Chapter 3: The Truth Behind the Threshold

The next day, I marched back to the old man, the threshold clutched in my arms. My palms were sweating so bad I nearly dropped it. I tried to sound tough, but my voice wobbled as I demanded, "Is this even real poplar wood?"

He admitted it wasn’t, but didn’t get why I needed a Ghost Gate Threshold. I slammed it on the ground, voice trembling, "This is a Ghost Gate Threshold! Last night, the ghost banged its head all night—two more days and we’re all dead!"

He looked at me, unphased. "This is maple. Between maple and poplar, which do you think is more likely to be a Ghost Gate Threshold?"

I just stared, confused.

He explained, "Maple’s tough. It blocks ghosts. Poplar attracts them—using it’s like rolling out a red carpet for spirits. Your dorm’s at the Ghost Gate. Install a poplar threshold, you’ll bring in a hundred ghosts."

Suddenly, it clicked. Poplar trees and ghosts—my uncle used to tell stories around the Pennsylvania campfire about haunted poplar groves where the wind always sounded like whispers. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

But Natalie would never lie to me. I couldn’t just doubt her now.

I asked the old man what he did, and why he knew so much. He said the hill behind campus was once a mass grave—tens of thousands of restless souls. His family had guarded the Ghost Gate for three generations. Then the land became college property. The professors didn’t believe in ghosts, so they built a dorm right there—a girls’ dorm. Every year, girls in my room mysteriously committed suicide.

A chill shot down my spine. I remembered the flowers by the quad, the candlelit vigils, the way people whispered about the old east wing. I’d always blamed it on stress or bad luck—never thought it would be my room.

Then he asked, "After you installed the maple threshold, did your roommates stay out?"

"Yeah. They said they were scared of ghosts and slept elsewhere."

He laughed. "They weren’t scared of ghosts. They are the ghosts—they couldn’t cross the threshold!"

His words hit me like a punch. I stared at my hands, suddenly unsure if I’d ever really known the people I’d been living with.

I pushed back. If my roommates were ghosts, what about the man who came in at night?

He told me, "Go back tonight. Put each roommate’s shoes by their bed—one toe in, one toe out. If they’re human, nothing happens. If they’re ghosts, they’ll get lost and never get on the bed."

I left, half believing, half doubting. The threshold felt heavier as I walked back to campus, and I couldn’t help glancing over my shoulder.