The Cold Room on Cromwell Lane

I was nineteen when I moved into the old Ashworth House on Cromwell Lane, a sprawling Victorian relic that had been chopped into cheap student flats. The room I got was the former master bedroom, a cavernous space with a bay window that overlooked the overgrown gardens. The letting agent, a nervous woman with a clipboard, told me the history with a forced casualness: the original owner, a wealthy industrialist named Gregory Hale, had strangled his wife in that very room in 1981, then died in prison of AIDS before the trial ended. I shrugged it off. Ghost stories were for children, and the rent was absurdly low.

The first week was uneventful, aside from the usual settling-in noises of an old house. But then the temperature began to drop. It wasn’t a subtle chill; it was a sudden, biting cold that would seep into the room even with the radiator blasting. I could see my own breath, thin wisps of white that hung in the air like accusations. The lights would flicker, a rhythmic stutter that made me think of a failing transformer down the street. I checked the circuit breaker, called the landlord, even bought a new lamp, but the problem persisted. I convinced myself it was just faulty wiring and the draft from the old window frames.

Then came the night that shattered my rationalizations. I was watching a DVD of a paranormal investigation show, the kind where overeager hosts wave EMF meters around darkened corridors and ask for signs. As the host’s voice echoed through the cheap speakers, urging any spirits to make a presence known, the DVD player began to stutter. The picture froze, then pixelated, and with a grinding whir, the disc tray slid open on its own. The television clicked off, plunging the room into a silence so profound that I could hear my own heartbeat. The cold intensified, pressing against my skin like a physical weight.

I sat there, frozen, the remote clutched in my hand. The TV screen, now black, reflected my own terrified face and the dim outline of the room behind me. That’s when I heard it: a soft, wet rasping sound, like someone struggling to breathe. It came from the corner near the wardrobe, the darkest part of the room. My rational mind screamed for me to run, but my legs were lead. The sound grew louder, more desperate, and I could swear I felt a faint draft, cold and damp, like the breath of a dying woman on the back of my neck.

The room suddenly felt suffocating, the wallpaper seemed to ripple in the periphery of my vision, and the scent of old perfume mixed with something metallic filled the air. I forced myself to move, to lunge for the light switch, but the moment my fingers touched it, a voice—a low, guttural male voice—whispered right next to my ear, ‘She’s not here.’ I screamed, stumbled backward, and slammed into the wardrobe. The cold vanished in an instant, replaced by the sticky heat of my own panic. The TV flickered back on, and the DVD resumed playing as if nothing had happened.

I didn’t sleep that night. I sat with every light on, the duvet pulled around me like armor, staring at the door. When dawn finally broke, I packed a bag and fled to a friend’s house. I never went back, ignoring my landlord’s calls and forfeiting my deposit. I often think about that night, the cold, the flickering lights, and that disembodied whisper. I still don’t know if I believe in ghosts, but I know one thing: I will never set foot in a place like Ashworth House again. Some rooms are not meant to be occupied, and some stories refuse to stay buried.