The Spider Gates

In the town where I grew up, there is a cemetery in the forest that surrounds the town reservoir. The cemetery dates back to the Quaker settlement that existed there long before the town was built. Surrounding the cemetery stands eight wrought iron gates, each one forged hundreds of years ago and hung from gigantic hinges attached to granite pillars. The most unique aspect of these gates is their appearance. The center of each gate is decorated with a wagon-wheeled pattern with eight spindles emerging from it's center. It is because of this feature, that these have come to be known as the Spider Gates.

The Spider Gates cemetery was a popular hangout location for many of the local teenagers. Students often skipped school to go hang out by the gates. Despite their popularity, no one to my recollection ever dared to pass through the gates after sundown. This is because the site was rumored to be haunted. Some of the older kids had once stayed at the gates to watch the sunset. They claimed that as they began to leave, one of them spotted a woman, dressed in white, sitting atop one of the grave markers. They called out to her, which appeared to startle her. She stood and then faded as she sank downward into the soil in front of the marker.

There was countless stories and local legends surrounding the old cemetery. A popular one that most people knew was Marmaduke's grave. The legend claimed that if you were to walk around Marmaduke's gravestone ten times at midnight then kneel down with your head against the gravestone and whisper "Marmaduke speak to me", then you could hear him speak. Others claimed that the cemetery gates themselves were haunted. They said that each of the eight gates became increasingly more haunted as you got closer to the last gate at the back end of the cemetery. At the first gate some claimed to have heard whispers of distant voices, and at the eighth gate, there was rumors that a girl had been scratched there, by something she couldn't see.

One summer, two of my friends and myself managed to talk ourselves into putting the stories to the test. Daryl and Anne were dating at the time, and Daryl had also brought his dog along. Armed with flashlights and a Polaroid camera, we arrived there at the edge of the woods around 7:00 and the cemetery was a 15 minute walk from the road. We stopped when we reached the gates. I stepped forward and pushed them open, the iron gates groaning tiredly against their frame. We proceed to enter but Daryl stopped abruptly, his dog refusing to move through the gate. He tugged the leash and called, trying unsuccessfully to coax the dog forward. He ended up having to pick the dog up and carry him through.

After the initial incident at the gate we explored the grave markers for a while. We joked with each other about ghosts but it was clear that everyone was now a bit unnerved. As the last of the daylight faded away we decided to settle in one corner of the cemetery underneath a large oak tree. We camped out there until it had been dark for some time.

It was a warm summer night and the combined light of the crescent moon and stars shining through the limbs of the trees provided almost enough light to see without need of the flashlights. Around ten o'clock we decided to go walk around to each of the gates. We each took turns holding the camera while another one of us would speak aloud, asking any spirits present to show themselves. To each of our unspoken delight, we did not encounter any signs of ghosts at any of the eight gates. Daryl's dog also seemed to be perfectly content now, trotting along happily behind us.

After visiting the eighth gate we begin to the big tree where we had sat earlier. Feeling brave, I suggested that we go and check out Marmadukes Grave. Daryl picked up a twig and broke it into three segments of differing length. He held them out so that we each could pick one. I went first, then Anne. We each held our piece of twig out to compare them. Anne had drawn the shortest. After we had waked to the grave she asked if we really had to do this. Daryl and I both nodded. She began to walk around the gravestone, counting each time she passed us. After ten she stopped, knelt down and pressed her forehead against the stone. She whispered and then stood up. We all listened. The night had grown still and quiet. As if to answer, the wind picked up for a moment, carrying a few dried leaves tumbling along the ground. We were simultaneously relieved and also disappointed that no voice had answered from beyond the grave.

As we started to turn away from the gravestone, we heard a low grunt. We froze, then slowly turned back to face the headstone. The sound appeared to have come from the direction of the stone and we all had heard it. We waited for a moment, saying nothing, waiting for something to happen. Suddenly Anne yelped, she had stepped back and her foot had sunken into a hole in the soil. Something has me she exclaimed! She pulled her foot from the hole and we began to run back towards the cemetery entrance.

We had just reached the gate when we heard a low growl, we turned to look at Daryl's dog, who was just standing there, looking straight forward in the direction of the gate with his tail between his legs. We heard the sound again and realized that it wasn't coming from the dog, but in the direction of the gate. We couldn't see anything near the gate, then something crashed in the woods behind us. We sprinted through the gate and all the way back to the car. As we reached the car, Daryl pulled out his keys and dropped them. Looking back, I remember thinking that it was just like a horror movie. We got in and sped off without looking back.