A Cold Spot in the Attic

I’ve always been the kind of person who notices the small things—the way the floorboards creak in a certain spot, the way the air gets heavy in a room before a storm. My name is Mara, and I’m seventeen. I live with my mom, my younger brother, and my stepdad in a house that’s too old for its own good. We moved here four years ago, when my mom remarried, and from the moment I saw the place, I hated it. It’s not the peeling wallpaper or the drafty windows; it’s the feeling that the house is watching me, waiting for me to let my guard down.

My bedroom is at the top of the stairs, the last door on the left. It’s always cold, no matter the season. In the summer, when the rest of the house is stifling, my room stays frigid, like someone left a window open to winter. I’ve complained to my stepdad, but he just shrugs and says, ‘Old houses are like that.’ I know better. It’s not the house. It’s what’s in it.

Tonight, I came home late from a friend’s house and went straight upstairs to grab my homework. But as I reached the top of the landing, I stopped. My body froze. A primal instinct screamed at me to turn around and go back down. My heart pounded, and the hair on my arms stood up. Something was wrong. I forced myself to take a step toward my door, but my feet wouldn’t move. I stood there, trembling, feeling like I was on the edge of a cliff. Then, just as quickly as it came, the feeling passed. I laughed at myself, shook my head, and went in. But I didn’t feel safe.

That night, I went to bed early, but sleep didn’t come easily. I lay in the dark, listening to the house groan and settle. At some point, I must have drifted off, because I woke with a start, my eyes wide, gasping for air. I was drenched in sweat, and my heart was racing. The room was pitch black, but I knew I wasn’t alone. Something was leaning over me—a presence, heavy and cold, like a damp blanket. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. I tried to scream, but nothing came out. Then, just as suddenly, the weight lifted, and I could breathe again.

I didn’t sleep after that. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for it to happen again. It didn’t, but I knew it would. This wasn’t the first time. It had been building for weeks. Small things at first—my things moving, the feeling of being watched, a cold hand brushing my arm. But it was getting worse. Last week, I found a note in my handwriting, but I hadn’t written it. It said, ‘You’re not welcome here.’ I showed my mom, thinking my brother had pranked me, but he was at a friend’s house that weekend. Mom dismissed it as a mistake.

I’ve started to notice patterns. The cold is strongest in the corner by my closet. Sometimes, when I pass that corner, I feel a breeze, even though the window is shut. And there’s a smell—like old paper and dust—that lingers there, no matter how much I clean. I’ve tried to ignore it, but it’s impossible. The house is ancient. It used to be a boarding house, my stepdad said, back in the early 1900s. People died here. Maybe that’s it. Maybe someone’s ghost is stuck here.

But why me? Why is it targeting me? I didn’t do anything. I just moved into this room. This was supposed to be my safe space, but it’s the opposite. The other night, I had a dream. I was standing in my room, but it was different—the walls were covered in old floral wallpaper, and there was a vanity by the window. A girl was sitting at the vanity, brushing her hair. She turned to me, and her face was missing. Just a blank where her features should have been. She pointed to the ceiling.

I woke up with a scream. The dream felt so real. I looked at the ceiling, and there was a small, dark stain in the corner, like water damage. But I knew it wasn’t water. It was growing. Ever since that night, the stain has gotten bigger, and it’s starting to look like a face. A woman’s face, with hollow eyes and a gaping mouth. It’s the same face from my dream—the girl, grown older, angrier.

I can’t take much more of this. My brother sleeps in the room next to mine, and he’s been complaining of nightmares too. He says he hears someone whispering his name at night, and sometimes the lights flicker when he’s alone. My mom and stepdad don’t see it. They say I’m being dramatic, that I’m at that age where everything feels bigger than it is. But they’re not here at 3 a.m. when the temperature drops and the shadows seem to move. They’re not the ones being watched.

Tonight, I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to confront it. I’ve read about these things—negative energy, attachments, hauntings. I know the rules. I can’t show fear. I have to stand my ground. So as I walked up the stairs tonight, my heart pounding in my ears, I didn’t stop. I pushed open my door and stood in the middle of the room. ‘I know you’re here,’ I said, my voice shaking. ‘I’m not afraid of you.’ The room was silent. The cold seemed to deepen, and the air grew thick. Then, from the corner by the closet, a whisper, like dry leaves skittering across the floor. ‘You should be.’

I ran. I didn’t stop running until I was outside in the backyard, gasping for breath. My mom found me there, crying, and I told her everything. For the first time, she listened. She didn’t laugh or dismiss it. She just held me and said, ‘I believe you.’

We’ve decided to move. It’s not worth staying in a house that’s slowly driving us mad. I don’t know if it will follow us, but I hope not. I hope that whatever it is, it’s tied to this place. But as I pack my things tonight, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched even now. And in the mirror, I see the faint outline of a woman standing behind me, her face a blank void. She smiles.

I don’t think we’re going to make it out of here.