The motel heater coughed weak air, but winter seeped through cracks unseen.
I lay awake, glancing through TikTok clips seen, feet very cold, the sheets too thin.
They warned me before I checked in, "Room 8 stays cold, no matter what.
I laughed it off, paid my dues, but now my toes were turning blue.
The walls creaked though no one moved, a draft slid under the door like a ghost.
Outside, the snow stacked in silence, covering truths the town wouldn't boast.
Then— a knock, too light, too slow.
A voice followed, low, raw, hollow.
"You should've kept your feet warm."
I rose up. The hallway was bare.
The old receptionist must be playing games.
And if he was, then its too lame.
I locked the door, pulled the sheets tight, but the air was too thick to breathe.
Then came the sound, scratching at the window, shadows shifting in the frost-bitten glass.
My pulse ran, but my feet stood still, numb, as the whispers crawled inside.
"Cold feet let the past catch up,"
"Cold feet let the dead walk in."
I reached for my jacket, boots, the car keys, but the floor groaned before I could flee.
The door swung wide not by the wind.
Something entered.
Slippery like an eel, I rushed out before the door swung shut, very eerie.
Tying my bootlaces near my car, the receptionist calmly arrived.
Maybe the tales were too deep to be true.
That in staying in Room 8,
"Don’t go to sleep with cold feet."
Poet of the Winter · page 39 · Hear it on the channel ↗
Commentary
This poem masterfully blends suspense, psychological horror, and an eerie winter setting, creating an unsettling atmosphere where reality and folklore blur. It follows the protagonist’s unnerving experience in a motel room rumored to hold an ominous truth, leading to a chilling confrontation with the unknown.
The poem begins in a dimly lit motel room, where the heater provides little warmth against the creeping winter cold. The speaker, lying awake, glances through tiktok clips, as coldness seeps through the cracks. He recalls a warning: "Room 8 stays cold, no matter what." Though he dismissed it at check-in, now his toes are freezing, making him reconsider the caution. Unexplained phenomena begin—the walls creak though no one moves, and a ghostly draft slips beneath the door. Outside, snowfall blankets the town, concealing secrets. Then comes the knock —soft, slow, wrong. A chilling voice follows: "You should've kept your feet warm." The hallway is empty. He suspects the old receptionist, dismissing it as a prank.
Tension rises as the air thickens, suffocating sleep. Scratches at the window, shifting shadows—an invisible presence lurks. Fear grips him as whispers seep inside, warning that cold feet invite the past, and even the dead.
Panicked, he reaches for his boots, keys—anything for escape. But before he can flee, the floor groans, and the door swings wide—not by the wind. Something enters.
In a desperate rush, he slips away, narrowly avoiding the presence. Outside, tying his bootlaces by the car, the receptionist approaches calmly. The ending is ambiguous—was it truly just a legend? Or did he barely escape something sinister? The final line lingers: "Don’t go to sleep with cold feet."