The Floor’s Cold Breath

I was seventeen the winter my mother brought home the planchette. She said it was for fun, a parlour game, but she spent hours in her study with it, the door locked, candles burning. Our house, an old farmhouse my stepfather inherited, had always been drafty and creaked at night, but after the board arrived, the air grew thick, like the house itself was holding its breath.

My room was at the top of the stairs, a converted attic with sloped ceilings and a single dormer window that overlooked the frozen pond. Every night, as I climbed into my narrow bed, I felt eyes on me, a weight in the shadows. I told myself it was the wind, the old timbers, my own imagination. But some nights, the feeling was so strong I’d lie rigid, afraid to move, afraid to turn my head.

One night in late January, the cold seeped through the walls, and the house was silent, too silent. My stepfather was away, my sisters were at a friend’s, and my mother was in her study, the faint glow of candles bleeding under the door. I walked to my room, my footsteps muffled on the worn carpet, and I knew, before I even opened the door, that something was waiting for me.

I pushed the door open, and the darkness inside was absolute, like a solid thing. The air was icy, far colder than the rest of the house. I fumbled for the wall switch, but the light didn’t turn on. A shiver ran down my spine, and I felt a presence, close, oppressive, waiting. I wanted to turn back, to sleep on the couch, but I was frozen, my hand on the doorframe.

I forced myself into the room, my heart hammering. I had to cross to my bed, which was against the far wall, facing the room. The feeling of being watched intensified with every step. I reached the bed, and I flung myself onto the mattress, pulling the covers up to my chin, my back to the wall, my face toward the blackness of the room.

I lay there, panting, trying to calm my racing heart. The darkness was so complete I couldn’t see my own hand in front of my face. And then, I felt something. A cold draft, like breath, on my left side, right at the edge of the bed. Not a gust from a crack in the window, but a slow, deliberate exhalation that smelled of earth and rot and something ancient. It was so close, I could feel the hairs on my arm stand up.

I squeezed my eyes shut, praying it was just my imagination. But then, I heard it—a soft, scraping sound, like fingernails on wood, coming from the floor right next to my bed. And then a whisper, so faint I almost missed it, but it was there, a dry, raspy voice that said my name, my full name, which no one but my birth certificate used.

I couldn’t move. Not because of sleep paralysis—I was wide awake, my mind sharp and terrified. I felt a pressure on the edge of the mattress, as if something was leaning on the bed. And then, something crawled up, something cold and heavy, settling on top of the quilt, pressing down on my legs. I could feel the weight through the blanket, and I could hear a low, wet breathing, inches from my face.

I forced my eyes open, and in the pitch black, I saw two faint, grey pinpoints, like eyes, floating just above me. They were slowly growing brighter, and I realized they were not eyes, but pale, milky orbs that seemed to emit their own light, revealing the outline of a wasted, distorted face, gaunt and hollow, with a mouth that opened too wide, filled with needle-like teeth.

It was on all fours over me, its face so close I could feel a cold mist coming from its throat. I wanted to scream, but no sound came out. And then, it spoke, its voice like dead leaves, ‘I have been waiting.’

I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t fight it, couldn’t run. All I could do was pray, and I did, silently, to God, to Jesus, to anyone. And as I prayed, the creature’s form wavered, like heat distortion, and I felt a warmth spreading from my chest, a heat that seemed to repel it. It let out a hiss, like steam escaping, and pulled back, sinking off the bed, back into the darkness under the frame.

I lay there, trembling, for what felt like hours, until the first grey light of dawn crept through the window. When I could finally move, I slid off the bed, my legs weak, and I looked under the bed. There was nothing there but dust and an old, forgotten toy.

I never told anyone about that night. My mother kept using the board, and the house grew colder and more oppressive. But I knew, with absolute certainty, that the thing I had seen was real, and that it was biding its time. It was tied to the house, to the board, to the family, and one day, it would come back for me.

I moved out when I turned eighteen, and I never returned. But sometimes, on quiet nights, when the wind is just right, I feel that cold breath on my neck, and I remember the creature’s face, and I know it’s still waiting, just beyond the edge of the bed, patient, patient, patient.