The Cold Draft from Under the Couch

I moved into the old farmhouse three months ago, drawn by the cheap rent and the promise of solitude. It sits on the edge of a dying town in rural Wisconsin, surrounded by skeletal cornfields that whisper in the wind. The previous tenant, a man named Harold, left in a hurry—his furniture still cluttered the living room, and a half-eaten sandwich moldered on the counter. I didn’t ask questions. I just wanted a place to write.

Almost immediately, I felt watched. Not in a paranoid way, but a genuine, unsettling presence. I’d be typing at my desk, and the air would thicken, the hairs on my neck standing up. I’d turn, expecting someone, but there was only the empty hallway. Then came tiny things: the scent of lavender soap in rooms I never used, the soft patter of footsteps overhead when I was downstairs, the occasional flicker of lights. I convinced myself it was my imagination, the stress of starting over.

A week ago, the footsteps grew bolder. I was lying in bed, reading, when I felt a tug at my blanket. I froze. The tug was subtle, like a child testing my attention. I pulled the covers up to my chin and stared into the dark. Then I felt a gentle pressure on the mattress, as if someone had sat on the edge. The bed began to rock, slowly, rhythmically, like a cradle. I gripped the sheets, my heart pounding. The rocking lasted for maybe a minute, then stopped. I didn’t sleep that night.

The next evening, I was watching TV in the living room, my legs stretched out on the floor. A cold draft swept over my knees, so strong that goosebumps erupted on my skin. I looked down: there was no open window, no fan, no explanation. The draft was localized, like a hand made of ice hovering just above my shins. It lasted for ten seconds, then vanished. I moved my legs, shook them, tried to warm them with my hands, but the cold lingered for an hour.

I called the landlord, a gruff woman named Mrs. Kessler, to ask about the house’s history. She hesitated. ‘You’re the fourth tenant in two years,’ she said. ‘They all left early. Said they felt a presence. But I never saw anything. That’s all.’ She hung up. I did my own research at the town library: the farm was built in 1920, and in 1942, a girl named Alice vanished. She was seven years old. Her body was never found, but some say she drowned in the creek out back. Others say she was buried in the cellar. The librarian, an old man with rheumy eyes, warned me, ‘If you feel her, don’t engage. She doesn’t mean harm, but she gets lonely.’

Last night, I was in bed, dozing off. The blanket moved again, more insistent this time, as if something was tugging at the edge. Then the bed shook—not gently this time, but with a sharp, angry jolt that rattled the frame. I sat up, heart racing. In the dim light from the hallway, I saw the impression of a small body on the mattress beside me, the shape of a child curled into the blankets. The imprint sank deeper, then slowly rose, as if something was getting up. I heard the soft patter of feet again, but this time, they stopped at my door. I didn’t dare look. I pulled the covers over my head and whispered, ‘Please, leave me alone.’

The room grew still. I stayed like that for hours, until the morning light crept through the curtains. When I finally opened my eyes, the imprint was gone. But on the pillow next to mine, there was a small, wet patch of water, shaped like a teardrop. I haven’t been back to the bedroom since. I’m writing this from the kitchen, my back to the wall, watching the doorway. The cold draft has returned, curling around my ankles. And I just heard a giggle—soft, childish—from the hallway. I don’t think she’s lonely anymore. I think she’s decided I’m staying.