Trapped in the Icy Room

After my parents divorced, I moved into a small, older flat with my mom. I was a teenager then, trying to adjust to the new normal, but the flat itself seemed unwilling to let me settle. From the very first night, the air felt heavy, like the walls held secrets they weren’t willing to share.

It started subtly. Late at night, as I read in bed, the temperature in my room would plummet without warning, chilling me to the bone. The kind of cold that no blanket could ward off. And then, I’d feel it—that oppressive sensation of being watched. Not just watched, but hated. It was as if something invisible stood in the corner, its gaze boring into me with malice. The feeling was so suffocating that I’d leave my room, retreating to the living room until the air felt normal again.

During the day, things were no better. I’d catch glimpses of a shadow figure darting along my bedroom walls, always just at the edge of my vision. It moved unnaturally, like smoke being sucked into an unseen void. Every time I tried to focus on it, it would vanish.

Then, the mimicry began.

One evening, I walked into my room and heard a deep, guttural growl coming from under the bed. My heart froze. The growl was too deep for my dog, Max. It sounded... wrong—like a massive beast, or worse, a man attempting to sound like one. I hesitated, then peeked under the bed. Nothing. Max was in the living room, fast asleep.

But the entity didn’t stop at mimicking growls. Other nights, Max would stand in the room next to mine, whimpering and pacing nervously. No matter how many times I called him, he wouldn’t come into the hallway. His eyes stayed fixed on the dark stretch of floor, as if he could see something I couldn’t.

One night, I woke up to the sound of scratching—long, deliberate strokes—coming from the inside of my closet door. I lay frozen, clutching the blankets to my chest, unable to move. The scratching stopped, replaced by a faint whisper. It was my name, drawn out and distorted. I bolted from the room and didn’t sleep there for days.

The activity grew stronger with each passing week. Lights would flicker, doors would creak open on their own, and objects would move just enough to make me question my sanity. My mom brushed it off, blaming my overactive imagination. But she wasn’t the one who had to live with the stares, the whispers, the presence that loomed in every shadow.

Then, I moved in with my dad.

The moment I left the flat, the oppressive weight lifted. At my dad’s house, the air felt clean, the shadows were just shadows, and Max acted like his happy, normal self again. I never experienced anything paranormal again.

I’ve often wondered what it was about that flat. Was it the place itself, something trapped within its walls? Or was it me—something that had attached itself to me during a vulnerable time, feeding off my fear? Whatever it was, it stayed behind, lurking in the icy corners of that flat, waiting for its next victim.