Three days ago, this story didn’t exist. It was one that appeared out of nowhere, without warning, almost fully formed in my head. I guess it happens like that. One moment, you’ve got nothing. The next, you’re standing in Cold House. If you’re planning on staying a few minutes and reading, I hope you enjoy it. Know I appreciate it if you do.

Cold House, they call it. Cold because of the air that fills it. Cold because they know I live here.

Over and over, they come up here yelling, staining the weeds and windows with sounds I’ve grown to hate.

“Cassandra,” they coo. “Can you hear us in there, you cold, old bitch?”

Even now, I can hear a group of them at the door, gathered like wolves, daring each other to knock. They’re not the first and they won’t be the last. No. I’ve endured this for years.

“Go on,” I hear one of them say as I round the bottom of the stairs, dust disturbing itself in cyclones around my feet. “Don’t be scared.”

I know that voice. It’s Adam’s. The one the others fear. He cornered Calvin last week – jabbed him in the stomach for looking at him wrong.

“I’m not scared,” someone says.

“So knock then,” Adam presses. “Prove it.”

The door rattles in its frame, waking the cobwebs slumbered on its surface. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it; the sound of it entering the house. It feels like there’s something alive in here. An energy other than my own.

The knock comes again, faster and more confident. I push myself against it, savoring the vibrations on my skin.

“Get out of the way,” Adam says. I hear the sound of a hand hitting fabric and the shuffle of feet rearranging.

“Here, Cassie, Cassie, Cassie.” Adam shouts, making noises like he’s talking to a cat. The laughs behind him grow hard in the pit of my stomach. “You hear me? We’ve heard the stories. We know what you did to people in there.”

I want to shout back. I want, so desperately, to go out there and tell them that it’s a lie. Scream that it was me that things happened to and that’s why I’m trapped here and they shouldn’t believe all the lies and hearsay and things people say about others they don’t know.

But I can’t. I never can. I never will. I have to stay here and stay quiet, knowing their truth is my lie.

When one of the boys asks Adam whether he feels it – whether he notices the cold bleeding under the door – I hold my breath.

“She’s there,” someone whispers. “She’s on the other side.”

They’re scared. I know it. I hear feet rearrange themselves again. I smell the uncertainty in their sweat.

I gather the courage to call out to them – tell them that everything they’ve heard about me is wrong and that I’m nice and friendly and they’re welcome here – but they run before I can get the words out, nervous laughter and shouts about ghosts and haunted houses nipping at the heels of whoever’s in front.

I slump to the floor and Cold House settles.

As it does, and the dust that swirled stills, I think about the lives they’ll lead when they’re done with this town. What they’ll do. Who they’ll love. What kind of humans they’ll make.

I think about how they’ll cope when they’re like me, when the air has left their lungs and they’ve lost the warmth beating in their chests.

Before you go

My latest book, Waxwing Creek, is out now. It’s a collection of interconnected horror stories about a haunted motel in a small town called Hunt. It’s available in paperback and on Kindle (including Kindle Unlimited).

Feel free to check out reviews on Goodreads or click the button below to grab a copy.

BUY WAXWING CREEK

If you want to read more of my fiction on Substack, you can check out Lightbulb, 483, or A Gentle Rain.

If you want to connect, I love hearing from readers. I keep an Instagram updated and post regularly to Threads and Notes. You can also find me on TikTok.

/ JJW