The Stove’s Cold Breath

The journal entry for March 3rd read: ‘Him again, by the pantry.’ That’s all I could muster that night. Four years later, when my therapist asked me to document the occurrences, I realized I had only that cryptic line and a date. I was furious with myself, but the memory, though fragmented, was vivid enough to piece together.

It started after I moved into the old farmhouse on Harlow Road. The previous owner, a reclusive widower named Mr. Abernathy, had died alone. The realtor mentioned he was a hoarder, and indeed, the place was filled with clutter I had to clear out. I kept some of his belongings, thinking they added character: an antique clock, a worn armchair, and a heavy cast-iron stove that stood in the kitchen corner, old and unused. I never thought much of it, using my modern electric range instead.

That first night, I woke to the sound of something shifting downstairs. I dismissed it as the house settling, but when I padded into the kitchen for a glass of water, I felt an undeniable presence. The air was thick, cold, and draped in a darkness that pooled near the stove, as if the shadows there had weight. I froze, my heart pounding, but I forced myself to approach the refrigerator, pretending nothing was wrong. As I opened the door, the light spilled into the room, and I felt the darkness recoil, stepping back as if startled. I closed the fridge, grabbed my water, and retreated, but the feeling followed me to bed.

The encounters became routine. Every few nights, I’d wake to the sensation of being watched, and I’d find him by the stove, his shape barely discernible in the gloom. He was tall, gaunt, and his presence exuded a deep, ancient hunger. He never moved, but I could feel his gaze on me, and I began to suspect he was feeding on the fear I emitted.

I tried to ignore him, telling myself it was my imagination, but the details grew more distinct. I noticed that the stove, though unused, would emit a faint heat when he was near, and the metal would occasionally groan as if expanding. Once, I left a cast-iron skillet on it, and I found it warm to the touch, with a residue of something like ash.

The breaking point came on a night in late October, when the wind howled and the power flickered. I was in the living room, reading, when the lights went out completely. I sat in the darkness, listening to the creaks of the old house, and then I heard a scraping sound from the kitchen. It was the sound of the stove’s door opening. I grabbed my flashlight and crept to the kitchen, the beam trembling in my hand. I saw him, standing beside the stove, and for the first time, he spoke. His voice was like stones grinding together: ‘You have what I need.’

I didn’t ask what he meant. I backed away, but he followed, his silhouette filling the doorway. In desperation, I swung the flashlight, and in its beam, I saw his face—hollowed cheekbones, eyes like burnt coals. He reached out a long, grey hand, and I felt a cold touch on my chest, as if he were pulling something from me. My knees buckled, and I collapsed.

When I woke, the power was back, and the stove was cold. But I knew something had changed. I felt lighter, emptier, as if a part of me had been taken. I went to the journal and wrote the date and those four words: ‘Him again, by the pantry.’ But that night, I realized the stove was not a stove; it was a gateway, and Mr. Abernathy had not died alone. He had been feeding the entity with his own fear, and now I was the new offering.

I tried to leave, but I couldn’t bring myself to sell the house. I was tied to it, to the stove, which I now tend to, placing offerings of food before its cold firebox. And when I look in the mirror, I see my face growing thinner, my eyes dulling, and I know that in time, I will join him in the shadows, forever bound to the stove’s cold breath.