The Cold Draft from the Attic

Marta had always known her husband, Leo, was a skeptic when it came to the paranormal. He would scoff at any mention of ghosts, dismissing them as products of overactive imaginations. But Marta saw the way his eyes would dart to the corners of the room when they discussed such things, and she knew he was hiding a deep unease.

One chilly autumn evening, the family was gathered in the den, watching a classic horror film. The room was warm with the glow of the television and the laughter of their three daughters – Emily, the eldest at twelve, Sophie, who was eight, and little Clara, still a baby in her cradle. Leo, however, grew restless. He claimed a headache was coming on and retreated upstairs to their bedroom, muttering about needing quiet.

The den was directly beneath their bedroom, so they could hear the floorboards creak as Leo settled in. After the movie ended, Marta decided to fetch a warm blanket for Clara from the linen closet. As she passed their bedroom door, she noticed it was ajar. She peeked inside and saw Leo lying face down on the bed, arms splayed out, his head turned toward the wall. The room was plunged in darkness, the only light spilling in from the hallway. She heard his deep, rhythmic breathing and assumed he was fast asleep.

Later that night, Sophie asked for a pair of socks for Clara, whose tiny feet were cold. Marta, tired from the evening, sent Emily to fetch them from the master bedroom. Emily returned moments later, her face pale. ‘Mom, Dad wasn’t in bed. And the window was open,’ she whispered.

Marta’s heart skipped a beat. She raced upstairs, her feet pounding on the steps. The bedroom door was open, and the room was dark. The bed was empty, the sheets rumpled as if someone had just left. But what caught her attention was the window, now shut and latched. The chill in the air was palpable, and a single, distinct footprint in the dust on the windowsill pointed inward.

She called Leo’s name, but there was no answer. She checked the bathroom, the closet, even the attic stairs – nothing. Panic rising, she hurried back downstairs, but Leo was sitting on the couch, calmly watching reruns of a sitcom, as if nothing had happened. He smiled at her. ‘Did you sleep well?’ he asked, oblivious to her distress.

Marta felt a cold draft from the hallway, and the baby began to cry. She rushed to Clara, who was wailing in her cradle. As she picked her up, she noticed the baby’s sock was missing, and on Clara’s tiny foot was a dark, wet smear, like the mark of a large hand.

From that night on, Leo became increasingly distant. He would pace the hallway outside their bedroom, staring at the attic door. He’d mutter to himself, and when Marta would ask what was wrong, he’d claim he was fine. But his eyes had a haunted look, as if he were being watched.

One night, Marta was awoken by the sound of footsteps creaking above. She looked over to find Leo’s side of the bed empty. She climbed the attic stairs, her heart thudding in her chest. The attic was musty and cold. In the dim glow of a single bulb, she saw Leo standing at the far end, facing the wall. He didn’t turn as she approached. His voice was low, trembling: ‘There’s something in the walls, Marta. It’s been waiting for us.’

When he turned, his eyes were empty, white as marble. He reached out a hand, and she saw that his fingers were stained with the same dark smear she’d found on Clara’s foot. The baby in her arms grew heavy, and she looked down to see Clara’s face contorted into a silent scream, her eyes locked on Leo. The cold draft turned bitter, and the attic light flickered out.

Marta bolted awake in her own bed, drenched in sweat. Leo was beside her, sleeping soundly. She let out a shaky breath, attributing it to a nightmare. But then she heard a creak from the attic, and the distinct sound of a child’s laughter – not Clara’s, but the giggle of an unseen presence. She clutched Leo’s arm, but he didn’t stir. A whisper slithered through the room: ‘You found us.’

In the dim light, she saw the attic door slowly creak open, and a small, shadowy figure peered out. It beckoned her with a tiny, pale hand, its fingers dripping with that same dark substance. Marta knew then that the house had never been empty, and Leo had been right all along – there were spirits here, and they had been waiting for them to let their guard down.

She screamed, but no sound escaped her lips. The figure smiled, and the attic door slammed shut. In the sudden silence, a single, cold kiss pressed against her forehead, and a voice echoed in her mind: ‘We never leave.’