The Copper Door

My partner and I inherited his aunt’s old farmhouse on the prairie, miles from the nearest town. When we arrived, his cousin led us to the root cellar, which had been converted into a bedroom. The walls were packed dirt, and a single bare bulb hung from a beam. In one corner stood a potbelly stove, a rusted bed frame with a thin mattress, and a chipped enamel basin. There was no door, only a heavy canvas curtain separating the room from the narrow ladder and the coal bin beyond.

No matter how many logs I fed that stove, the far corner where the bed sat remained icy, while the rest of the room became stifling. The stove glowed red, yet my breath misted near the pillow. Above the bed, an old copper water pipe ran along the ceiling, and from it hung a rusted horseshoe and a frayed rope. My partner left for supplies, and since I didn’t know the family well, I stayed below, reading by the weak light.

The horseshoe and rope began to sway, gently at first, then more insistently. I thought someone was walking overhead, so I climbed the ladder to see who was stomping. The kitchen was empty. The whole house was silent, dust motes drifting in the afternoon sun. I started back down, but halfway, the canvas curtain was pinched from the other side and yanked toward me, billowing as if a great hand had grabbed it. I could see the impression of fingers pressing the fabric, and a low hum vibrated from the pipe above.

A chill that had nothing to do with the corner crept up my spine. The curtain hung still. I called out, ‘Hello?’ No answer. I inched down, and when I reached the bottom, the horseshoe and rope were frozen, perfectly still. But the room was colder, and the stove was now blazing, its door ajar, showing a bed of white-hot coals.

I tried to leave, but the ladder rungs were slick with moisture, and my boots slipped. I grabbed the curtain to steady myself, and through the fabric, I felt a hand clasp mine – ice-cold, skeletal, and impossibly strong. It pulled me forward, and I stumbled into the coal bin. There, in the dim light, I saw a small copper door set into the dirt wall, a door I hadn’t noticed before. It was padlocked, but the lock was open. A voice, like dry leaves, whispered from behind it, ‘You always bring the cold.’

I slammed the door and scrambled up the ladder, not daring to look back. In the kitchen, I found my partner’s cousin, pale and shaking. He said, ‘You found the door. We never bury the coal bin without sealing it. Aunt Elsie said the cold likes to be let in.’ That night, we slept on the floor upstairs, and from below, I heard the muffled sound of the copper door creaking open, and a frost creeping up the ladder, rime forming on the rungs. I knew then that the cold wasn’t just in that corner. It had been waiting for me to come down.