazed straight ahead, seemingly at nothing in particular. Then his lips moved.

"Well," he said calmly, sincerely. "I'm sorry to hear all that." He paused, eased from his seat, then walked up to me. "But I'm afraid you've got other problems now. What you did on your little adventure is called breaking and entering. I should drag you downtown, kicking and screaming. But I'll be a nice guy this time, and just give you a slap on the wrist."

The sheriff's hand slammed down on mine, pinning me to the table with an indeterminable amount of force. Seconds later, I began to feel a painful pulsating sensation coming from his palm and fingers. I convulsed as my arm discolored to black, then felt an unusual rapid surge crawl up my arm and into my head. Wincing from agony, I saw images of the forest just before the storm had come.

My wife and I were there, enjoying a stroll down a winding path known as The Wayward Catch. We traveled deep into the woods, until coming upon a massive wrought iron door. I forced it open. We entered. And moments later were given a sample of where nightmares originate. A world full of death and horror at every turn. A place backward from reality. Where trees and plants are gnarled with a living-death. Where creatures not meant to be seen by human eyes roam freely. And where the elements churn with the blackest intent. We turned to run, but something had snatched my wife from sight. By the time I located her whereabouts, her vanishing hand into the depths a murky pond was all that remained.

The sheriff suddenly released me, and my basic, innate faculties seemed to return just as quickly. Without hesitation, I bolted into the ragging weather as the sheriff bellowed out a raspy resonance of dire revelation.

"I don't know about the rest of your wife, but her ribs were great!"

Tags:

  
Report This Story
Notice (8): Undefined index: User [APP/View/stories/story.ctp, line 227]
Notice (8): Trying to access array offset on value of type null [APP/View/stories/story.ctp, line 227]

Recommendations

Reviews

Elizabeth Sep 16, 2011

You have a wicked sense of humor !!! Crazy Scary !!! Loved It():)

Triss Sep 12, 2011

the scariest story ever!

James Sep 12, 2011

loved it!!

Download the Short Story Lovers App

Read and write stories anytime, anywhere with the Short Story Lovers app