The Cold Valentine

It was 5 AM on the fourteenth of February, and I was awake as usual. My name is Daniel, and I’ve been an insomniac for as long as I can remember. My apartment, a small studio in the industrial district, was silent except for the hum of the old refrigerator. I lay on my back, staring at the water stain on the ceiling that looked like a distorted face.

Suddenly, a chill crept over my lower body, as if a window had been left open, but I knew all the windows were sealed. The cold was localized, exactly around my groin, and then my left leg went numb, pins and needles prickling under the skin. I tried to move, but my body refused to respond. I thought it was my girlfriend, Lila, who sometimes played pranks on me, but she was away visiting her parents. The cold began to travel up my chest, a sensation like an icy hand tracing a path from my stomach to my throat. I opened my mouth to call out, but only a hoarse whisper escaped.

I was pinned to the bed, as if an invisible weight pressed down on my chest and limbs. The room seemed to fade, and I could hear a faint, rhythmic dripping, like water from a leaky pipe, but I knew the bathroom faucet was closed. The cold intensified, and I felt a presence, a pressure on my body, as if someone was sitting on my hips. I tried to focus, to remember any whispers or shadows, but there was nothing. Just the cold, the numbness, and the growing sense of dread.

I noticed a faint scratching sound, like nails on drywall, coming from the corner of the room where I kept my collection of old vinyl records. The scratching grew louder, more insistent, and I felt a sharp pain in my right hand, as if something had cut me. I managed to turn my head slightly, and I saw a thin line of blood forming on my palm, as if an invisible blade had traced a pattern. The cold then retreated, like a wave pulling back from the shore, and my body relaxed. I could move again, gasping for air.

I sat up, my hand bleeding, the numbness fading. I looked around the room, but nothing was out of place. The scratching had stopped. I got up and went to the bathroom to clean my hand, and that’s when I noticed the mirror. There, written in condensation, were the words: ‘You’re mine now.’ I had no idea how it got there. The room was cold, and I felt a presence behind me, but when I turned, no one was there.

My rational mind tried to dismiss it as a hallucination from sleep deprivation, but the cut on my hand was real, and the message was still on the mirror. I took a photo of it, and as I did, the cold returned, more intense this time, and I felt a hand grab my ankle. I stumbled, and the lamp on the nightstand flickered and went out. In the darkness, I heard a voice, a woman’s voice, whispering in my ear, ‘Happy Valentine’s Day, Daniel.’ I screamed, but no sound came out.

I fled my apartment, not bothering to grab my coat, running down the hallway, pounding on my neighbor’s door. But no one answered. The building was eerily silent, as if everyone was gone. I ran out into the street, the cold morning air biting at my skin. The streetlights flickered, and I could see my breath, but there was a patch of fog ahead, shaped like a figure. It moved toward me, and I felt a chill down my spine. I turned and ran the other way, not looking back.

Hours later, I found myself in a coffee shop, shaking, holding a warm cup of tea. I checked my phone, and I had a notification from a dating app I hadn’t used in months. It was a message from a profile I didn’t recognize, with a name that sent a shiver through me: ‘Lilith.’ The message read: ‘Did you enjoy my gift? I’ll be waiting for you tonight.’ I looked at the time, and it was 5 PM. I felt a cold breath on the back of my neck, and I knew, with a sinking certainty, that no matter where I went, she would find me. The coffee shop had no windows, and the lights flickered, casting dancing shadows on the walls. I could hear the faint dripping again, and I realized it was the sound of my own blood, from a cut I hadn’t noticed on my wrist.

I walked out into the evening, the city lights flickering, and I saw her silhouette at the end of the street, waiting under a flickering streetlight. She smiled, and the cold enveloped me, pulling me toward her. I tried to resist, but my feet moved on their own. The last thing I remembered was her voice, whispering in my ear as she embraced me, ‘Now you’re mine forever.’ The world went dark, and I woke up in my bed, at 5 AM, staring at the ceiling. I checked my hand, but the cut was gone. The mirror was clean. But I knew it wasn’t a dream, because on my nightstand was a red envelope, addressed to me, with a single white rose. Inside, a card read: ‘Our first anniversary is in a year. Don’t be late.’

Since that day, every Valentine’s Day, I wake at 5 AM, unable to move, and I feel her cold touch. And every year, a red envelope appears with a new rose, and the message inside always ends with, ‘You’re mine now.’ I’ve tried to escape, to leave the city, but I always end up back here, drawn by a force I can’t explain. And the worst part is, I’ve started to like the cold.