The Cold Draft at Hallow’s End

May 16, 2011

by Sven

4 min read

Story Premise 4 min read (631 words)

"The autumn air had a bite to it, the kind that promised early frost, and our family had decided to celebrate my cousin’s twelfth birthday at the Old Granary, a restaurant housed in a converted grain elevator on the outskirts of our small farming town. The building was a towering relic, its red brick weathered […]"

The autumn air had a bite to it, the kind that promised early frost, and our family had decided to celebrate my cousin’s twelfth birthday at the Old Granary, a restaurant housed in a converted grain elevator on the outskirts of our small farming town. The building was a towering relic, its red brick weathered and its windows like dark, watchful eyes. Inside, though, it was warm and inviting, with exposed wooden beams and a stone fireplace that crackled with a welcoming fire. We were led to a back room, away from the main bustle, where large windows overlooked a field of golden stubble, the last remnants of harvest.

My bladder was insistent, so I asked the waitress for directions. She pointed to a narrow, winding staircase at the far end of the hall. ‘The restrooms are up on the second floor,’ she said, her voice cheerful but her eyes oddly distant. As I climbed, the warmth of the restaurant seemed to seep away with each step. The air grew cooler, and I noticed a faint, musty smell, like old grain and dust. Halfway up, a sudden gust of ice-cold air swirled around me, making me shiver and causing the hairs on my arms to prickle. I turned, expecting to see an open window, but the wall was solid. A strange unease settled in my stomach.

At the top, a single, dim bulb lit a long corridor. The walls were lined with old photographs of farmers and harvests, their eyes seeming to follow me. I found the bathroom door at the end, a simple wooden door with a wrought-iron handle. I stepped inside, and it was starkly clean, a harsh contrast to the aged atmosphere. I did my business quickly, eager to return to my family. As I washed my hands, I noticed a faint, rhythmic scratching sound, like fingernails on the other side of the door. I dismissed it as an old building settling.

But when I reached for the doorknob, it was cold, so cold it felt like ice. I turned it, but the door wouldn’t budge. I jiggled it, then pushed, then pulled, but it was stuck fast. Panic began to rise. I called out, but my voice was muffled, as if the room was soundproofed. I tried again, and that’s when I heard a low, guttural whisper from within the walls: ‘You’re not supposed to be here.’ I froze. The air grew even colder, and I saw my breath puff out in clouds. I slammed against the door, but it was solid.

Suddenly, the lights flickered and went out. In the pitch black, I heard the rustle of fabric, like a dress sweeping across the floor, and the scent of lavender and decay filled my nostrils. I felt a presence behind me, and a gentle, icy touch on my shoulder. I spun around, but saw nothing. The door creaked open on its own, revealing a dim hallway that seemed longer than before. In the distance, I saw the flickering glow of the fireplace, and I ran. I dashed down the stairs, not daring to look back, and burst into the back room, my heart pounding. My family looked up, concerned.

‘You look pale,’ my aunt said. ‘Are you okay?’ I nodded, still trembling. As I sat down, I glanced at the window and saw my own reflection, but behind it, a faint, shadowy figure of a woman in an old-fashioned dress, her face gaunt and hollow, staring at me from the field outside. I blinked, and she was gone. I didn’t tell anyone, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had followed me down, something that now lingered at the edges of the warm room, waiting for the season to turn again.

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