The Cold Spot on the Sixth Floor

The morning routine had become a ritual of quiet acceptance. I’d moved into the old St. Agatha’s apartment building six months ago, and aside from the occasional creak of settling pipes and the persistent draft from the faulty window, I’d felt nothing. No whispers, no apparitions. I’d researched, read everything on ‘the Other Side,’ and concluded I was just sensitive, not haunted. I’d made my peace.

Then Arman arrived. Seventeen hours from Almaty, a tangle of exhausted limbs and a rumpled coat. He dropped his bag, kissed my cheek, and shuffled to the bathroom, murmuring something about the shower. I curled back into the blankets, the winter chill seeping through the thin walls. The building’s radiator clanked and hissed, a familiar lullaby.

I must have drifted off, because the next thing I knew, a gentle pressure on my shoulder, then a soft, warm kiss on my forehead. I smiled, still half-asleep, thinking Arman had finished his shower and was being sweet. But the moisture lingered, a distinct wet patch, and when I finally blinked my eyes open, the room was empty. The bathroom light still glowed under the door.

‘Arman?’ I called out, my voice groggy. A muffled, irritated sound came from the bathroom. ‘What?’ he yelled back. ‘I’m in here! Stop messing with me and open the door, I’m locked out!’ My blood went cold. The door was shut, the lock engaged. Arman was in there, but I was alone in the bedroom.

I scrambled out of bed, heart hammering. I padded to the bathroom door, pressed my ear against the wood. I heard water running, and Arman’s voice, muffled but clear. ‘The door won’t open! It’s stuck!’ I tried the handle. It turned easily, and the door swung inward. Arman stood there, dripping wet, towel around his waist, looking baffled. ‘Did you just do that?’ he asked. I shook my head, my mouth dry. The bathroom was empty, steam curling from the shower.

I told him about the kiss. He laughed, thinking it was a joke, but the damp patch on my forehead was real. I felt a strange, cold spot in the room, like a patch of air that was several degrees colder, near the window. It was there, I realized, exactly where I’d felt the kiss come from. The cold spot didn’t move all day. It lingered by the window, even when the sun streamed in.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Arman was snoring softly beside me. The cold spot had migrated. It was now hovering at the foot of the bed. I watched it, a faint shimmer in the darkness, a distortion like heat haze. Then I felt a touch on my ankle, cold and light. I yanked my leg away, and Arman stirred. ‘What’s wrong?’ he mumbled. ‘Nothing,’ I whispered. But the spot had retreated to the corner.

The next morning, I found a photograph on the windowsill. I’d never seen it before. It was an old black-and-white portrait of a woman with sharp features and high cheekbones, staring directly at the camera, her lips pursed. The back had a faded inscription: ‘For the one who feels the cold.’ That’s when I realized. It wasn’t about being sensitive. It was about being chosen.

I tried to ignore it, but the cold spot grew bolder. It would touch my arm, my neck, my cheek, always leaving a faint chill. Arman thought I was getting sick. I didn’t sleep for two nights. On the third night, I woke to see the woman from the photograph standing at the foot of the bed, translucent but distinct. She was young, maybe mid-twenties, with old-fashioned clothing, a high collar, and a brooch at her throat. She was crying, but the tears evaporated before they touched her cheeks. She pointed at the bathroom door.

I shook Arman awake. He saw her too. His face went pale. ‘Who is that?’ She vanished. The cold spot was gone. The room felt warm again. But from the bathroom, we heard a gurgling sound, like water down a drain, and then a loud bang. We rushed to find the toilet bowl cracked, water spraying everywhere.

We moved out that day. I haven’t been back. But last night, I felt a cold patch on my pillow, and when I turned, I saw her face, faintly, in the mirror across the room. She mouthed something. I think she said ‘Please.’ The cold spot now follows me wherever I go. I don’t know what she wants, but I know one thing: I wasn’t just sensitive. I was always haunted. She was just waiting for the right moment to show herself.