The Persistent Draft

Even now, years later, I can’t shake the feeling that some places are stained with sorrow. When I first stepped into that apartment, a wave of melancholy hit me so hard that I had to lean against the doorframe. The walls, painted a faded institutional green, seemed to close in. I tried to tell myself it was just a place, just walls and floors, but something in my gut screamed that we didn’t belong there.

I was a young single mother, fleeing a bad relationship, and my father’s place was too small for three. So I took the apartment, the only thing I could afford, and tried to make it a home for my baby girl, Lily. She was just a toddler, with wide eyes and a curious smile. The first night, as I tucked her into her crib in the room next to mine, she seemed fine. But the next morning, she was standing by the window, her small hands pressed against the glass, staring out at the gray skyline.

It started with the window. Every day when I came home from work, the living room window would be open, even though I always closed it before leaving. At first, I thought I was just forgetful, but it happened so often that I began to wonder. I would close it, lock it, and still find it open the next evening. The latch wasn’t broken; it was just… open, as if someone had come in and opened it deliberately. I kept the chain on the door, checked the locks, but nothing else was ever disturbed.

Then Lily began to resist going to sleep. She would cry and cling to me, pointing at her room and saying, ‘No, no.’ I thought it was a phase, a toddler’s imagination, but the fear in her eyes was real. One night, I put her down, and as I turned to leave, she screamed. I spun around, heart pounding, but the room was empty. ‘What’s wrong, baby?’ I asked, trying to soothe her. She just pointed at the closet door. I opened it, revealing nothing but a few hangers and a dusty floor. But she wouldn’t stop crying until I took her into my bed.

From then on, she refused to sleep in her own room. I would put her in my bed, and she would sleep peacefully, but if I tried to move her, she would wake up screaming. I started to feel a presence, a heaviness in the air, especially around the bedroom door. Sometimes I would catch a whiff of lavender, though I never bought anything with that scent. I told myself it was my imagination, that the stress of being a new mother was getting to me.

One evening, as I was preparing dinner, I heard a faint crying from her room. I dropped the spoon and rushed in, but she was in her playpen in the living room, babbling happily. The crying seemed to come from a corner, a thin, reedy sound, like a child sobbing. I stood there, frozen, until it faded. I started sleeping with the lights on, and I would check on Lily every hour, finding her peaceful, sleeping in my bed.

Things came to a head on a stormy night. The power flickered, and I lit candles. Lily was in my bed, and I was reading by candlelight. Suddenly, the closet door in my room creaked open. A cold draft swept through the room, carrying the faint scent of lavender. And then I heard it: a whisper, so soft I almost missed it. ‘Please,’ it said. ‘Please help me.’ I grabbed Lily and ran to my neighbor’s apartment, but when I came back, the closet door was closed, and the room was still.

I tried to rationalize it, but I couldn’t. I started leaving the living room window open on purpose, hoping that whoever or whatever it was could leave. But the crying continued, and the open window seemed to invite more of the strange occurrences. One night, I sat in the hallway, my back against the wall, listening to the sounds of the apartment: the creaks, the groans, the faint hum of the refrigerator. And then I heard it again, the child’s voice, but this time from the kitchen: ‘I’m cold.’

I was at my wit’s end. I called the housing authority, but they dismissed my concerns. My father, who had always been skeptical, came over to stay for a few nights. He didn’t believe in ghosts, but he couldn’t deny the oppressive atmosphere. He slept on the couch, and in the middle of the night, he woke up to find the living room window wide open, the curtains billowing. He closed it, but the next morning, it was open again. He said nothing, but I saw him staring at the window with a troubled look.

Then one day, while cleaning Lily’s room, I found an old photograph tucked behind the radiator. It was black and white, showing a young boy standing by a window, his face pale and expressionless. On the back, someone had written in pencil: ‘Jack, age 7.’ I felt a chill run down my spine. I showed it to my father, who frowned. ‘Where did you find this?’ he asked. I told him, and he turned it over. ‘This must be from the previous tenants,’ he said. ‘But it’s odd. Why would they leave it?’

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the boy in the photo, the crying, the open window. I got up to check on Lily, and as I passed the living room, I saw a shadowy figure standing by the window. It was small, like a child. My heart raced, and I froze. The figure turned, and in the dim light, I saw the face of the boy from the photograph. He looked sad, and then he mouthed, ‘Let me out.’

I don’t remember what I did next. I must have screamed, because my father came running. The figure was gone, but the window was open. My father held me, and I told him everything. He listened, and then he said, ‘We should move. This place isn’t right.’

We moved out the next week. As we were packing, I found the photograph again, and I put it in a drawer, intending to leave it. But as we drove away, I looked at the apartment building, and I saw the silhouette of a small boy in the window. He was watching us leave.

To this day, I still think about that boy, and I wonder if he ever got out. And whenever I pass an apartment with an open window, I get a chill, and I think of the persistent draft that was never quite natural. Maybe it was just my imagination, or maybe there are places that hold onto the past. But I know one thing: I’ll never forget the sound of that faint, lonely cry, and the boy who just wanted to leave.