The Draft Under the Door

It was the summer of 1987, and I was nine years old, spending two weeks at my grandmother’s farmhouse in western Kansas. The house was old, with creaking floors and walls that seemed to breathe, but I loved it. My grandmother, Ruth, had a way of telling stories that made the ordinary feel magical, and she had plenty of stories to tell, especially about the house.

One evening, as we sat on the porch watching the fireflies, she told me about the ghost they called ‘Edgar.’ Not a scary ghost, she said, but a mischievous one who lived in the bathroom. Back when she was a girl, her three sisters and she would take turns in the tub, and Edgar would pull the shower curtain aside, letting a blast of cold air in, no matter how hot the water. At first they were terrified, but soon they grew annoyed. They would shout, ‘Edgar, we’re freezing! Get out!’ And the curtain would close, and the temperature would return to normal, as if he were apologizing.

She laughed, her eyes twinkling, and said, ‘Well, I never knew why we called him Edgar, but that was his name.’ I asked if he still haunted the house, and she shrugged. ‘Maybe. But he’s harmless.’ I didn’t think much of it until that night, when I had to use the bathroom.

The bathroom was at the end of the hall, with a clawfoot tub and a window that looked out onto the endless wheat fields. I turned on the faucet, and as the water ran, I noticed a draft from under the door, even though there was no window open. I ignored it and stepped into the tub. The water was warm, and I relaxed. Then, without warning, the white shower curtain snapped inward, as if someone had yanked it, and a gust of ice-cold air hit my wet skin. I gasped and instinctively pulled the curtain back, but it snapped open again, harder this time.

I shouted, ‘Edgar, stop it! I’m cold!’ and just as quickly, the curtain slid shut, and the air warmed. I finished my bath quickly, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching me from the doorway.

Over the next few days, I tested Edgar’s presence. I would open the curtain and close my eyes, and after a minute, it would move. I started talking to him, and eventually, I felt a strange camaraderie. I was a lonely child, and the idea of a ghostly friend intrigued me. But then things took a darker turn.

One afternoon, I was brushing my teeth when I looked into the mirror and saw the reflection of the window behind me. The window was open, and the curtain billowed, but I hadn’t opened it. The cold draft returned, but this time, it wasn’t just cold—it carried a faint whisper, like the rustling of dry leaves. The voice said, ‘Not Edgar.’

I spun around, but no one was there. The window was shut. My grandmother was in the kitchen, and she had no reason to play tricks. I told her about it, and her face grew pale. She said, ‘There was another one, before the house was built. A man who lived in a shack across the field. They found him hanging from a tree. They called him the Draft Maker, because he was always complaining about the cold, and after he died, people felt cold drafts where he walked.’

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in my bed, listening to the wind, when I heard the doorknob of the bathroom rattle. I crept to the door and pressed my ear against it. Inside, I heard a low moan, and the shower curtain swished violently. I knew it wasn’t Edgar. I opened the door, and the room was empty. But the window was open, and on the sill was a wet footprint, too large for any of us.

The next morning, I told my grandmother, and she grew serious. She said, ‘Edgar was always kind, but the other one, he’s not. We had a priest come once, but the draft got worse. You must never go in there when the window is open.’

But the draft under the door continued. It became a nightly ritual—the rattling, the moaning, the cold. I began to see a figure in the bathroom mirror, a tall man with hollow eyes and a rope around his neck. He would stand behind me, and when I turned, he’d be gone. I started sleeping with the light on.

On the last night of my visit, I woke to the sound of running water. I tiptoed to the bathroom and pushed the door open. The tap was on, and the shower curtain was wide open, revealing the empty tub. The window was open, and the draft was like a gale, blowing papers and shampoo bottles onto the floor. In the mirror, I saw the man, grinning, and his lips moved silently. I read his words: ‘Edgar can’t help you.’

I ran to my grandmother’s room, but she was asleep. I didn’t know what to do. So I did the only thing I could think of. I went back to the bathroom, closed the window, and faced the mirror. I said, ‘Why are you here? What do you want?’

The man pointed to the floor, and I looked down. There was a hatchet handle, half-hidden under the tub. I knelt and pulled it out. It was ancient, with a dark stain. I looked at the mirror again, and the man was gone. The draft stopped. The bathroom was warm.

I never saw him again, but I carried the hatchet handle home. It sat on my desk, a reminder of that summer. Now, as an adult, I still get a chill when I walk into a cold room, and I know the draft under the door is not always just a draft. It’s someone who wants something, and they will wait until you listen.