In a forgotten village, surrounded by crooked trees and endless mist, stood an old iron gate. No one knew who built it — it led nowhere. Behind it lay only fog and shadows. But the villagers whispered one rule every Halloween: “Never stand before the Gate at midnight.”

One Halloween night, a curious boy named Aron laughed at the stories. “It’s just metal and rust,” he said, walking up to the gate as the clock struck twelve.

The wind stopped. The air froze. The iron bars began to creak, slowly swinging open on their own. From the mist, pale hands reached out, followed by faces — twisted, silent, waiting.

Aron tried to run, but the ground beneath him turned cold as stone. The gate shut behind him with a final, echoing clang.

The next morning, the villagers found the gate closed again. Only a small pumpkin lay in front of it — carved with Aron’s frightened face.

Every Halloween since, the gate opens again at midnight…
and one more shadow joins the mist.
#GateHalloween