The Cold Spot in the Hallway

I was thirteen when we moved into the old farmhouse on the edge of the Iowa cornfields. My name is Eli, and I’ve always been ‘sensitive’ to things that shouldn’t exist. My parents thought it was a phase, my younger sister, Becca, thought I was making it up to scare her, and my older brother, Joel, just ignored me. The only ones who truly understood were my two dogs, Molasses and Biscuit, who would whine and growl at empty corners before I even felt the chill.

The farmhouse had been in the previous owner’s family for over a century. It was a sprawling, two-story structure with peeling white paint and a porch that sagged like a tired old man. The realtor said it was ‘full of charm,’ but on our first night, I saw a figure standing in the hallway upstairs, silhouetted against the dim light from the bathroom. It was tall, gaunt, and wore an old-fashioned dress that hung to the floor. I blinked, and it was gone, but the air in that hallway was so cold that my breath plumed.

I didn’t tell anyone, of course. But I started keeping a journal, documenting every occurrence. The dogs would bark at the stairs, and I’d find their food bowls inexplicably moved across the kitchen floor. Mom would complain about the temperature fluctuations, blaming the old furnace. Dad would laugh it off until the night he set his coffee mug on the counter, turned to grab the creamer, and found the mug unbroken in the sink, as if someone had deliberately moved it. He didn’t laugh after that.

The worse part was the dreams. They were always the same: I was walking down a long, dark hallway, lined with doors. At the end stood the woman from the first night, her face obscured by shadow. She would point at one of the doors, and I would feel a profound sense of dread. I would wake up screaming, my hands freezing, even in the summer heat. My brothers mocked me, calling me ‘icicle fingers,’ but they stopped when they saw the frost on my windowsill in August.

One evening, after a particularly vivid dream, I decided to explore the hallway in real life. I counted the doors: there were five. The woman had pointed to the third one, which I knew was Joel’s room. He was at a friend’s house, so I entered anyway. The room was bare, with peeling wallpaper that looked like they had once had a floral pattern, but had faded to a sickly yellow. In the corner, there was a heavy wooden trunk that I had never noticed before. It was locked with an old rusted padlock, but as I approached, the lock clicked open, and the lid creaked upward on its own.

Inside, I found a collection of child’s toys: a cracked porcelain doll, a tin soldiers set, and a tarnished silver locket. I picked up the locket and opened it. Inside was a faded photograph of a young girl, maybe six years old, with a solemn expression. On the reverse was etching: ‘Margaret, 1902.’ I felt a cold gust of wind, and then I heard a soft whisper from behind me.

‘You’re not him.’

I spun around. The woman from the hallway was standing in the doorframe, her hollow eyes fixed on me. She was taller up close, and I could see through her, the wallpaper visible behind her. She tilted her head, and I felt a tugging in my chest, a pull toward the locket.

‘Who are you?’ I managed to choke out.

‘I am Margaret,’ she said, her voice like the rustle of dry leaves. ‘I have been waiting for a very long time for someone who could see me. You can help me, can’t you?’

I didn’t know what to say. I just clutched the locket and backed away. She made no move to stop me. I ran to my room and locked the door. That night, I had a new dream. I was in the hallway again, but this time, the woman was holding the locket. She showed me a vision of a man in a black coat burying something beneath the old oak tree in the backyard. The dream ended with her saying, ‘He took me, but he buried my true self.’

I woke with a start and looked out the window. The oak tree was still there, ancient and gnarled. The next day, I went to the library and looked up the history of the house. I found an old newspaper article from 1902: ‘Local Man Arrested for Disappearance of Daughter.’ The man was a farmer, and his name was Bartholomew. He was suspected of murdering his own daughter, but the body was never found. He was released due to lack of evidence.

I knew I had to dig under the oak tree. I waited until nightfall, when everyone was asleep, and took a shovel from the garage. The dogs followed me, whimpering. I started digging, the earth cold and hard. After about two feet, the shovel hit something soft. I brushed away the dirt and found a small, rotting burlap sack. Inside was a child’s skeleton, with a ragged white dress.

I called the police, but I couldn’t tell them the truth. I said I smelled a strange odor and found the spot. When they opened the sack, they found a silver cross and a small diary. The diary belonged to Margaret, and it detailed how her father, Bartholomew, had tried to ‘drive the demons out of her’ because she claimed to see spirits. The last entry ended mid-sentence: ‘Father says I am possessed. He is going to bury me alive to save my soul.’

After the remains were properly reburied in the local cemetery with a headstone, the haunting stopped. The woman never appeared again, and the temperature in the hallway returned to normal. The dreams ceased, and my hands stayed warm. I still have the locket, though.

Sometimes, when I hold it, I feel a faint warmth, almost like a grateful touch. And I know that Margaret is finally at peace. But every now and then, when I walk down a dark hallway, I catch a glimpse of her out of the corner of my eye, nodding at me as if to say, ‘Thank you.’

I’ve learned that my gift is not just a curse, but also a responsibility. And though the cold spot in the hallway is gone, I know that there are always other spirits, other stories, waiting to be found. And I will be there, with my dogs by my side, ready to listen.