The Cold Draft

The house my parents built on Hemlock Lane stood at the edge of a pine forest that seemed to swallow the sky. I was twelve when we moved in, and my room, at the top of the stairs, felt like a walk-in freezer no matter the season. Summer in central Alabama was a suffocating blanket, but my room would bite with an unnatural chill. The HVAC techs came and went, scratching their heads, checking ducts, sealing windows, but the cold remained, a stubborn ghost of winter in July.

One muggy evening, my friend Marcus and I sat on the back porch, trying to catch a breeze that never came. The air was heavy, and the only light came from the single floodlight above the porch, casting a pale pool on the lawn. Beyond that, the forest was a wall of black. We talked about nothing, our voices low, when the wooden swing under the big oak tree began to move. It creaked forward, then back, as if someone small were sitting on it, kicking their legs. But the swing was empty, and there was no wind. Marcus and I froze, our eyes locked on the swing. Then I heard it: a soft, high-pitched giggle, like a child playing hide-and-seek. It came from the swing, clear and close. Marcus gripped my arm, his face pale. ‘Did you hear that?’ he whispered. I nodded, my throat dry.

The swing slowed, then stopped. The giggle faded into the cicadas’ drone. We didn’t speak for a long time. When we finally went inside, I shut my bedroom door and sat on my bed, my breath forming a faint mist in the cold. I told myself it was just a bird, a trick of the night. But I knew better.

Over the next few weeks, I started to notice things. My room’s coldness wasn’t uniform—it pooled in the corner by the window, where the floor felt like ice even in August. I placed a thermometer there once; it read ten degrees cooler than the rest of the room. I also began hearing the giggle at odd times: at dusk, when I was reading, or late at night when I was half-asleep. It was always distant, like it came from the backyard, but sometimes it sounded like it came from the hallway right outside my door.

One night, I woke to a sensation of cold air rushing over me, as if someone had left a freezer door open. The room was pitch black, but I could see a faint, blue-white glow in the corner, near the window. It was a figure—a small girl, no older than seven, with long dark hair and a white nightgown. She stood facing the window, her back to me, and she was swaying slightly, humming a tune I didn’t recognize. I wanted to scream, but my voice was gone. The cold was so intense it felt like my skin was cracking. She turned her head slowly, and I saw that her eyes were black pits, and her mouth was open in a silent ‘o’. She smiled—a wide, gray-lipped smile—and then she faded, like a breath on a mirror.

I didn’t sleep that night. The next morning, I told my parents, but they dismissed it as a nightmare. ‘Your room’s just cold because of the old vent,’ my dad said, shaking his head. But I knew what I saw. I began researching the history of our property. My parents had cleared the land to build the house, but they’d left the old oak tree. The previous owner, an old woman named Mrs. Hargrove, had lived in a shack that used to stand where our kitchen now is. She had a granddaughter who drowned in the creek that ran behind the property, back in the ’70s. The girl’s name was Emily, and she was seven.

I found a picture of Emily in an old local newspaper clipping. She looked just like the girl in my room: long dark hair, a plain white nightgown. The article said she had been playing by the creek when she fell in, and they never found her body. The case was closed as an accident. I shivered, not from cold, but from dread.

Now that I knew who she was, the cold seemed to grow more intense. Emily began appearing more often. She would stand in the corner, or sit on the edge of my bed, humming that same sad tune. She never spoke, but I could feel her loneliness, a deep, hollow ache. I started leaving a small toy near the window—a little wooden duck I’d had as a child. The next morning, the duck was gone, and I heard a faint giggle from the floor below.

My parents thought I was losing my mind. They brought in a priest, a rabbi, even a shaman, but nothing worked. The house remained cold, and Emily remained present. One night, I woke to find her standing over me, her black eyes inches from my face. She raised a small, cold hand and pointed at the window. I looked, and through the glass, I saw the creek, silver under the moon, and a tiny figure waving from the bank. It was Emily, but she was wet, her nightgown clinging to her, and she was smiling. She mouthed something that I couldn’t understand, but I felt a pull, a need to go to her.

I found myself getting out of bed, walking toward the door. My body was moving on its own, as if she were pulling me by an invisible string. The cold was all around me, but I wasn’t shivering. I was numb. I reached the back door and opened it. The night air was warm against my skin, but inside my head, I could hear Emily’s voice, soft and pleading: ‘Come play with me.’

I walked toward the creek, my bare feet on the grass. The water glinted, dark and inviting. I stepped in, and the cold shock hit me like a slap, waking me from my trance. I looked down—the water was only up to my calves, and Emily was nowhere to be seen. But her giggle echoed across the water, and I felt something brush my ankle, like small cold fingers. I ran back to the house, sobbing, and locked my door.

I didn’t tell anyone about that night. I just started sleeping in the living room, where it was warm. My room became a place I avoided, a cold tomb at the top of the stairs. But sometimes, late at night, I’d still hear Emily’s giggles from inside it, and I’d feel the cold seeping out from under the door, a reminder that she was still waiting, patient, and very cold.

Months passed, and the house seemed to settle. The cold no longer bothered me, because I never went upstairs. My parents chided me for sleeping on the couch, but they gave up. I thought I could ignore her, but a part of me knew she wasn’t done with me. She wanted a playmate, and she wasn’t going to let me forget it.

Then, one evening in late autumn, I came home to find my parents standing in the living room, their faces pale. ‘We heard a noise,’ my mom said, ‘a child’s laugh, coming from your room. We opened the door, and it was freezing. We saw a figure, a little girl, standing by the window. She turned and smiled, and then she was gone.’

That night, I decided I had to do something. I went to the library and looked up Emily’s family, found her grandmother’s grave in the old cemetery on the hill. I went there at dusk, and I placed a small toy duck on the stone. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said aloud. ‘I’m sorry you’re lost.’

When I returned home, my room was warm for the first time in years. I could feel it from the hallway, a wave of heat. I opened the door timidly, and the air was stale, but not cold. The corner by the window was empty. I thought it was over.

But that night, as I lay on the couch, I heard a faint rustling from upstairs. Then a soft, clear giggle. I tiptoed up the stairs and cracked my door open. There, in the moonlight, a small girl sat on my bed, her back to me, her hair swinging as she hummed. She turned her head, and her face was twice as wide as a normal child’s, with a stretched grin that split her cheeks. She raised a hand, pale and thin, and beckoned me. ‘Now you’re mine,’ she said, in a voice like ice.

I slammed the door and ran, but the house was dark. The walls seemed to close in, and the cold was back, stronger than ever. I found myself in the kitchen, breathing hard, but the giggles were everywhere around me, bouncing off the walls. I looked out the window, and the swing was moving again, fast, as if a storm had hit. But there was no wind.

I knew then that I had released something, but I couldn’t put her back. I had invited her into our home, and she wasn’t leaving. She had waited for a friend, and now she had me. The house will always be cold now, and I will always be listening for that giggle, just outside the door, waiting for the next chance to play.