The Cold Draft in Apartment 4B

The first time I noticed it, I was alone in my apartment, a modest one-bedroom in the old brick building on Maple Street. It was late autumn, and the radiators clanked and wheezed, but the cold that settled in my bones that night wasn’t from the drafty windows. It began with footsteps in the hallway—slow, deliberate, the scuff of a shoe on the worn carpet. I assumed it was Mrs. Kowalski from next door, returning from her nightly smoke on the fire escape. I didn’t think much of it. But then the footsteps stopped outside my door, and a silence deeper than the building’s usual creaks settled in. I held my breath, waiting for the soft click of her door, but instead, I heard a faint scratching at the bottom of my door—like fingernails, or something sharper, tracing the wood grain.

I laughed at myself. The building was old; mice, pipes, whatever. But the scratching persisted, and a cold shiver crawled up my spine, raising the hairs on my arms. I decided to check the peephole. The hallway was empty, the light flickering as it always did, casting dancing shadows. I opened the door a crack, peering out. Nothing. I stepped into the hallway, the cold seeping through my thin socks. I went to the communal kitchen at the end of the hall to grab a glass of water, thinking maybe it was just my imagination. But when I passed the open door of Mrs. Kowalski’s apartment, I saw her sitting in her armchair, watching TV, her cat curled at her feet. She looked up and gave me a wave. I asked if she’d been in the hallway, but she shook her head, saying she’d been there for hours, trying to get warm.

I shrugged it off and continued to the kitchen, but the cold air followed me, wrapping around me like a wet blanket. On my way back, I passed the table in the communal area where a stack of flyers sat, and as I walked by, the flyers scattered to the floor, as if an unseen hand had swept them off. I froze. My heart hammered. Mrs. Kowalski called out, ‘You alright, dear? You look pale. And why are you shivering? It’s warm in here.’ I assured her I was fine, but I wasn’t. I hurried back to my apartment, and as I closed the door, I noticed my keys, which I’d left on the small shelf by the door, were now on the floor, and my coat, which had been on the hook, was draped over the chair.

I tried to rationalize it. Maybe the draft had knocked the flyers, and I’d bumped the shelf myself. But the cold persisted, and I felt a presence in the room, a weight in the air that made it hard to breathe. I went to my bedroom, hoping to escape it, but when I entered, I saw my laptop open on the desk, though I’d closed it before heading out. The screen was on, displaying a blank document, and the cursor blinked steadily, as if waiting for my input. I felt a chill so intense it ached, and I heard the faintest whisper, like a voice from the other side of a wall, saying my name—my full name, which I rarely used. I spun around, but the room was empty. The cold seemed to concentrate near the closet door, and I swear I saw the door handle turn, ever so slightly.

I backed out of the bedroom and collapsed onto the living room couch, my mind racing. I called my sister, Lena, who lived across town, and told her something was off. She laughed and said I was probably just stressed from work, but then she paused and said, ‘Actually, I feel cold too. It’s like the heat just went out.’ I looked at the thermostat on the wall; it was set to 72, but the display showed 59. I turned it up, but the temperature didn’t budge. I decided to stay with Lena for the night. I grabbed my essentials, and as I was about to leave, I saw my reflection in the hallway mirror. For a split second, I saw a figure standing behind me—a tall, gaunt silhouette with hollow eyes—but when I turned, there was nothing.

I stayed at Lena’s for three days. She lived in a newer building, with central heating, and the cold didn’t follow me there. But when I returned to my apartment to pick up more clothes, the moment I stepped inside, the cold slammed into me like a wall. The air smelled faintly of something metallic, like old blood. I walked into the living room and saw that all the pictures on the wall were crooked, as if someone had jostled them. My books were scattered on the floor, and the curtains were drawn even though I’d left them open. I felt a wave of nausea, and I heard the scratching again—this time from inside the closet. I opened the closet slowly, bracing myself for something terrible, but it was empty, except for my coats and shoes. And then I noticed the faint, hand-shaped frost on the inside of the closet door, as if a hand had pressed against it from the other side.

I called a friend who dabbled in the paranormal, and he told me that sometimes, when a place is left empty for too long, it can attract entities that feed on residual energy. He said the cold was a sign, and the scratch at the door was an invitation. He advised me to cleanse the apartment, but I didn’t believe in that. I just wanted to leave. But as I turned to leave, I saw the cursor on my laptop, now on the screen of my tablet that I’d left on the coffee table. It was typing a message: ‘Don’t go.’ The cursor blinked, and then another message: ‘Stay with me.’ The cold intensified, and I heard a low moan, like the wind through a crack, but it was coming from the bedroom.

I fled, slamming the door behind me. I didn’t stop running until I reached Lena’s place. I told her everything, and she convinced me to sell the apartment, to never go back. I listed it with a realtor, but every time a prospective buyer visited, they reported strange occurrences: doors opening on their own, cold spots, the smell of rot. The apartment sat vacant for months. One night, I received a call from the realtor, who was panicked. He said he’d gone to check on the place because the neighbors reported a strange noise, and when he entered, he found the front door open and the hallway covered in frost. He said the mirror in the living room had the words ‘Come home’ etched into the glass, as if scratched by a nail.

I never went back. I sold the building to a developer who planned to demolish it, but on the day of the demolition, the workers refused to go in. They said the cold was unbearable, and they could hear someone walking the halls. The building was eventually torn down, and they built a parking lot on the site. But sometimes, when I’m walking down the street, I feel a cold rush pass me, and I hear a faint scratch, like a fingernail on glass. I know it’s not my imagination. I know that whatever was in that apartment is still here, waiting, and that one day, it will find me again.

Now, I’m writing this from a new place, with new locks, and I keep the lights on at all times. But the cold never truly leaves me. Sometimes, in the dead of night, I hear footsteps in the hallway, and they stop outside my door. And I feel the familiar shiver, the same one I felt on that first night, and I know that the scratching will start again. I don’t know how long I can keep running, but I do know this: whoever or whatever it is, it knows my name, and it wants me to come home.

I’ve stopped trying to explain it. I’ve stopped trying to find rational answers. Some doors, once opened, cannot be closed. And some cold, once felt, never warms. I just hope that if you ever hear footsteps in your hallway, and the scratching at your door, you’ll remember this story, and you’ll run—not walk—away from that cold draft, before it finds you too.

I’m not sure if this is the end of the story, or if it’s just the beginning. But as I sit here, typing these final words, I hear a faint sound from my own hallway. It’s a slow, deliberate scuffing of a shoe on the carpet. And it’s heading toward my door. I wrote this to warn you, to tell you that the cold is real, and it’s patient. But I’ve run out of time. The scratching has started. And the cursor on my screen is blinking, waiting for me to type my next line. So I’ll leave you with this: if you feel a cold rush, don’t ignore it. Because it might be the last warmth you ever feel.