The Frostbite Visitor

It was late autumn, and the air outside had that sharp bite that hinted at the coming snow. I was at Marcus’s place, a small cabin he’d inherited from his grandfather, nestled at the edge of a pine forest. My girlfriend, Lena, and I had come over to catch up, and we were in the kitchen, the warm glow of a single bulb casting long shadows. I was leaning against the counter, while Marcus and Lena sat at the worn wooden table, cups of coffee cooling between them.

A sudden chill swept through the room, moving with purpose from my right side, cutting across the space, and settling around Marcus. I laughed, trying to make light of it. ‘Better watch out, Marcus, a ghost just breezed past you,’ I said, winking at Lena. But the joke died in my throat. The cold turned, rushed back at me, and slammed into my chest. My spine hit the wall behind me, and I couldn’t draw a breath. My lungs seized, my muscles locked, and I felt like I had belly-flopped into a frozen lake.

My vision blurred, and then my head twisted to face Marcus, my neck moving as if puppet strings pulled it. I tried to scream, to tell him something was wrong, but only a strangled gasp escaped. Lena’s face contorted with panic, and Marcus rose, his chair scraping the floor. The pressure lasted an eternity, and just as quickly as it had come, it released. I crumpled to the ground, gasping for air, my body trembling.

‘What the hell was that?’ I croaked, rubbing my chest. Marcus and Lena helped me to a chair, their hands cold and unsteady. Marcus glanced around the room, a haunted look in his eyes. ‘It’s the house,’ he said. ‘Ever since I moved in, I hear things at night. Footsteps. Whispering. Sometimes my coffee mug moves on its own.’ I stared at him, my skin prickling. ‘You never told me that,’ I said. He shrugged, a grim smile on his face. ‘I thought you’d think I was crazy.’

The rest of the evening was tense, our conversation stilted. As we left, I noticed frost forming on the insides of the window panes, though the night was mild. We walked to the car in silence, and Lena whispered, ‘We’re never coming back here.’ I agreed, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had attached itself to me. That night, in my own bed, the same cold enveloped me, and I found myself staring at the ceiling, unable to move, a whisper like frozen leaves rattling in my ear: ‘You felt me. Now I feel you.’ It’s been three weeks, and the terror continues. I don’t know what it wants, but it’s grown stronger. It’s no longer just a chill; it’s a presence that watches me, that waits. And I know, with terrifying certainty, that it will follow me to the end of my days.