THERE’S a reason they call it the Frozen Tundra.

    That night was one of those Wisconsin nights that didn’t just feel cold—it owned you. The kind that seeped into your bones and made you question why anyone would ever choose to live here.

    I was fifteen, working as a waitress at Backwoods Bar & Restaurant. My shift was dragging toward the end.

    10:00 p.m.
    Come on… get here.

    I ran the trash out, sprinting across packed snow, lungs burning. Home was only two miles away, but at -20 below zero, distance didn’t matter. The cold hurt in a way that felt personal.

    Tommy—the owner’s brother-in-law—gave me a ride home.

    Minutes later, I was stepping through the back door.

    Mom and Sarah were already asleep. Dad was on the couch, wrapped in blankets, robe and slippers, watching TV like he was bracing for impact. The furnace was running nonstop, but the house never really got warm. Not in winter. Not like this.

    The floorboards cracked with every step. Frost covered the windows from the inside. Heat barely pushed through the vents, like the house itself was resisting it.

    “Hey, Stumpy—go put some pajamas on and watch the fight,” Dad said, lit up with excitement.

    HBO Friday Night Fights.

    Oscar De La Hoya was the main event.

    That was our thing.

    I ran upstairs, passing the newspaper clipping he’d hung on my bedroom door—stump removal. I shook my head, laughing under my breath.

    What is wrong with him…

    Sarah’s bedroom door was cracked open. I could hear the hum of her Arvin electric heater—there was no vent in her room, so that thing ran constantly.

    Dad had the plant lights on upstairs again, trying to cheat warmth into the house. The ballast hummed low and steady, feeding power into the halide bulbs. The entire upstairs glowed an unnatural white.

    “Brrr!” I muttered, throwing on layers like armor.

    I grabbed my blanket and headed back downstairs.

    Michael Buffer’s voice thundered through the house:

    “Let’s get ready to rumble!”

    And just like that, everything felt normal.

#

    Hours later—around 1:30 a.m.

    The fight was over. Oscar won.

    Dad looked at me.
    “Time for bed.”

    No argument.

    I went to the bathroom, washed my hands, then came back and gave him a hug.

    “Love you, Dad. Night.”

    “Love you, Stumpy.”

    I dragged myself upstairs, half-asleep.

    I reached the landing.

    Four steps left.

    And stopped.

    Sarah’s door was still open.

    And I could hear something.

    At first, I thought it was the heater.

    Then I realized—

    It sounded like a man’s voice.

    Low. Rhythmic. Like someone speaking just out of reach.

    I moved slowly, careful not to make a sound.

    I pushed her door open with my left hand and looked inside.

    The heater glowed orange. Sarah was asleep.

    I scanned the room.

    Nothing.

    No one.

    But something felt wrong.

    Too still.

    I stood there longer than I should have.

    Then backed away.

#

    I went into my room and immediately realized—

    I’d left my blanket downstairs.

    No way I was sleeping without it.

    I turned around, went back down.

    Dad chuckled.
    “Now get to bed.”

    I grabbed the blanket and headed back toward the stairs.

    That’s when I noticed—

    The hallway light was off.

    I flipped the switch.

    Click.
    Nothing.

    Again.

    Click.

    A delay.

    The light flickered on—

    Then snapped back off.

    I tried again.

    Nothing.

    I stood there for a second… then started up the stairs anyway, using the faint glow from Sarah’s room and the white wash of light from the plant rooms to guide me..

    Step by step.

    Careful.

    Slow.

    Trying not to fall.

#

    Then I hit the landing.

    And everything changed.

    The air—

    It turned.

    A cold so deep it didn’t belong in the house wrapped around me. Not winter cold.

    Something else.

    Goosebumps climbed up my neck.

    And then—

    Lilacs.

    Fresh. Strong. Completely out of place.

    I froze.

    And listened.

    Low.

    Deep.

    Voices.

    Not words I could make out—but the cadence was unmistakable.

    Conversation.

    Then—

    Footsteps.

    Heavy. Slow. Real.

    They creaked across the wooden floorboards above me.

    I didn’t see anything.

    But I felt it.

    The presence.

    Moving.

    Watching.

    And then—

    Sarah’s bedroom door shifted.

    Just slightly.

    Like it had been touched.

#

    I don’t remember deciding to move.

    But suddenly, I was inside her room.

    My eyes locked onto the heater.

    The orange glow pulsed softly.

    And then—

    It spoke.

    A low, human voice—coming from the heater itself.

    “I love you.”

    Clear.

    Deliberate.

    Real.

    Every instinct in my body snapped.

    I lunged forward and shut it off.

    The glow vanished.

    Silence.

    But not empty silence.

    Occupied silence.

    I could feel it move.

    Something shifted—like it passed behind me.

    Toward the front closet.

    I didn’t see it.

    But I knew.

    I knew.

    I ran to the light switch and slammed it on.

#

    “What the hell are you doing?”

    Dad’s voice. Sharp. Awake.

    Sarah stirred.

    “I… I don’t know…” I said faintly.

    But I did know.

    The heater.

    The thing Sarah had been talking about.

    The one she said was speaking.

    I heard it.

    With my own ears.

#

    Dad got me to bed.

    Tucked me in.

    Cracked the window open in my freezing room.

    I didn’t fight it.

    I was too exhausted.

    I passed out almost instantly.

#

   That night, I dreamed.

    I don’t remember the details.

    Just heat.

    Sweat.

    Tossing.

    Turning.

    #

    Morning came slowly.

    When I woke up—

    I was naked.

    The blankets were twisted around me.

    My side ached.

    A dull, deep pain.

    I looked down.

    Four bruises.

    Clustered along my thigh.

    Distinct.

    Unexplained.

#

    As I was getting dressed, my sister came into my room.

    I looked at her.

    “I hate that fucking heater, Sarah… why do you have it in your room?”

#

        Whatever lived in that house—

    It liked the front closet.

    And it liked the golden rectangle mirror in my room.

#

    You might be thinking—what an odd way to end a chapter.

    But that heater and I… we had history.

    Back in Chapter 3, when I talk about the house we moved from Curve Road to Old Dancy Road—that same heater was there.

    It sat in the back bedroom my sister and I shared. The cold always settled in that room, and my parents would bundle me into those horrible footy pajamas to keep me warm.

    I had a little bed. My sister had her crib. And in the corner sat our blue bean bag.

    One night, I remember waking up overheated—miserable from that stupid heater running.

    I was so irritated, I threw the bean bag on top of the heater—

    It heated up fast…

    And then it burst.

    Tiny white beads exploded everywhere.

    It looked like it was snowing in the room.

    I’ve always hated that heater.

#

    I often wonder if the heater was already talking to us back then… and if I had simply had enough of its shit.

    And where does it begin, really—

    Is it the objects that carry something with them…

    Or the places that hold it?

#

    And as for the mirror in my room—

    That was part of the house.