The Cold Room

I never told anyone about the cold. Not the kind that seeps through windows in winter, but the kind that clings to you like a wet shroud, following you from room to room. It started after we moved into Uncle Marcus’s house, a sprawling Victorian relic on the edge of a pine forest in northern Minnesota. My mom had just married him, and we packed up our small apartment in the city to live with him and his two sons, Ezra and Caleb. The house had been in the family for generations, and Uncle Marcus had inherited it after his father passed. He was a doctor, and the house still smelled of antiseptic and old wood.

From the first night, the place felt wrong. The floorboards creaked even when no one walked, and the air was thick with the scent of decay, like something had died inside the walls. My step-cousins were distant, almost wary, as if they knew something they weren’t telling. My room was at the end of a long hallway, next to the study, which was always locked. The door had a small window, and I could see a heavy desk and bookshelves inside, but the key was missing. Ezra warned me, ‘Don’t go in there. Dad says it’s his sanctuary.’ But the way he said it made my stomach clench.

The worst was the master bedroom, which belonged to Uncle Marcus’s father. It was always ice cold, no matter the season. The curtains were drawn tight, and the air was still, as if time had frozen in that space. On the bed lay his father’s old suit, pressed and hanging in the closet, along with a shaving kit and a collection of ties. Above the bed hung a portrait of the old man, his eyes seeming to follow me wherever I moved. I’d feel a draft every time I passed, and the temperature would drop by ten degrees. I told my mom, but she waved it off, saying the house was just old and drafty.

But at night, I’d hear it. A low, guttural whisper, so faint I thought it was the wind. It came from the study, right through the wall from my room. I’d press my ear to the wall, and the words would sharpen, though I couldn’t understand them. It was like a language I didn’t know, but one that felt ancient and angry. One night, I swear I heard my name, drawn out in a hiss: ‘Saaaaara.’ I pulled back, heart pounding.

My grandmother, who was sensitive like me, came to visit. She walked through the house with her hand against the walls, her face growing pale. When she reached the master bedroom, she stopped and said, ‘He’s still here.’ I asked who, and she just shook her head, her eyes wet with tears. ‘Your grandfather,’ she whispered. ‘But not as he was. He’s twisted. He wants the house.’ I didn’t understand, but I knew she felt it too.

A week later, my cousin Ezra disappeared. He was just gone, no trace. The police searched the forest for days, but found nothing. Caleb went silent, not speaking to anyone. Uncle Marcus claimed he ran away, but I saw the fear in his eyes. He knew something wasn’t right. My mom tried to comfort me, but she was scared herself.

I started having dreams. In the dreams, I was in the study, and the books were alive, flying off the shelves. The old man’s portrait in the master bedroom looked at me with hatred, and he spoke in that guttural language. I’d wake up freezing, my breath fogging in the air. My room was always cold, even with the heat on.

One night, I woke to see the door to the study slightly ajar, a dim light spilling from within. I pushed it open. The room was filled with old medical texts and strange instruments, but the air was stifling, like a tomb. In the corner, a figure stood, shrouded in shadow. It turned, and I saw the old man’s face, but his eyes were hollow, black pits. He reached out a bony hand, and his mouth opened, but instead of a scream, words formed in the air, cold as death: ‘You should not have come.’

I backed out, but the door slammed shut, sealing me in. The whisper grew louder, surrounding me, and the temperature plummeted. I felt icy fingers wrap around my throat, and I couldn’t breathe. Just as I was about to lose consciousness, I heard my grandmother’s voice, sharp and urgent: ‘Sara! Fight it!’ She was in the doorway, her hand outstretched, holding a small vial of what I later learned was holy water mixed with salt. She splashed it on the figure, and it recoiled with a shriek that broke the windows. The door flew open, and I was free.

We left that night, my mom, my grandmother, and I. Caleb stayed with his father, but I begged him to come, and he did, his eyes hollow. We never looked back. The house still stands, a dark shape in the forest. The cold room is still there, waiting for someone who doesn’t know to keep out. I’ve had nightmares ever since, but the worst part is the whispers. They follow me, everywhere I go, just out of hearing, waiting for me to return. I know that someday, I will have to go back. The old man isn’t finished with me yet.