Yog-sothoth-s Yard -

Ezekiel fretted anyway. He was a practical man, a retired surveyor who believed in boundary lines and right angles. The yard, however, refused to obey either. His GPS spun wildly whenever he crossed the fence line. His measuring tape, stretched between two oaks, came back with different lengths each time—twelve feet, then thirty, then a length that seemed to fold into itself like a swallowed sob.

Ezekiel looked down at his hands. They were already paling, elongating, the fingers fusing into something smooth and wooden-grained. He could feel roots trying to push from his heels. The fog curled around his ankles, patient as a gardener.

He stepped through.

The fog did not lift again.

He tried to fire the pistol. The bullet left the barrel, hung in midair, and aged to rust in three seconds before dropping to the grass with a soft, final thud.

It hung in the air between two posts, a shimmer like heat haze but cold, cold as the space between heartbeats. No handle. No keyhole. Just a suggestion of a rectangle, and beyond it, a glimpse of something that made his hindbrain scream. Not a graveyard. Not earth or stone. A vast, spiraling elsewhere —a yard that contained not bodies but possibilities . Unborn moments. Choices he had never made. Alternate versions of himself standing in alternate yards, all of them turning to look at him with the same slack-jawed horror.

A voice came through the door. It had no sound he could name, yet it carved meaning directly into his thoughts, like acid on glass. Yog-Sothoth-s Yard

“Ezekiel. You measured the land. But did you measure the space between the land and itself?”

The gate was not a thing of wood or iron, nor of any geometry Ezekiel recognized. It stood in the corner of his inherited property—a crooked, weeping post-and-rail fence that seemed to exhale a thin, cold fog even on summer afternoons. The deed called the parcel “Yog-Sothoth’s Yard,” which the town clerk had assured him was a Colonial-era nickname for a pauper’s graveyard. “Old folklore,” the clerk had said, pushing spectacles up a sweaty nose. “Nothing to fret over.”

The door closed behind him with the sound of a coffin lid—or a seed pod snapping shut. The yard remained, empty now, its fence standing crooked and patient. And in the morning, the town clerk would find a new post on the west side, carved with a face that looked remarkably like the retired surveyor’s, its mouth open in a silent, eternal O. Ezekiel fretted anyway

That was when he saw the door.

“The yard is not a place. It is a hinge. I am the hinge. You have walked my bounds for three days. Now you must choose: step through, or stay and become a post.”

On the third night, he brought a lantern and a pistol. The fog had risen again, thicker than before, and the fence posts seemed to have moved. He counted them. Eleven on the west side. There should have been thirteen. He walked the perimeter twice, heart knocking against his ribs, and each time the number changed: fourteen, nine, then a post that appeared only in his peripheral vision, vanishing when he turned his head. His GPS spun wildly whenever he crossed the fence line