The Gate by Charlotte Hollingsworth
It began on a Saturday morning. The sky grey, clouds heavy with rain. Jenna and her husband would wake up early and go for a ramble through the country fields surrounding their town every weekend. This Saturday it was just Jenna and she was still fuming from the night before, she had gotten up earlier than her husband and left the house. A brisk walk in the countryside will clear most bad thoughts, but Jenna wasn’t finding much peace.
Her muddy boots stomped through the trails, her hands shoved into the pockets of her fleece as she ground her teeth without realizing. What an idiot, she thought, what an absolute idiot. There was a soft rumble in the distance and so Jenna began to count. She got to 10 before the lightning flashed, still far away and enough time for her to get back home. But it’s fitting, she thought bitterly.
The trails never changed much – fields of crops, cows, occasional horses that would wander over to the fence. Sometimes, when Jenna remembered, she would put some sugar cubes in her pocket for them. But today the horses stood together, huddled under a tree in the distance. She paused for a moment leaning on the fence to watch them, their ears occasionally flicking away the rain. One of them braved the rain and ambled over, shoving his wet nose into her hand. “Sorry bud, not today.” The horse huffed and warm air hit her freezing cold hands. Like most, Jenna had a fleeting fantasy of leaping the fence, hopping on the horse bareback and fleeing into a world of adventure. But it only lasted a moment before she sighed and continued down the trail.
On the right was the Frasier farm, their house sitting comfortably in the distance nestled between a bright red barn and a crop of trees. Her attention was dragged to something in the field though and she stopped, squinting through the misty rain that still fell. Another rumble hit the air, but Jenna didn’t hear it. Her gaze was focused on something strange.
In the middle of the Frasier’s field stood a gate. It stood by itself, a foot of brick wall on either side, but nothing else. There was a haze over the gate that made it seem unreal, but Jenna couldn’t stop staring. She did this walk every week and had never noticed this completely random, decrepit gate.
Before Jenna could think twice, she stepped over the hedge that lined this particular field and walked through the muddy grass toward the gate. If she had looked anywhere else, she would’ve noticed that no matter how far she walked, the Frasier farmhouse still remained in the distance. She would’ve seen the flashes of lightning that were suddenly much closer than before. She would’ve heard the panicked whinnying of the horses. But all she could see was the gate.
When she was in front of it, the gate sat at chest height, a little ring of brass in the middle. The wood was dark and cracked, there was ivy growing around the edge of it. The stone on either side was even lower, probably knee high, but the stones were heavily worn down and big chunks were missing. Jenna could hear some faint notes of music coming from beyond the gate and a golden light peeked through the cracks. Her hand trembled as she reached forward but no part of her tried to stop. She gripped the brass handle and pulled, half expecting the gate would just disappear but deep down knowing it wouldn’t. The door swung open, music pouring out and enveloping her. Flutes, drums, violins. It was beautiful and Jenna closed her eyes as the music washed over her. She took a step forward into the open doorway and felt a warm wind brush her face, easing any worries she carried from the fight with her husband, with the debt hanging over their heads, the slight hangover from the wine the night before. Her eyes stayed closed as she entered but it wouldn’t have mattered if she opened them, everything had gone dark. Voices began to whisper in her ears, tiny fingers pulling at her hair, her eyelashes, something sharp scratching at her skin.
It ended on a Saturday morning. Jenna walked down the trail, hands in her fleece pocket, her steps light as she strode through the mud. The storm had passed and the air was heavy with humidity. The clouds still hung above her but the sun broke through, shining upon her lithe figure.
The horses that had left the shelter of the trees saw her walking past and began to bray and run in the opposite direction, their legs bucking in fear. She ignored them.
She rounded the last bend and her little cottage sat eagerly in front of her, its windows open and the smell of roses sickeningly sweet from the bushes that lined the walk. Jenna stepped into the front entrance, kicking off her muddy rain boots.
“Honey?” She called, taking off her fleece and hanging it on the coat rack. “Darling?” she called again, her voice high and melodic. Her husband stuck his head out from the kitchen.
“Jenna? That you?” his hair was tousled and bags lay heavily under his eyes. She waved at him sweetly and followed him into the kitchen. He handed her a cup of steaming coffee and opened his mouth to talk. She held up her hand to stop him. But he continued on like he always did.
“We need to talk about last night, I know that things aren’t perfect right now and we’re under a lot of stress, but that doesn’t excuse you verbally attacking me the way you did. You know how you always get when you drink too much wine. I’ve told you time and time again not to drink that much….”
Jenna sipped her coffee, listening before cutting him off, slamming her cup onto the counter. He’d forgotten to put milk in it, just like he always did. The liquid sloshed over the ceramic rim and pooled onto the counter. Her husband jumped.
“Listen honey, light of my life. I need you to shut the fuck up for a second okay?” Her husband’s mouth gaped uselessly, like a fish on dry land gasping for air. Before he could react, Jenna reached for the knife stand, grabbing the biggest and shiniest one and leapt over the counter with inhuman grace and slammed the knife into his neck. Her husband fell backwards from the weight of her, his coffee cup smashing to the ground below them, his hands reached for his neck, trying to stop the blood that gushed out of the gaping wound.
Jenna stepped back as his body slid to the ground, he tried to speak but it was only a gurgle of blood as his hands fell to his side. A faint note of violins and flutes drifted through the open kitchen window.
Jenna took the knife to the sink, washing it under hot water as she hummed softly to herself. She picked up the ruined pieces of the coffee cup from around her husband’s body as blood seeped between the floor boards. She took a wet rag and mopped up her own spilled coffee from the counter.
When everything was cleaned up, except for her husband’s bloody body that let out one last death rattle, Jenna clapped her hands in satisfaction, poured herself a glass of wine and went and sat in the garden, the sun warming her face, a golden glow surrounding her.
In the Frasier’s farm land, a gate flickered and disappeared before anyone else noticed it. Miles away in another town a woman was walking her dog through the forest, her thoughts a mess as she scrambled to put together how exactly she’d missed the signs her husband was cheating on her. Thunder rumbled in the distance and her dog stopped in his tracks, a low growl coming from deep within his throat. There was a flash out of the corner of her eye and when she looked deep into the trees she saw a gate. How strange, she thought, what on earth is a gate doing in the middle of the woods?
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