The Draft at Number 14

I moved to the old Cormier house for the rent, which was almost insultingly cheap. The realtor, a man with a perpetual sniffle, had called it ‘characterful’ and avoided my gaze. Within a week, I understood why. It wasn’t the creaking floorboards or the wallpaper peeling like dead skin. It was the cold.

At first, it was just a draft. A patch of cool air that would settle around my ankles no matter where I sat. I checked every window, every doorframe, sealing them with foam and caulk. The draft persisted, a stubborn, invisible pool of chill that followed me from the living room to the kitchen. I’d be reading, and my feet would go numb. I’d shift, and the chill would seep through my socks, up my calves. It was annoying, but I told myself it was just an old house, a quirk of its bones.

Then it started touching me. One night, as I lay in bed, trying to sleep with my legs carefully crossed, I felt a pressure on my right shin. It was like a cold, insistent hand, gripping my leg and pulling, testing my resistance. I shot upright, heart hammering, but the room was empty. The pressure vanished, leaving only a residual cold that clung to my skin like a damp cloth. I didn’t sleep that night.

It grew bolder. I’d be in the shower, the water hot and steaming, and a patch of cold would glide across my shoulders, or wrap around my waist like an icy embrace. I’d spin around, expecting to see something, but there was only the clear plastic curtain and the blank tile. The cold would linger, a wet, breathy sensation against my neck, as if something was standing right behind me, savoring my fear.

I started sleeping with the lights on. I avoided the shower, using a washcloth at the sink. I wore thick wool socks even in summer. But the thing adapted. It would find the gap between my sock and my jeans, tracing a cold line up my calf. It would sit at the edge of my bed, creating a depression in the mattress, and I would feel the cold seep through the blankets, slowly, patiently, until my whole body was shivering.

I finally confided in my neighbor, a retired nurse named Clara who had lived here for thirty years. She listened, her face growing pale. ‘The previous tenant,’ she said, her voice low, ‘He was a young man, an artist. He used to sit in the back room, painting. He died in this house. They said his heart just stopped. But there were bruises on his legs, all up and down. They said it was a circulation problem.’

After Clara left, I stood in the hallway, staring at the closed door of the back room. I had never used it, pushing my boxes against it. Now, I felt a pull towards it, a cold draft seeping under the door, beckoning me. I opened it. The room was bare, but the air was icy, and in the center of the floor, there was a dark stain, like old oil. As I watched, the stain began to spread, slowly, forming the shape of a hand. The hand reached towards me, fingers uncurling, and I felt the familiar cold grip on my ankle, but this time it was stronger, insistent, pulling me into the room.

I stumbled back, slamming the door. But I knew it was too late. He had noticed me. He wanted company. That night, I lay in bed, legs crossed, but I felt the cold settle over my entire body, a heavy, suffocating blanket. In the dim light, I saw the outline of a man sitting in the chair by my bed, his face a featureless void, but his eyes, if they could be called eyes, were fixed on me, hungry and patient. My heart hammered against my ribs, and I could feel my legs growing numb, the cold seeping into my bones. I knew then that I would never leave this house the same way I came in. And I wondered if I would leave at all.