The House Beyond the Iron Gate

They told Eliza the house didn’t exist. Maps showed nothing. Locals grew silent when asked. Even the cab driver who dropped her near the old forest had muttered, “Don’t go beyond the iron gate.”

But Eliza wasn’t here for whispers. She was here for truth.

She had grown up with bedtime tales of Ravenshade Manor—a Victorian mansion her grandmother had once called home before she vanished without a trace. Every story ended with a warning: Some doors, once opened, don’t close the same way again.

Now, standing at the rusting gate that groaned under its own sorrow, Eliza felt that warning come alive.

Mist coiled along the path like serpents, slithering between crumbling stones and thorny vines. The moon, heavy and pale, cast long shadows that twitched like they had minds of their own. Above it all, the house stood in quiet defiance, its windows flickering faintly, though no electricity had run through this part of town for decades.

Eliza stepped forward.

The gate didn’t resist. It creaked open with a sound like bones grinding, and the air turned colder—so cold that her breath came out in plumes, even though it was early October.

With each step down the path, the forest behind her vanished into a wall of fog. The world was narrowing—no way back, only forward.

The front door was slightly ajar.

“Eliza…” The whisper came from somewhere inside. A woman’s voice. Soft. Familiar.

She didn’t think—just pushed the door open and entered.

The air inside was thick with the scent of rotting wood and time. Dust blanketed every surface. Furniture stood frozen in mid-motion, like someone had been interrupted mid-sentence. Paintings hung crooked on the walls, their eyes seeming to follow her.

In the foyer stood a mirror. Cracked.

And yet, her reflection wasn’t alone.

Behind her was a woman in a long black gown. Hollow eyes. A face wrapped in sorrow.

Eliza turned.

Nothing.

But a gust of cold air blew past her, and the door slammed shut.

“Eliza…”

This time the voice came from the staircase. And this time, she recognized it.

“Grandmother?”

Her voice trembled. Her grandmother had disappeared fifty years ago, swallowed by this very house. The family assumed madness, or perhaps worse. But Eliza had always believed the truth was buried in this house. Now, she feared it might be buried with it.

She climbed the stairs.

Each step groaned under her weight, but she pressed on, past portraits with blurred-out faces and walls etched with names and tally marks.

At the end of the hallway stood a door with claw marks. Blood had dried around the knob.

Still, Eliza reached for it.

Inside was a bedroom, untouched by time. A child’s room, preserved in silence. A small music box sat on the dresser. She twisted the key.

“Hush little baby…”

The lullaby began. And behind her, the woman appeared again—no longer a shadow.

“Eliza,” she whispered, touching her shoulder. “You came.”

Her grandmother.

Unaged. Unchanged.

But her eyes... her eyes were not human.

“You’ve inherited the house now,” the woman said, voice layered with many tones. “The gate opened for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ravenshade doesn’t let go, child. It binds itself to blood. That’s why I stayed. That’s why you were drawn.”

The lullaby slowed, distorting.

“I don’t understand…”

The woman smiled. “You will.”

Suddenly, the walls shuddered. The air turned heavy. And from every corner of the room, shapes began to emerge—figures with missing eyes, twisted mouths, bones where flesh should be.

“Eliza,” they chorused. “Welcome home.”

She turned to run—but the hallway was gone. The mirror, the stairs, the doors—vanished into darkness.

Only the bedroom remained.

“You said you wanted truth,” her grandmother said gently, her face now stretched and pale, flickering like static. “Truth lives here. But it never leaves.”

Eliza screamed.

But outside the iron gate, the world was silent.

Only the house remained, flickering with yellow light through the fog, waiting for the next one who dared to seek the truth.