The Frozen Draft

March 17, 2026

by Selina

It was a sweltering Tuesday in early August, 2007, and I was eleven, sprawled on the worn carpet of my grandmother’s attic bedroom. The air conditioning hummed weakly, but a single patch of cold air clung to my back, just below my shoulder blade. I was on an old desktop, playing a pixelated dress-up game on a website called StarDoll. The screen flickered, and the mouse twitched. I reached behind me, expecting a draft, but my hand met a solid, icy barrier.

I froze, staring at the monitor. The cursor moved on its own, clicking through the virtual wardrobe, dressing the doll in a tattered wedding gown. Then it minimized the game and opened a chat window, signing in as ‘Silver_Lace_01’. That was the name my dead sister used when she was alive, before the accident two years ago. My heart hammered as the phantom typed, frantic messages filling the chat: ‘I’m still here,’ ‘Why did you leave me?’ ‘I see you.’ I screamed and bolted down the stairs, my legs shaking.

The next week, my grandmother called me into the living room. The computer was on, displaying a search engine. It showed images of vintage dolls, porcelain faces with cracked paint. As I approached, the screen went black, and the power button clicked off by itself. The next morning, my grandmother sat at the desk, muttering about ‘ghosts in the machine.’ She asked me to bring her a cup of tea. When I returned, the screen was filled with a single line: ‘You’re next, little sister.’ The tea cup shattered on the floor.

I told her everything that afternoon, about the cold spot, the mouse moving, the chat room. She didn’t laugh. She just whispered, ‘It’s your sister, trying to say goodbye.’ But I knew better. That night, as the house settled into silence, I heard a faint clicking from the attic. I tiptoed up and found the computer on, the mouse moving on its own. It opened a paint program and drew a crude picture: a girl holding a knife, standing over another girl. The caption read, ‘You left her. Now she’s mine.’

I ran to my grandmother’s room, but she was sound asleep, her chest rising and falling. I slept with her that night, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching from the screen. The next morning, the computer was on again. This time, it was on a live webcam feed, showing me asleep in the bed, the attic door slightly ajar behind me. I woke up, stared at the screen, and felt a cold draft on my back.

I haven’t been back to the attic since. But sometimes, when I pass a mirror, I see a flicker of a pale face, and I hear a faint typing sound coming from the closet. My grandmother passed away last year, and I inherited her house. The computer is still in the attic, plugged in, untouched. Sometimes, at night, I hear the soft click of the mouse, and I know that the ghost is still there, waiting for me to come back.

I’m writing this from a library computer, days away from that house, but I feel its cold reach. Last night, my laptop screen flickered, and a chat window opened. It said, ‘Remember when you dressed her? I remember.’ I closed the laptop, but I can’t unsee the cursor moving on its own. And now, as I type this, I feel that same icy patch on my back, and I know I’m not alone.

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