The Cold Divide

I was nine, maybe ten, when it happened, in the old two-story house my family shared with my uncle’s family in the highlands of Benguet. Our room was on the ground floor, a cramped space with a single window that rattled in the wind. Mom, my sister, and I slept on a creaking bed, and the door, which we kept open for air, faced the long dining table where we ate our meals. That night, I had a fever, and after swallowing a bitter syrup, I lay down, my head spinning. I must have drifted off, but around 2 or 3 in the morning, I woke up with a start. The room was dark, but the moonlight from the window cast a pale glow on the floor. And then it hit me: cold. Not the ordinary chill of the mountains, but a deep, unnatural cold that seemed to seep into my bones from my torso downward, as if I had been plunged into icy water. The lower half of my body felt numb, while my upper half remained warm and sweaty from the fever. I wanted to call out for my mom, but my voice was stuck in my throat. Slowly, I turned my head toward the open door. And that’s when I saw it. At the head of the dining table, a figure sat. It was tall and gaunt, with long, thin limbs that ended in sharp, bony fingers. Its skin was a pale, greenish-gray, like something that had been underwater for too long, and it was covered in a thin, glistening slime. Its face was featureless except for two hollow sockets where eyes should have been, and a wide, lipless mouth that stretched from ear to ear, filled with needle-like teeth. It was staring at me, or at least, facing my direction. And as I watched, it slowly raised one of its long arms and pointed a finger at my chest. The cold intensified, spreading up to my ribs, and I felt my breath catch. I couldn’t move, couldn’t blink. The creature then tilted its head, as if studying me, and I saw its mouth curve into a smile. It was then that I realized it was not alone. Two smaller figures, like children but equally grotesque, stood beside the table, their heads bobbing as they stared at me with those same empty sockets. I wanted to scream, but my voice had vanished. The creature slowly rose from the chair, its joints popping, and took a step toward the door. The cold became unbearable, and I felt my teeth chattering. I forced my eyes shut, praying that when I opened them, it would be gone. I don’t know how long I stayed like that, but eventually, I felt a warmth return to my body, and I dared to open my eyes. The dining table was empty. The moonlight was steady. I bolted upright, gasping for air, and saw that my mom was stirring beside me. ‘What’s wrong?’ she mumbled. ‘Nothing,’ I said, my voice shaking. ‘Just a nightmare.’ I never told anyone what I saw that night. But for weeks afterward, the cold would return every time I lay down on that bed, always starting from my torso downward. I took to sleeping with my back against the wall, facing the door, my eyes wide open until dawn. And I never looked at the dining table again without feeling that icy grip on my heart, wondering if that thing was still there, watching, waiting for me to close my eyes. The house is gone now, torn down years ago, and we moved away. But sometimes, in the middle of the night, I feel that cold divide, and I know that some things are better left unseen.