The Thermos in the Icebox

The first time I felt the cold, it was just a tickle at the back of my neck, like someone breathing on me while I stared into the fridge. We were at a rental cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains, a place called Hemlock Hollow, for a long weekend. My brother, his fiancée, and two of our friends had all come up to escape the city heat. The cabin was rustic, all pine logs and a stone fireplace, but it had modern amenities, including a well-stocked kitchen. On the second night, we’d made a big dinner and then settled in the living room to watch a horror movie. I wasn’t really paying attention, too full and too tired, so I volunteered to get more drinks from the kitchen.

As I approached the refrigerator, I noticed the icebox door was cracked open, which was odd because we’d just stocked it and I was sure I’d closed it. Inside, on the top shelf, sat a large red thermos that I didn’t recognize. It was old, with a scratched metal cup lid and a faded logo for some lumber company I’d never heard of. The thermos was humming, a low vibration that I felt through the soles of my feet. I reached for it, intending to take it out and ask whose it was, but the moment my fingers brushed the metal, it was ice-cold, and the humming stopped. I pulled my hand back, and the thermos began to shake, rattling against the wire shelf.

I backed away, my heart pounding. When I turned to call the others, I saw my reflection in the window, but there was a figure behind me, a tall, thin man with a blank face, his head tilted at an unnatural angle. He was wearing a flannel shirt and holding the thermos, which was now steaming. I blinked, and he was gone. I ran back to the living room, trying to sound calm, and asked my brother, ‘Did you leave the icebox open?’ He shrugged, ‘No, you were the last one in there.’ My friend, who had been watching the movie, said, ‘I thought I heard a garage door open, but no one’s home.’

That night, we all slept poorly. I had nightmares of that man, standing at the foot of my bed, the thermos in his hands, his mouth moving but no sound coming out. When I woke, the sun was barely up, and I went to make coffee. The thermos was now on the counter, sitting beside the coffee maker. I called out to the others, who all denied moving it. My brother’s fiancée, who was a bit of a skeptic, laughed it off, saying it was probably a prank. She grabbed the thermos, saying, ‘Let’s see if it has anything in it,’ and twisted off the cup. A dark liquid splashed out, staining the white tile with a coppery smell. It looked like blood. She dropped it, and the thermos hit the floor, spilling more. The liquid spread, forming a message on the tiles: ‘LEAVE.’

We packed our bags within the hour, but as we were loading the car, I realized the thermos was sitting on the passenger seat, screaming. The sound was high-pitched, like a tea kettle, and it grew louder until I thought my ears would bleed. Then it stopped, and a voice, dry and crackling, came from the thermos: ‘You should not have come.’ We drove away, not looking back. I still have nightmares, and sometimes, in my dreams, I see the thermos, its lid cracked, whispering my name. I’ve thrown away every thermos I’ve seen since, but the cold never leaves me.