Behind the old gate ...

"It just an old gate", she mouthed.

On Townsend Street, a normal street along the waterfront, was the gate. To you and me it would look just like any other gate, a bit old and unloved perhaps, but that's not unusual in these parts.

The gate kept those out, out, and its secrets safe and secure, which is exactly what a gate should do.

But everyone knew what was really behind the gate.

At neighbourhood BBQs they talked about the old man that had never been seen this side of the gate, or was it the old woman. Or what about the times that number 158 had heard screaming in the dead of the night. Or maybe that was 168, and perhaps they had heard a dog barking.

The local committee AGM is always interrupted by one or two concerned residents demanding that the committee find out about the smells, the smokes, the sounds, or even one year, "a general sense of evil". This is minuted and never actioned.

Whatever it was, everyone knew not to go near the gate. Even the adults stepped off the pavement when walking by, tutting to themselves nervously about how silly they were and next time they'd definitely stay on the pavement.

"It just an old gate", Meg said out loud. She stood there breathing heavily under the warm clouds, growing her courage to put her hand through the hole, find the latch, and go in.