The Cold Seam

It was the first winter in the old mill town of Ashford, and my wife Clara and I had just moved into a narrow, two-story house on the edge of the industrial district. The previous tenants had left in a hurry, judging by the half-packed boxes and the smell of stale cigarettes. But the rent was cheap, and the landlord was desperate, so we took it.

Our only real concern was the building across the street: the Ashford Cooperative Funeral Home. It was a squat, brick structure with blackened windows and a sign that flickered in the winter wind. Clara hated it. She would stand at the living room window, wringing her hands, watching the hearses come and go. ‘I don’t like it,’ she’d say. ‘It’s too close.’ I’d wrap my arms around her and tell her it was just a building, that we were lucky to have a roof over our heads, but I knew the unease was eating at her. She’d always been sensitive to atmosphere, more than she admitted.

I, on the other hand, found a strange fascination with the place. I’d sit by the window with a cup of coffee, watching the funeral processions, imagining the stories of the people inside. I’d started a little notebook, jotting down observations, the times of services, the number of mourners. It was morbid, I know, but it gave me a thrill. Clara would shake her head and say, ‘You’re asking for trouble.’

One night, about two weeks in, I woke to the sound of scratching. At first, I thought it was the cats, but they were curled at our feet. The scratching came from the bedroom window, a persistent, rhythmic scrape, like fingernails on glass. I pulled back the curtain and saw nothing but the frost-covered pane. But there, on the glass, was a thin line of ice, curving like a crooked smile. It hadn’t been there before. I dismissed it as a trick of the cold, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had been watching.

The next day, I mentioned it to Clara, and she went pale. ‘It’s the dead,’ she whispered. ‘They’re trying to get in.’ I laughed it off, but that night, I heard the scratching again. This time, it was louder, more insistent. I got up and pressed my ear to the glass. It wasn’t an animal; it was a pattern. A rhythm: three short, three long, three short. An SOS. I felt a chill run down my spine, but I convinced myself it was just the loose branch of the old oak tree tapping against the window.

I was lying to myself.

Over the next few weeks, the occurrences escalated. The temperatures in the house dropped drastically, no matter how high I turned the thermostat. The cats refused to enter the living room, hissing at the window facing the funeral home. Clara started having nightmares, waking up screaming about a woman in white standing over her, whispering her name. I found scratch marks on the inside of the window sills, deep grooves in the wood. I tried to repair them, but they reappeared overnight, deeper, more intentional.

One evening, Clara begged me to stay up with her. She said she saw a figure in the funeral home, standing at the window, staring back at us. I went to look, but saw nothing. She started pointing, her hand trembling. ‘There! Look!’ I followed her gaze and saw, for a split second, a silhouette in the upper window of the building, a pale shape that vanished as soon as I focused on it. My heart raced. Maybe I wasn’t as skeptical as I thought.

Two nights later, I decided to investigate. I waited until Clara was asleep, then slipped out the back door, crossing the street to the funeral home. The door was unlocked, which I thought was odd. I stepped inside, the air cold and heavy with the smell of formaldehyde. The basement drew me, a narrow stairwell leading down. I descended, my flashlight revealing walls lined with metal drawers. I shuddered, but I was compelled to open one. Inside was an empty tray, but engraved on the metal was a name: Evelyn Marsh.

I didn’t know her, but something about the name felt familiar. I typed it into my phone, but there was no signal. I felt a draft, and behind me, I heard the soft click of a drawer sliding open. I turned, and there, standing in the doorway of the morgue, was a woman in a tattered white dress, her face pale, her eyes hollow. She opened her mouth, and from it came the sound of scratching, the same rhythm I’d heard on the window. And then she spoke, her voice a dry rasp: ‘Let me out.’

I ran. I stumbled up the stairs, out the door, across the street, and into the house, locking myself inside. Clara was awake, sitting on the couch, staring at the window. She looked at me with wild eyes. ‘You saw her, didn’t you?’ I nodded, my breath ragged. ‘She’s been trying to get out for years,’ Clara whispered. ‘The funeral home was built over an old cemetery. They moved most of the bodies, but some were left behind. She was one of them.’

I didn’t sleep that night. The scratching continued, but now I knew what it was. The next morning, I called a local historian. He told me about the cemetery, closed in 1940, and about Evelyn Marsh, a woman who died in 1938 and was never moved. Her family had tried to have her reburied, but the records were lost. Her casket had been forgotten, and over the years, the funeral home had built over the grave.

That night, I made a decision. I went back to the funeral home, this time with a shovel. I found the spot, right under the window where I’d seen her. I dug through the frozen ground, my hands numb from the cold. It took hours, but finally, I hit the wood. I opened the casket and saw her, preserved as if in a deep sleep. I gently lifted her remains and carried them to the city cemetery, where I buried her in the corner near the old oak tree. I said a prayer, even though I’m not religious, and as I finished, the temperature seemed to rise, and the oppressive feeling that had hung over the house lifted.

The scratching stopped. Clara and I slept for the first time in weeks. We never saw the woman again, but sometimes, on the coldest nights, I swear I hear a faint scratching at the window, and I look out to see a shadow in the funeral home, watching. But I know I’m just imagining it. After all, the dead are gone. I buried the seam that bound her, and I hope she’s found peace. But the cold seam I left behind, the one that breaks at the window, it’s still there, waiting for the next restless soul.

I haven’t told Clara the whole story. But sometimes, I see her glance at the window with a knowing look, and she shivers even when the heating is on. We moved to the other side of the house, but every winter, I find myself drawn to that window, listening, wondering if she’s there, still trying to get out.

And sometimes, I think I hear it, the faint, rhythmic scratching: three short, three long, three short. And I whisper back, ‘Not yet.’