The Cold That Followed Me

It began in my fifteenth year, in the house my grandparents had built. I was washing my hands in the kitchen sink when a sudden chill wrapped around my ankles. I dismissed it as a draft from an old window.

But the cold came again, sharper this time, and a knot of dread tightened in my chest. I hurried from the kitchen, gathering my schoolbooks, and retreated to the small den to finish my homework. As I sat on the floor, arranging my papers, a low, guttural snarl came from the empty space behind my father’s favorite armchair. I did not stay to question it.

Weeks later, my mattress would tremble after midnight. I convinced myself it was just my own restless legs. To be sure, I asked my cousin to share my room. She shook me awake before sunrise, her face pale, asking why the bed would not be still.

After that, my cousin, my younger sibling, and I all slept in my parents’ room with the latch firmly shut. From behind the door, we would listen to the soft rustle of objects being shifted in the living area, notice dark shapes passing the crack under the door, and hear faint, murmuring voices.

One afternoon, when the house was empty, I brought our old cat inside for company. I was too frightened to walk down the long corridor to the laundry room by myself, so I had my furry guardian by my side.