The Cold Draft from the Canning Room

It was supposed to be a peaceful weekend at my aunt’s farmhouse, nestled at the edge of the Whispering Pines—a name I always found ironic since the trees were dead silent. My cousin, Lena, had invited me to escape the city, and I welcomed the change, even though the old house creaked and groaned like an old ship. I’d spent many summers here, and though I’d heard the local rumors of a haunting, nothing ever happened to me. So, I wasn’t worried.

That night, after a dinner of stew and homemade bread, Lena and I headed to her room upstairs. The air was thick with the day’s heat, and the house retained it like a sauna. I was to sleep on a thin mattress on the floor, which Lena apologetically offered, but I didn’t mind. I lay down, staring at the cracked ceiling, listening to the occasional groan of the house settling. Just as I began to drift off, something skittered across my legs—fast, like a small animal with too many legs. I yelped and jumped to my feet, heart pounding. ‘Rats,’ I thought, but the thought didn’t calm me. I decided to go downstairs where it was cooler and where the living room had two large couches.

I found my aunt, Clara, asleep on one couch, her soft snores filling the room. My older brother, Marcus, was sprawled on the other, his mouth open. I tiptoed over, squeezed him toward the edge, and lay down. The heat was oppressive, and even in my shorts and tank top, I was sweating. I closed my eyes, trying to ignore the stickiness of the fabric against my skin. Then, without warning, a chill swept through the room, as if a window had been thrown open. I shivered, pulling the thin blanket up to my chin. ‘Odd,’ I thought, but too tired to investigate.

Then I heard it—whispers from the kitchen, just beyond the living room. They were soft, like leaves rustling, but with an urgency. I strained to listen, and the voices seemed to form words, but in a language I didn’t recognize. I sat up, and the whispers ceased. I waited, breath held, but silence. I lay back down, convincing myself it was the wind. But the cold persisted, and the whispers returned, this time clearer: ‘Marta is not sleeping.’ My blood ran cold. Marta was my great-aunt who had passed away years ago in this very house.

The whispers grew more insistent, swirling around me like a vortex. I covered my ears, but the voices seeped through my fingers. ‘Marta is not sleeping. She is waiting. She is waiting for you.’ I felt a pressure on my chest, as if something was sitting on me. I tried to scream, but no sound came. The cold enveloped me, and I saw a figure in the kitchen doorway—a tall, dark shape with no discernible features, just a void. It took a step forward, and the floorboards creaked under its weight, but there was no weight. It was as if the darkness itself was moving.

I forced myself to move, and I scrambled to my feet, my heart hammering. I ran to the kitchen, turning on the light, but the figure was gone. The room was empty, but the temperature was still freezing. I saw the door to the canning room—a small, windowless pantry where my great-aunt used to preserve vegetables. The door was ajar, and I could see darkness within. The whispers came from there now. ‘Come, Marta is waiting.’

I knew I had to go. Something pulled me, not physically, but an irresistible urge. I walked to the door and peered inside. It was pitch black, but I could hear a faint scrape, like a chair being dragged across the floor. I stepped in, and the door slammed shut behind me. I was plunged into absolute darkness. I fumbled for the light switch, but there was none. The cold was intense, and I could see my breath.

Then I heard a voice, clear and familiar—my great-aunt’s voice. ‘You finally came, dear. I’ve been so lonely.’ I screamed, and I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, pulling me deeper into the darkness. I fought, but it was no use. I felt my consciousness slipping away, and the last thing I heard was my aunt Clara’s voice from outside, calling my name, but it seemed to come from far away.

I woke up in the morning on the floor of the canning room, surrounded by jars of rotting vegetables, some of them broken. The room was warm, and the sunlight streamed through the tiny window. I stumbled out, shaken, and found Lena and Marcus arguing about who had left the door open. I told them what happened, but they laughed it off, saying I must have had a nightmare from the heat.

But I know it wasn’t a dream. I still feel the cold hand on my shoulder, and sometimes, at night, I hear the whispers calling my name, telling me to come back. The canning room door is always locked now, but sometimes, when I pass it, I feel a draft, and I swear I see a shadow moving within. And I remember the words: ‘Marta is not sleeping. She is waiting for you to join her.’ And I’m afraid that one night, I will.