The Cold Draft of Room 4

I turned eighteen last November, but I’ve never felt like a normal teenager. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been sensitive to things that aren’t there. When I was a child, I’d see a woman in a long grey dress standing at the foot of my bed, or hear children laughing in empty rooms. These visits were brief, never more than a few days, and they’d vanish as suddenly as they came. Then, when I turned thirteen, the silence began. A clean, blessed quiet that lasted for years. I thought I’d grown out of it, like a childhood allergy.

Last spring, my father lost his job, and we had to move out of our apartment into a small, run-down house on the edge of town. It was a squat, grey building with peeling paint and a porch that sagged like a tired mouth. The previous tenant had left behind a few pieces of furniture, including a heavy oak wardrobe in my room. The house smelled of dust and old newspapers. I tried to make the best of it, but something felt off from the first night.

At first, it was just small things. Footsteps in the hallway when I was alone, a door creaking open and then slowly closing on its own. I told myself it was the wind, the house settling. But it kept happening. I’d be in the kitchen making toast, and I’d hear a low, rhythmic knocking from the living room wall. It wasn’t random; it seemed to answer me when I moved. I started to keep a log, but it just made me more anxious.

Then, the real trouble began. My parents were struggling, and I felt enormous pressure to be strong for them. I was their only child, and they leaned on me even though I was barely holding myself together. In October, after a particularly bad fight with my mother about money, I swallowed a handful of my father’s sleeping pills. I ended up in the hospital, and they kept me for observation. I felt like a failure, and I couldn’t shake the shame.

When I came home, the house seemed to sense my weakness. The temperature in my room would plummet without warning, even in the middle of a summer heatwave. I could see my own breath, and the chill would seep into my bones. The knocking on my wall became more insistent, usually at night, just above my bed. It would come in patterns: three taps, pause, two taps, pause, then a long scrape, like nails on wood. I started sleeping with my door locked, but it would still creak open by itself, and I’d feel a presence hovering at the foot of my bed, a cold, heavy weight pressing down on the blankets.

I tried to tell my parents, but they were too tired, too stressed to listen. My mother said it was my imagination, that I was ‘high-strung’ after the hospital. My father refused to talk about it. I felt utterly alone, even when they were in the same room. The presence grew stronger. I’d hear my name whispered in a raspy voice, but when I turned, there was nothing. I’d hear muffled conversations, as if two people were talking just out of sight, their words a low, sibilant muddle.

I started to have episodes of sleep paralysis. I’d wake up in the middle of the night, unable to move, and I’d see a dark shape crouched in the corner, its eyes glowing like coals. It would watch me, and I could feel its hunger. It was so cold in those moments that I thought my lungs would freeze. I began to dread the darkness, and I’d stay up until dawn, huddled under my blanket, counting the seconds until sunrise.

One night, about a month ago, the knocking was so loud and so furious that I thought the wall would break. I sat up in bed, shaking, and I said, ‘What do you want from me?’ The knocking stopped. The room fell silent, the air thick and cold. And then, from the corner of the room, a voice answered, not a whisper, but a clear, dry rasp, like leaves blowing across pavement. It said, ‘You let me in.’

I froze. I didn’t know what it meant. I had never invited anything. But then I remembered. The day we moved in, I had found a half-melted candle in the wardrobe. It was black and twisted, and without thinking, I had lit it and let it burn for a few minutes, just to get rid of the musty smell. I had blown it out, but I never threw it away. It was still sitting on the top shelf, a stub of wax that seemed to grow darker each day.

I realized then that I had opened a door. The candle was a lure, and I had bit. I was too afraid to touch it, so I left it there. But the presence grew bolder. It started to appear at the foot of my bed, a tall, gaunt figure with long fingers and a face that was always in shadow. It would lean over me, and I could feel its breath on my cheek, a cold, damp wind. It whispered things that I can’t repeat, things that burrowed into my mind and made me question my sanity.

Last night, it was worse. I woke at 3:33 AM, the knocking so loud it vibrated through my skull. I sat up, and the door swung open with a violent slam. The figure was there, inches from my bed, its eyes burning into me. I could see its mouth move, and I heard the whispers, like a chorus of lost souls. It reached out a hand, and I felt my chest tighten, my limbs go numb. I wanted to scream, but no sound came out. It leaned closer, and I could see my own reflection in its dark eyes, my face pale and hollow.

Then, just as my vision began to blur, I forced myself to think of the candle. I remembered it, sitting in the wardrobe, a pinprick of dark light. In my mind, I dug my nails into that memory, and I screamed, not with my voice, but with my will. I pictured the candle toppling over, the flame dying, the wax spilling onto the floor. I felt the presence recoil, a shiver of revulsion. The room warmed by a degree.

I managed to gasp, ‘Leave me alone.’ And for the first time, the presence hesitated. It backed away, and the door slammed shut. I lay there, panting, until dawn. When I finally got up, I went to the wardrobe. The candle was gone. Only a dark stain remained on the shelf, like a burn mark. I haven’t touched it since. But I know it’s not over. It’s only getting started. I’ve read that spirits can follow you, attach themselves to you like a second skin. And I’m terrified that this one, whatever it is, has claimed me. I can still feel the cold draft in my room, even now, in the middle of the day. And sometimes, when I’m alone, I hear a faint, rhythmic knocking, coming from inside the walls. It’s waiting for me to let it in again.