The Cold Room

I had always scoffed at the idea of ghosts. To me, they were just figments of overactive imaginations, helped along by bad horror movies and cheap thrills. So when I took a part-time job at Sunshine Daycare, a cozy little center run by my mother’s old friend, I expected nothing more than sticky fingers and endless rounds of ‘Itsy Bitsy Spider.’

My first day was a blur of primary colors and cheerful chaos. I loved it. The kids were adorable, their laughter infectious. But there was one little girl, Lily, who stood out. She was four, with big brown eyes and a quiet demeanor. During free play, she would often sit in the corner, whispering to someone I couldn’t see. When I asked her about it, she’d smile and say, ‘I’m talking to my big brother.’ Her parents, however, confirmed she was an only child. I chalked it up to an imaginary friend, a harmless phase, and moved on.

Weeks passed, and autumn bled into a bitter November. The daycare’s heating system worked overtime, but there was one anomaly: the playroom. No matter how high the thermostat, that room remained unnaturally cold. I checked the vents—they were clear and blowing warm air. The windows were sealed tight. The cold seeped into my bones the moment I stepped inside, a persistent chill that no sweater could fix. I mentioned it to the other staff, but they just shrugged. ‘Old building,’ they’d say. But I knew better—I could feel it, a presence, a weight in the air.

One afternoon, when the kids were napping, I stayed behind to tidy the playroom. The silence was thick, broken only by the hum of the heating system. As I bent to pick up a stray crayon, I noticed the room’s temperature plummet. My breath fogged in front of me. I spun around, expecting to see a door left ajar, but everything was shut. That’s when I heard it—a soft, rhythmic thumping. It came from the corner where Lily always played. I froze, my heart pounding. The thumping grew louder, more insistent, like someone knocking from the other side of a wall. Then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped.

I convinced myself it was the old pipes, but doubt had taken root. I began to observe Lily more closely. She would sometimes pause mid-play, tilt her head as if listening, and then nod as if replying to an unheard voice. One day, she looked at me with those serious eyes and said, ‘He says you’re cold.’ I laughed nervously, ‘It is chilly in here, isn’t it?’ But she shook her head. ‘No, you’re cold inside. He wants to warm you up.’ A chill ran down my spine. I tried to brush it off, but the words lingered.

The next morning, I arrived early to find the playroom door slightly ajar. I pushed it open and was hit by a blast of icy air. In the center of the room, on the carpet, lay a child’s drawing. It showed two stick figures holding hands—one with a yellow dress, clearly Lily, and the other taller, with no features. Above them, in shaky crayon letters, was written: ‘Big bub.’ My blood ran cold. I grabbed the paper and shoved it into my pocket, my mind racing.

That night, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. My small apartment, which I’d always found comforting, suddenly felt alien. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, when I heard a faint knock—three distinct raps. I sat up, my breath held. The knock came again, closer, from the foot of my bed. Then, a voice, thin and rattling, like dry leaves, whispered, ‘She’s not yours to keep.’ I flicked on the lamp, but there was nothing there. The room was empty, yet I felt an icy hand press against my cheek. I screamed, and the presence vanished.

I didn’t sleep that night. The next day, I confronted Mrs. Gable, the daycare owner. I told her about the cold, the drawings, the whispers. She sighed, her face pale. ‘You felt it too, then,’ she said. ‘I thought it was just me, but the children—they all mention the big brother at some point. I’ve been here twenty years, and that room was always cold, even in summer. I thought it was the foundation, but the builders found nothing. No burst pipes, no drafts.’ She paused, her eyes distant. ‘There was a boy who used to live in this building, before it was a daycare. He died in the playroom—a fire. They never found his remains.’

I felt the world tilt. The drawing in my pocket seemed to burn. I returned to the playroom, my heart thudding. ‘If you’re here,’ I whispered, ‘show yourself.’ The air grew colder still. The lights flickered. From the corner, a faint sound emerged—a child’s laugh, but hollow, wrong. Then, a small, scorched handprint appeared on the window, as if pressed from the inside. I stumbled backward, my back hitting the wall. The handprint faded, and the temperature slowly stabilized.

I quit that week. I couldn’t face that room again, nor Lily’s knowing gaze. But the cold didn’t leave me. It followed me home. I’d wake in the middle of the night to find my breath misting, and the faint sound of knocking from the walls. I moved across the city, but a week later, I found a child’s drawing tucked in my mail slot—two stick figures, one with a yellow dress, and the words, ‘Miss you.’

Now, I sit in a new apartment, the heat cranked to maximum, yet I shiver. I never believed in ghosts, but I know now that some places hold onto their dead, and some dead refuse to let go. The cold room was just the beginning. The big brother is still searching, and I fear he’s found me.