The Cold Breaths of Room 9

The guest room in Eva’s old Victorian house was quaint, with floral wallpaper and a window that looked out onto a quiet cul-de-sac. I’d agreed to stay with her for the week leading up to her wedding, and to share the room with her four-year-old daughter, Lily. Lily’s bed stood by the window, and I was given a thin mattress on the floor, my head resting near the foot of a heavy oak dresser. The room had a peculiar smell of old wood and lavender, and the house itself groaned and clicked like an old ship, but I shrugged it off as the age of the place.

The first two nights were uneventful. I’d read to Lily until her eyes fluttered shut, then lie on my mattress, listening to the ticking of the radiator and the occasional hoot of an owl. The streetlight outside cast a yellowish glow through the thin curtains, making the room feel surreal, like a photograph in sepia. I’d almost convinced myself that the house was just quirky, that the creaks were the plumbing and the knocks were the wind. On the third night, I lay awake, the hardness of the floor digging into my hip. I was just drifting off when I felt the temperature dip sharply, as if someone had opened a freezer door. My breath started to fog, and I bolted upright, heart pounding.

I scanned the room. Lily slept peacefully, her small chest rising and falling. But near the dresser, a pitch-black silhouette now stood, distinct against the orange haze filtering through the window. It was shaped like a tall, thin person, but with elongated limbs and a head that tilted slightly, as if it were studying me. I tried to scream, but my throat constricted. Then I felt it: a cold, damp breath on the top of my head, as if someone were leaning over, blowing on my crown. The sensation was so real that I could almost feel the moisture on my scalp.

I didn’t dare move. My eyes locked on the figure, and I watched as it slowly raised a hand, its fingers impossibly long, and reached toward me. The touch never came. Instead, the breath on my head intensified, becoming a constant stream of icy air, like being under a giant air conditioner. My hair stood on end, and I could see the goosebumps ripple across my arms. I closed my eyes, paralyzed with fear, and began to mouth a silent prayer. After what felt like an eternity, the temperature returned to normal, and when I opened my eyes, the silhouette was gone.

I didn’t sleep the rest of the night. In the morning, I told Eva, but she laughed it off, attributing it to an overactive imagination and maybe a draft from the old window. She said Lily had often complained of a ‘cold man’ in the corner, but they’d assumed it was a nightmare. I was skeptical but decided to put it aside; her wedding was in three days, and I didn’t want to cause a scene. The next night, I tried to stay awake, keeping a flashlight under my pillow and my back against the wall. But exhaustion won, and I must have dozed off.

I woke to the sound of the dresser drawers sliding open, one by one, as if an invisible hand were rifling through them. The room was colder than ever, and I could see a faint, wispy shape, not quite solid, hovering near the dresser. It wasn’t the same tall figure; this was more like a swirling mist with two hollow eyes. My flashlight flickered and died. The mist began to move toward me, and I felt a pressure on my chest, as if something were sitting on me. I couldn’t breathe, and panic set in. Through the haze, I saw lily sit up in bed, her face blank, and she pointed a finger at me and whispered, ‘He’s thirsty.’

That snapped me out of it. I kicked my legs, and the pressure vanished. The mist recoiled, and I scrambled to my feet, grabbing Lily and running out of the room. I woke Eva, and we sat in the kitchen until dawn, the lights blazing. Eva dismissed it again, but this time I noticed a faraway look in her eyes, as if she were hiding something. She finally confessed that she’d had a similar experience in that room years ago, during her own childhood, but she’d convinced herself it was a dream. She warned me not to tell Lily because she didn’t want to scare her.

The wedding day arrived, and I managed to put the horror aside. The ceremony was beautiful, and Eva was radiant. But that night, I had to return to the guest room, as the house was full of relatives. Exhausted, I fell asleep almost immediately. Then, I was woken by a harsh, scraping sound. The dresser was slowly sliding across the floor, leaving deep gouges in the wood. It moved until it blocked the door, creating a barricade. And from the shadows in the corner, a figurematerialized, this time with a face torn and dripping, its eyes like coal. It opened its mouth and spoke in a voice that sounded like cracking ice: ‘You will not leave.’

I screamed and lunged for the window, but it was stuck fast. The figure took a step forward, and I could see its breath, cold and steamy, mixing with the air. It reached out with a long, bony hand, and this time it touched my cheek. The touch was like dry ice on skin, burning and freezing at once. I fell to my knees, sobbing, as the room spun. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the figure vanished, and the dresser slid back to its original place. The door was clear. I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed my things and fled, calling a cab and leaving Eva’s house in the dead of night.

I never spoke of it to Eva again, and we drifted apart. But even now, two years later, I still feel that cold breath on my head when I lie down in a dark room. I’ve tried to rationalize it, to call it a draft or a hallucination, but I know the truth: something in that house, in that room, had marked me. It wasn’t just a ghost or a shadow. It was a presence that hungered for warmth, that fed on fear, and it had left a permanent chill in my bones. I’ve moved three times, but the cold always finds me, a whisper-like touch of frost on my scalp, a reminder that I was never alone. And sometimes, late at night, I swear I hear a child’s voice, faint and far away, saying, ‘He’s thirsty.’