The Frostwork Architect

An architect's late-night assessment of a historic warehouse becomes a fight for survival when she gets trapped inside a supernaturally cold room.

"Just get the truss measurements, Cathy. Then you can go home."

She muttered it to herself, a mantra against the drumming of sleet on the warehouse's high windows. The wind howled a hollow note through the Exchange District, a lonely sound that vibrated in the floorboards. Spread across a makeshift drafting table were the original 1912 blueprints, their crisp lines a stark contrast to the decaying reality around her. Dust motes danced in the beam of her work lamp, the only real light in the cavernous main floor.

That’s when she heard it. Faint, almost woven into the sound of the storm. A woman humming. It was thin, reedy, a simple melody that felt ancient and out of place. She paused, pencil hovering over the vellum. It was probably just the wind, playing tricks with a loose piece of flashing on the roof. She’d heard a thousand strange noises in old buildings. It was their nature.

She went back to work, trying to reconcile a century of ad-hoc renovations with the original architect’s intent. The numbers weren’t adding up. She rubbed her temples, the headache a familiar companion on these late nights. There it was again. Louder this time. Unmistakable. A woman, humming “Red River Valley.” It was coming from upstairs. From the second floor, which was supposed to be completely, verifiably empty.

Her first instinct was a spike of pure irritation. Squatters. It had to be. Which meant a call to security, a police report, and at least a three-hour delay. She glanced at her phone. One bar of service, flickering in and out. Calling anyone would be a pain. And what if she was wrong? What if it was just the storm? She’d look like an idiot, calling the cops on the wind. Professional pride, sharp and stupid, won out. She could handle this. Just a quick look. Five minutes.

Cathy pulled on her parka, the nylon rustling loudly in the quiet. She grabbed the heavy Maglite from her survey bag, its weight a small comfort in her hand. The fire door to the main stairwell was a slab of industrial steel, painted a chipped, institutional green. She pulled the handle. Nothing. It was seized with rust or ice. “Come on,” she grunted, putting her shoulder into it. She threw her full weight against the metal, a jarring impact that sent a shockwave up her arm. The door groaned, scraped, and then reluctantly opened a few inches with a shriek of tortured hinges.

She slipped through the gap into the concrete stairwell. The air was immediately different. Colder. The humming was clearer here, echoing down the concrete shaft. It was a sad, circular tune, hummed without joy. She clicked on the Maglite, its powerful beam cutting a clean circle on the dusty steps ahead. Her boots crunched on loose bits of grit as she climbed, one hand trailing along the freezing metal railing. override;

The second floor was a shock. It wasn’t just cold; it was glacial. A deep, penetrating cold that had nothing to do with the blizzard outside. It felt wrong, unnatural. Her breath immediately fogged, then crystallized in the flashlight beam. A thin lacework of frost crawled across the brick walls, sparkling like crushed diamonds. This wasn't on any HVAC report. No pipes had burst. This was something else.

The humming was close now, drawing her down a long, dark corridor lined with old shipping offices, their glass doors painted over decades ago. The floor was littered with debris—rotted pallets, scraps of metal, things lost to time. She walked slowly, sweeping the light from side to side. The beam caught something at the far end of the hall. A flicker of movement. The hem of a dress, maybe? It vanished around a corner before she could get a clear look.

Her heart was hammering now, a frantic drum against her ribs. This wasn't squatters. This was something else. Every rational part of her brain screamed to turn back, to slam the fire door and run. But the architect in her, the part that needed to solve puzzles and understand structures, kept her moving forward. The corridor ended not in a solid wall as the blueprints showed, but in a hastily erected plasterboard partition. It looked temporary, maybe put up in the sixties or seventies. And in the center of it was a plain wooden door, stripped of its paint.

The humming was right behind it. A low, constant vibration she could feel in her teeth. The doorknob was brass, and so cold it burned her gloved hand. She hesitated for a single second, then pushed. The door swung inward without a sound, opening into perfect, suffocating darkness. The humming stopped.

She swept her light across the space. It was a small room, a brick-walled box about ten feet square. It was completely empty, except for the cold. The frost was thick in here, coating every surface in a brittle, white shell. The air was a physical weight, a pressure against her skin that made it hard to breathe. It smelled of ice and damp soil. Why was this room here? Why was it walled off? She took a step inside, her boots making no sound on the frozen floor.

SLAM.

The sound was like a gunshot, echoing in the tiny space. The heavy door swung shut with impossible force. Cathy spun around, yanking on the knob. It didn't budge. She threw her shoulder against it, again and again, but it was like hitting a wall of solid rock. Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through her professional calm. The knob was already coated in a fresh layer of ice, fusing the mechanism solid.

“Hey! Is anyone out there?” Her voice was thin, swallowed by the oppressive silence. She pounded on the door with the base of the flashlight, the impacts dull and heavy. Nothing. She fumbled for her phone. No Service. Of course.

The temperature was dropping. Fast. It went from freezing to agonizing in moments. The cold was a living thing, sinking its teeth into her, stealing the heat from her bones. She could feel her muscles starting to stiffen, her thoughts growing sluggish.

And that’s when she saw it. In the far corner of the room, where the shadows were deepest, the air seemed to thicken. It shimmered, coalesced, and for a terrifying heartbeat, it took the shape of a woman. Gaunt. Still. Then it was gone. Cathy squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head. It was the cold. Hypothermia causes hallucinations. It had to be.

She hammered on the door again, screaming now, the sound raw and desperate. “Let me out! Please!” Only the dead, cold silence answered.

She backed away from the door, sweeping the flashlight beam around the room like a weapon. The beam flickered. She froze. It flickered again, the light turning a sickly yellow. She smacked the casing with her palm, and the bright white light returned. Her relief lasted only a moment.

It was back. Closer this time. The shape stood halfway across the room, more solid, more defined. It was a woman in a simple, high-collared dress, something from a forgotten era. Her hair was dark, pulled back tight. But her face… her face was a nightmare. It was pale as bone, with dark, bruised-looking patches on her cheeks, her nose, the tips of her ears. Frostbite. Her eyes were wide, white, and completely empty.

The flashlight flickered violently. On. Off. On. Off. In the strobing light, the woman seemed to twitch, to jerk closer with each pulse of darkness. Cathy stumbled backward, her feet clumsy with cold and fear. She tripped over nothing and crashed to the concrete floor, the impact jarring her teeth. The Maglite flew from her grasp, skittering across the icy surface to the middle of the room.

Its beam pointed directly at the apparition. It wasn't standing anymore. It was on the floor, dragging itself toward her. One arm extended, its hand reaching, fingers crooked. The nails were black. The low humming started again, not from its mouth, but from the air itself, a sound that vibrated deep inside her chest.

The flashlight beam flickered one last time, turned a dull, dying orange, and with a soft *pop*, the filament gave out. Darkness. Absolute. A black so total it felt like a physical substance, pressing against her eyes. The humming stopped. The silence was complete, broken only by the frantic, ragged sound of her own breathing.

Then, a sound. A wet, scraping drag across the concrete, impossibly close in the pitch-black cold.