The Cold Pocket

My first semester at Meridian College, I landed in an interior dorm room, a converted storage closet with no windows. My roommate, Dana, and I called it ‘The Cave.’ We kept a single lava lamp burning at all times so we wouldn’t break our necks stumbling to the bathroom in the dark. Our beds were lofted, desks beneath, so high we had to duck to avoid cracking our skulls on the ceiling. The room was L-shaped; I slept on the long wall opposite the door, Dana in the nook beyond the corner.

That November, a cold settled in my chest, not the flu, just a stuffy nose and a raw throat. I went to bed early, shivering under a thin blanket, mouth-breathing into my pillow. The lava lamp cast orange blobs across the ceiling. I fell asleep to Dana’s soft snoring.

Around 3 a.m., I woke with a start. My heart hammered, though I had no dream. The room was silent, the lamp’s glow barely reaching me. I lay on my back, my breath fogging the air above my face. That was wrong—the heater kicked out hot air, the room was warm. I exhaled again, and a plume of white curled from my lips, dissolving slowly, as if the air around me was a freezer.

My left leg was bare, the blanket kicked down. I felt a cold draft ghosting over my skin, but also a strange warmth, like a heat lamp on the numb side. I reached down to pull the blanket up, and my hand brushed something wet and slick on the mattress, like condensation. I froze. The fog from my breath lingered longer now, not dissipating but swirling into a shape, a face. It was pale, almost translucent, with hollow eyes and a mouth open in a silent scream. It hovered inches from my face, and I could feel my own breath being drawn into it, stolen.

I tried to scream, but my throat locked. I flopped off the bed, landing hard on the desk, knocking books to the floor. I scrambled for the light switch, but it was across the room. I crawled, my hands slipping on the cold, wet carpet. The fog followed, wrapping around my legs, and I felt a violent chill seep into my bones. I finally hit the switch, but the overhead light flickered and died. The lava lamp had gone dark.

In the pitch black, I heard Dana’s voice, but it wasn’t from her bed. It came from the L-shaped corner, muffled, like she was speaking through water: ‘It’s in the walls, Cassie. It sleeps in the cold pockets.’ I turned toward the sound, but I couldn’t see a thing. I fumbled for my phone, but it was dead. I felt along the wall, my fingers touching freezing metal—the heating vent. It was open, and a stream of arctic air poured out, carrying a whisper that sounded like my own name.

I dove back onto my bed and yanked the blanket over my head, shivering violently. The fog pressed against the fabric, and I felt a weight settle on my legs, like a cat, but heavier. It stayed until dawn, when the heating clicked on full blast and the room warmed to a stifling 80 degrees. Only then did the fog lift.

Dana was asleep, undisturbed. I told her about it over breakfast. She laughed, said it was just the radiator and my fever. But I hadn’t had a fever. And that night, I left the blanket off, watching the air. No fog. But in the corner, where Dana’s bed met the wall, a patch of frost had formed on the ceiling, despite the heat. It stayed there all winter, never melting.

I switched rooms the next semester, but I still keep one leg uncovered every night, just to see if my breath fogs. It never does. But sometimes, in the dead of a 3 a.m., I hear a faint, hollow gasp from the heating vent, and I know the cold pocket is still waiting for someone who sleeps on their back.