The Frost That Follows

I’ve always prided myself on being the sort of person who needs proof. Ghosts, spirits, the afterlife—those were concepts for the gullible, the ones who watched too many reality shows. So when I moved into the old carriage house behind a sprawling Victorian in rural Vermont, I dismissed the realtor’s warning about ‘drafts’ as typical New England charm. The place was cheap, and the landlord, an elderly woman named Mrs. Harlow, seemed harmless enough, just a bit superstitious. She told me the property had a history, but she didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask.

My first week was uneventful. I worked from home as a graphic designer, my only companions the hum of my laptop and the occasional deer passing through the woods. But on the third Monday, something shifted. I was microwaving leftover pasta when a wave of cold air washed over me, so sudden and biting that my breath billowed out in a white cloud. The thermostat on the wall read a balmy seventy-two, but the cold clung to my skin like a wet shroud. Puzzled, I checked the windows—all closed, no drafts. I turned up the heat, but the cold persisted, centered in the middle of the living room.

I grabbed a thick wool blanket from my bedroom and wrapped it around my shoulders, trying to shake off the chill. That’s when I heard it: a soft, almost childlike giggle, right by my ear. I spun around, heart hammering, but the room was empty. The laughter faded into a faint rustling, like dry leaves skittering across the floor, though nothing moved. My rational mind scrambled for explanations—a vent, a bird, a prank. But the silence that followed felt heavy, watchful.

I decided to step outside, hoping the brisk evening air would clear my head. The backyard was a tangle of overgrown grass and a dying oak tree, its branches clawing at the sky. I stood there, looking up at the Victorian’s darkened windows, and felt a pair of eyes on me. Not hostile, but curious. I thought I saw a flicker of movement behind one window—a pale face, gone in an instant. I chalked it up to a reflection of the setting sun.

That night, I couldn’t shake the unease. I went to bed early, leaving the bathroom light on. At 2:47 AM, I snapped awake to the sound of tapping on the bathroom door. Tap. Tap. Tap. Slow, deliberate, like a knuckle rapping on wood. My bedroom door was partially open, and I could see the bathroom door down the hall. No one was there. I called out, ‘Hello?’ The tapping stopped, followed by a long, drawn-out sigh that seemed to come from inside my own closet. My skin prickled, but I forced myself to check. Nothing.

I didn’t sleep the rest of the night. I scoured the house with a flashlight, looking for pipes or critters, but found nothing. By morning, I convinced myself it was all in my head—the stress of a new job, a lack of sleep. But as I made coffee, I noticed the thermostat had dropped to fifty-eight, though the HVAC was still running. And on the kitchen counter, my coffee mug was gone. I searched the small kitchen, and there it was, sitting on the counter by the sink, but now filled with cold, black tea that I had never brewed.

That’s when I called Mrs. Harlow. She didn’t answer, so I left a message. An hour later, she called back, her voice thin and brittle. ‘You’re feeling the cold, aren’t you?’ she asked. I told her everything. She was silent for a long time, then said, ‘The house doesn’t like new people. But it grows fond of them. You must learn to share.’

Share what? I wanted to ask, but she had hung up. That afternoon, I found a dusty photograph in a drawer of my dresser, one I had never seen before. It showed a young girl in a white dress, standing on the porch of the Victorian. Her face was blurred, but I could see she was holding a hand mirror. On the back, written in faded ink, were the words: ‘For Margaret, who sees.’

I don’t know who Margaret is, but ever since that day, I’ve felt a presence. It’s not malicious—more like a quiet companion. Sometimes I hear faint humming in the hallway. Sometimes the cold follows me from room to room, a chill that settles on my shoulders like a watching gaze. I’ve stopped trying to explain it. The skeptical part of me is gone, replaced by an uneasy acceptance. Because last night, I saw my reflection in the bathroom mirror, and for a split second, it didn’t match my movements. It smiled. I didn’t.

I’m writing this from the porch, wrapped in a blanket even though it’s June. The cold is inside me now. And I think, it’s here to stay.