The Draft

I worked the graveyard shift at the cannery, the hiss of steam and clatter of tin cans for eight hours straight. By the time I trudged up the three flights to my converted attic studio, my bones were lead and my eyes were sandpaper. The clock on the microwave blinked 1:47 AM. I kicked off my steel-toed boots, peeled off the salt-stiff coveralls, and fell into bed without even pulling the sheets down.

My room was the entire top floor of an old Victorian, a single long space with dormer windows at each end. I’d left the one by my bed cracked open for the night breeze, and the one on the far side, by the tiny kitchen nook, was wide open too, trying to air out the day’s fish smell. The door to the landing below was solid oak, latched with a click that always felt final.

I was swimming in that half-conscious haze between waking and sleep when the door swung open. Not a creak, not a whisper, just a silent, slow movement of wood on hinges. The hallway light blazed through, a harsh yellow rectangle that stabbed my tired eyes. I squinted, annoyed. ‘Must be a draft,’ I muttered, too tired to get up. I rolled over, pulling the pillow over my head.

Then the door slammed shut. The bang was like a gunshot in the quiet. My heart lurched. I sat up, staring at the door. The brass knob was still. I waited, counting my heartbeats. After twenty seconds, I exhaled. ‘Draft,’ I said again, trying to convince myself. I lay back down, but my eyes stayed open.

The door opened again. Wide. The light poured in. I saw the empty hallway, the worn carpet, the banister. Then it slammed shut with a force that rattled the picture frames on the walls. It opened a third time, faster, and slammed again. A fourth time. The rhythm was angry, purposeful. I couldn’t breathe.

I whispered, ‘Please stop. You’re scaring me. Shut the door.’ The words felt tiny in the dark. As soon as I said ‘door,’ it slammed once more, so hard I felt the floor shake. Then silence. The door was shut, but the hallway light was gone. Complete, suffocating darkness, except for the faint gray of the open windows.

I fumbled for my phone on the nightstand, my hand shaking. The screen glowed, 1:53 AM. I used the flashlight to light my way to the hall switch. I crept to the door, pressed my ear against the wood. Nothing. I took a breath, turned the knob, and pulled.

The door didn’t budge. I pulled harder, then pushed, but it was as if it was locked from the other side. But there was no lock on the outside. I rattled the knob, panic rising. ‘Hello? Anyone there?’ My voice cracked. No answer.

I stumbled back, the phone’s beam sweeping the room. The windows. Both were open, the curtains dancing in a breeze that didn’t touch me. I remembered the old building’s quirks, the way air could create a vacuum, but this was different. The door was sealed, and the air inside the room was still and cold as a tomb.

Then I noticed the ceiling. In the corner above the far window, a dark stain was spreading, like water damage, but it pulsed. Slow, rhythmic, like a heartbeat. I watched, frozen, as it grew, tendrils of darkness reaching down the walls. A smell filled the room—not fish, but wet soil and ozone, like a storm that never broke.

My phone buzzed. The screen read ‘1:58 AM.’ I had no notifications. I opened the camera, pointing at the stain. On the screen, the blackness was swirling, forming shapes—faces, mouths, fingers. I dropped the phone, and it clattered to the floor, the screen shattering. The darkness in the corner swelled, and the room grew even darker, as if it were swallowing the residual light.

I backed toward the door, my shoulder blades hitting the wood. The door was cold, damp. I felt something breathe on the back of my neck—warm, moist, like a mouth too close. I spun around. Nothing. But the stain had reached the floor, pooling like ink, moving toward me.

I screamed, hammering on the door, but no sound came out. My hands were locked against it, my feet glued to the floorboards. The darkness touched my shoes, and I felt a pull, a suction, drawing me down. I fell to my knees as the floor turned to liquid, and I was sinking, the dark swallowing my legs, my torso, my arms. The last thing I saw was the open window, the faint stars, and then the dark closed over my eyes.

I woke up on the floor of my apartment, the morning sun streaming through both windows. The door was open, the hallway light bleached by daylight. I was damp, shivering, and my hands had deep crescents where my nails had dug in. I never told anyone. I still work the graveyard shift, and I always sleep with the windows closed, the door locked, and a light on. But sometimes, in the corner of my vision, I see a dark stain pulsing on the ceiling, and I feel that warm breath on my neck, and I know the draft was never just air.