The Frozen Room

My name is Clara, and I’m eighteen. I live in a small town in upstate New York, in a house that was built in 1967, just after the Great White Storm of that year. That storm came out of nowhere, sweeping across the plains and the lakes, burying everything in ice and snow. It was so bad that a one-room schoolhouse, just a mile from my house, became a tomb for twenty-three children and their teacher. They had no heat, no food, and no way to call for help. The snow piled up so high it covered the windows, and they froze to death, huddled together in the dark.

I moved here in February 2011, with my mom and my boyfriend, Sam, and our old dog, Gus. The house was a fixer-upper, and my mom got it cheap. From the outside, it looked like any other aging suburban home, but inside, it felt wrong. My bedroom was at the end of a long, narrow hallway, and the door was missing, ripped right off its hinges, like something had clawed it away. The room was always cold, even in the summer, and no amount of space heaters could chase the chill out of the air. My mom’s room, though, was the worst. It looked exactly like the room from that old movie, The Exorcist. The walls were cracked, the floorboards were warped, and there was a heavy, oppressive feeling that made you want to never step inside.

At first, I thought it was just the old house settling. But then, the memories started. Not mine, but someone else’s. I’d be lying in bed, and I’d hear children crying, muffled, as if they were coming from inside the walls. The temperature would drop suddenly, and my breath would fog in front of my face. Gus, our dog, would growl at empty corners and refuse to enter my room. Sam said it was just the wind, but I knew better.

One night, I woke up to a faint scratching sound, like little fingernails on wood. I sat up, heart pounding, and saw a small, frost-covered hand pressed against the window. It was a child’s hand, tiny and pale, and it was trying to get in. I screamed, and the hand disappeared, leaving behind a frost pattern that looked like a child’s face, its mouth open in a silent wail. The next morning, I told my mom, but she brushed it off, saying I was having a nightmare.

Then, the room started changing. I found old photographs in the attic, black-and-white pictures of children, all dressed in old-timey clothes, sitting in a one-room schoolhouse. They were smiling, but their eyes were hollow. On the back of one photo, someone had written, “Miss Harlow’s class, 1967. All lost.” I recognized the building in the background—it was the same schoolhouse from the storm. And some of the children in the photos looked like they were standing in my room.

I started having visions, or maybe I was just losing my mind. I’d see a little girl in a tattered dress, her skin blue with cold, standing in the corner of my room. She’d point at the wall, where the door used to be, and whisper, “They’s still out there. They want to come in.” I tried to ignore her, but she wouldn’t leave. She’d follow me around the house, always just at the edge of my vision, leaving small puddles of melted snow wherever she stood.

One afternoon, I decided to investigate the wall in my room. The plaster was cracked, and I could see something behind it—bits of wood and paper. I pried it open, and inside I found a child’s shoe, a rusted lunchbox, and a bundle of letters tied with a frayed ribbon. The letters were from a teacher named Miss Harlow, writing to her sister. They detailed how she was trapped in the schoolhouse with her students, how the snow piled up, how they tried to stay warm by huddling together, but one by one they succumbed. The last letter said, “The cold is in my bones now. I can feel it in my heart. I think we’ll be here forever.”

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, listening to the wind howl outside, and I felt a presence in the room. It was everything at once—the weight of the cold, the sound of crying, the smell of frozen earth. The little girl appeared again, right beside my bed, and she said, “You found us. Now you have to let us out.” Before I could respond, the door to my room, which didn’t exist, slammed open. (I’m starting to lose coherence, but I’ll try to pull it together.)

I ran out of the house, into the snow, without a coat, and I saw the schoolhouse in the distance, glowing with a faint blue light. As I got closer, I saw the windows were frosted over, and inside, I could see the silhouettes of children, pressed against the glass, their faces sad and pleading. I heard a voice behind me, Sam’s, calling my name, and I turned. He was at the back door, waving for me to come back. But when I looked at the schoolhouse again, the door was open, and the children were walking out, one by one, into the snow. They were smiling, and they looked warm. (I’m slipping, I need to finish.)

I moved out two weeks later. I couldn’t stand the cold, the crying, the feeling that I was never alone. But even in my new apartment, I feel a draft, and sometimes at night, I hear a soft tap on the window, as if someone is asking to come in. And in the mirror, just for a second, I see the reflection of a little girl with blue lips and frost in her hair, standing behind me. She smiles, and she says, “You let us out, but the storm is still inside you.” (I can’t write anymore. I have to stop. But I’ll leave you with this: the room is still cold, and it’s waiting for the next person to find it.)