The Cold That Follows

I was at my desk in the old lighthouse, transcribing weather log entries from the 1920s, when my throat went dry as chalk. The storm outside had been battering the coast for hours, rattling the windows in their frames. I rose, my chair scraping against the floorboards, and went to the small kitchenette in the corner. The kettle had just boiled, so I poured a glass of water and drank deeply. The chill hit me immediately, seeping through my sweater as if the room had been plunged into winter. My breath curled in the air, and I glanced at the thermometer: it read 58°F, but the cold was unnatural, clinging to my skin.

Twenty minutes later, I needed to relieve myself. The lavatory was at the base of the tower, a cramped space with a cracked mirror above the sink. As I entered, I caught a reflection – a figure in white, small, motionless, peering at me from behind my shoulder. I spun, but the room was empty. My heart hammered. I rationalized it as a trick of the light from the storm, or fatigue. I finished and returned to my desk, but the feeling of being watched persisted.

Then the voice came. It was a woman’s voice, soft and insistent, calling my name – Andrew, Andrew – over and over, like a scratched record. I shouted, ‘Who’s there?’ The only reply was the wind howling through the cracks. I searched the entire lighthouse, from the lantern room to the storage cellar, but found nothing. As I came back to the main room, the television, which had been playing a documentary on sea birds, flickered and died. Then the overhead light went out, plunging me into darkness.

The storm had knocked out the power, I told myself. I fumbled for my phone, but the battery was dead. I knew I had to get out, to reach the generator outside. I felt my way along the walls, my breath still visible, the cold deepening with each step. When I finally reached the front door, I yanked it open and stumbled into the gale. The rain lashed at me, and I ran toward the generator shed, but I didn’t get far.

I heard a giggle behind me, childlike. I turned, and there she was – the little girl in the white robe, standing on the path, her face pale, her eyes black as the depths. She pointed a finger at me, and the cold became unbearable, seeping into my bones. I tried to move, but my legs wouldn’t respond. The giggle grew louder, blending with the storm, until it was all I could hear. The last thing I saw was her smile, too wide for her face, and then the darkness took me.

They found me the next morning, curled up on the rocks below the lighthouse, my skin cold as marble, a smile etched onto my face. The officials said I had fallen from the cliff, but the funny thing was, the lighthouse had no electricity that night, and the water in my glass had frozen solid. To this day, I don’t remember what happened after I saw her, but sometimes, when the wind blows just right, I think I hear her calling my name again.