The Draft Under the Door

I’ve been living in this old farmhouse for about three years now, and I’ve never had reason to question its quirks. The floorboards creak in the hallway no matter how carefully you step, the kitchen faucet drips in a rhythm that sometimes seems to match a heartbeat, and the attic door always swings open on its own when the wind blows just right. But I’ve always chalked that up to the house’s age and the drafts that snake through its bones. Nothing has ever felt truly wrong until last Tuesday.

That morning, I woke up before the sun and shuffled into the guest bathroom, the one at the end of the hall that’s always colder than the rest of the house. The light flickered for a moment before humming to life, and I caught a glimpse of myself in the old, speckled mirror. I looked tired, but that was normal. I turned on the shower, and as the steam began to fill the room, I noticed something odd: the window in the bathroom was closed, and the door was shut, but the air was moving. The shower curtain, a stiff, plastic thing with faded seashells, swayed gently as if someone had just brushed past it. I wrote it off as the house settling, the same way I’d written off the creaking and the dripping.

I stepped into the warm spray, letting the water run down my back. The bathroom was quiet except for the hiss of the showerhead and the occasional clank of the old pipes. I closed my eyes, and for a moment, I felt at peace. But then I heard it—a soft, sliding sound, like something being dragged across the tile floor. I opened my eyes and looked down. The bath mat, a gray woolen thing, had moved. It was now six inches to the left, its corner resting against the base of the toilet. I blinked, thinking maybe I’d shifted it when I stepped in. But I hadn’t. I was standing still, the water cascading around me, and the mat was definitely not where I’d left it.

I turned off the water, my heart thumping. The sudden silence made the air feel thick. I pulled back the curtain and stepped out onto the cold tile, avoiding the mat. The bathroom looked the same as it always did, but something felt different. The air was heavy, and the mirror was fogged, obscuring my reflection. I grabbed a towel and wiped the glass, revealing a pale face that stared back at me. I was alone, I told myself. The house was old, the wind was picking up, and the mat had simply slipped. I dried off and tried to ignore the growing knot in my stomach.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, listening to the wind whip around the corners of the house. At some point, I heard a noise. It was a faint, rhythmic tapping, like a fingernail against glass. It was coming from the bathroom. I got up, my feet cold on the wooden floor, and crept down the hall. The bathroom door was ajar, which I thought I’d closed. I pushed it open, and the tapping stopped. The room was empty, but the shower curtain was moving again, swaying as if caught in a breeze. There was no window open, no draft. I turned on the light, and the curtain stopped. I stood there, watching it, waiting. Nothing moved. I walked over to the curtain and pulled it back, revealing the empty tub. I let the curtain fall and stepped out, feeling foolish.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching me. Over the next few days, I started noticing small changes. The soap dish would be on the opposite side of the sink from where I’d left it. The towel bar would be pulled slightly out of place. The mirror would be slightly tilted. I’d correct them, and they’d change again. It was as if the bathroom had a life of its own, a presence that was just out of sight.

Then, one night, I was taking a bath to relax. The bathroom was filled with steam, and the window was fogged. I was reading a book, half-asleep, when I heard a low, guttural whisper. It was barely audible, like a voice filtered through water. I froze, my ears straining. The whisper came again, and this time I could make out a word: ‘Draft.’ I sat up, my heart racing. ‘Draft,’ the voice repeated, and I realized it was coming from the gap under the door. I looked at the door, and there, in the crack, I saw a shadow. It was a thin, dark shape, like a wisp of smoke, curling under the door and into the room. It writhed on the tile, slowly moving toward the tub. I scrambled out, grabbing a towel, and backed away. The shadow stopped, as if it were aware of me. Then it retreated, slinking back under the door, and was gone.

I didn’t sleep that night. I sat in the living room with all the lights on, the TV blaring, trying to convince myself it was a dream. But in the morning, I went back to the bathroom, and there, on the tile, was a wet spot. It was roughly the size of a handprint, but with elongated fingers, like something that had crawled. I touched it, and it was cold, much colder than the surrounding floor. I knew then that whatever was in the bathroom was not just a draft. It was something that had found its way in, and it was waiting for me to let my guard down.

I’ve stopped using that bathroom now. I use the one upstairs, even though the floorboards creak more. But I’m not sure that’s enough. Last night, I woke up to the sound of water running. I went to the master bathroom, and the sink was on, the water flowing, the mirror fogged. Written on the glass, in a language I didn’t recognize, was a single word. I couldn’t read it, but it sent a chill through me. Then the water shut off by itself, and the mirror cleared. I haven’t told anyone, because who would believe me? But I’m writing this down, so that if I vanish, someone will know. The drafts in this house aren’t just drafts. They’re voices, reaching out from somewhere else, and I think they’re trying to pull me in.