This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/First-Difference-904 on 2025-07-11 01:21:40+00:00.

When my wife Sarah and I bought the house, it felt like a dream come true. Quiet neighborhood, plenty of trees, and a big backyard with a rusted, overgrown fence running along the far edge. The realtor said the forest behind it was "undeveloped county land" — no trails, no utilities, no trespassing. She mentioned the fence was probably an old property divider.

But it wasn’t just a fence. It was nearly eight feet tall, made of rusted iron, with twisted, sharp points along the top, like it was built to keep something in, not out. Right in the center, hidden behind vines and moss, was a gate — welded shut with thick seams of metal and rust. On the inside of that gate—our side—someone had carved a single word into the metal:

"STAY."

At first, we thought it was some strange leftover from the previous owners. Maybe they were paranoid. Maybe they had kids and wanted to scare them from wandering into the woods.

Now I think they were trying to warn us.

The dog noticed it first. Bear is usually friendly, dumb as a rock but loyal. After we moved in, he refused to go near the fence. Wouldn’t even step into the backyard. He’d stand at the sliding door, growling softly, tail low, ears pinned.

Then the dreams started.

Sarah said she kept dreaming about the woods — dense, black trees packed tighter than they should be. She said she heard things walking just out of sight, shapes moving between the trunks. I shrugged it off, told her it was stress. New house, new environment. Normal adjustment stuff.

Then I started having the same dreams.

And then it got worse.

One night last week, I woke up at exactly 3:17 a.m. Not from a noise. Not from a nightmare. I just… knew I had to wake up. The house was silent. Even Bear wasn’t snoring. I got up and looked out the back window.

There, standing inside the fence.

On the other side of the welded gate.

I couldn’t see much, just a tall silhouette. Pale, almost white. Barely human-shaped. It didn’t move. Didn’t run when I turned on the porch light.

It just raised a long, thin arm and pointed at me.

I blinked. It was gone.

The next morning, I found bare footprints in the dew. Human-looking, but wrong. Toes too long. Arches too low. They led from the gate, across the backyard, and stopped right beneath our bedroom window.

That night, Sarah said I was talking in my sleep. Not mumbling, whispering.

She said I kept repeating the same phrase over and over:

“Let me back in. I remember now. Let me back in.”

I don’t remember any of it.

But she swears she saw me get up around 2 a.m., unlock the back door, and stand by the fence. Just… staring.

She said I whispered something to the gate. And something whispered back.

Last night was the worst. I woke to Sarah shaking me, tears in her eyes.

“The gate,” she said. “Listen.”

I held my breath. In the silence, I heard it:

Metal groaning.

A slow, dragging, shrieking noise, rusted hinges straining.

We ran to the window. The gate was open. Bent inward, like something had forced its way through the welds.

I grabbed a flashlight and went out barefoot, heart pounding. The air near the gate was colder. Still. Like the woods themselves were watching.

And that’s when I saw it.

The word on the gate “STAY” was gone.

Scratched over with deep, jagged gouges.

Now it said:

“WELCOME HOME."

I don’t know what I did. I don’t know what’s calling to me from those woods.

But something is.

Something that remembers me.

And I think… I’m starting to remember it too.