The shed sits there on the edge of our property, forgotten and half-hidden by weeds, until tonight. I wouldn’t even bother with it if I hadn’t caught a glimpse of light flickering through the dusty window, a faint, pulsing glow that makes my skin prickle. The air is crisp and sharp, the perfect Halloween chill, and I should be back inside, curled up with a warm mug and my cat, Bijou, but something pulls me out here. Curiosity is a claw that digs in deep, so I follow it.
Inside, the shed is cluttered and cold, an odd mix of mess and method. Rusted gears and wires cover the workbench like the remains of some mechanical creature taken apart piece by piece. In the center of it all lies a single object: a crystal heart, glowing an eerie, icy blue. A note is pinned beside it, handwritten in a steady, elegant scrawl: “DIY Cold Heart Project.”
I can almost picture the person who wrote this—someone meticulous, precise, maybe a little too obsessed. The idea makes me smile. What kind of person would make a heart out of metal and ice?
Bijou slinks in behind me, her green eyes flashing as she jumps up onto the bench. She sniffs the heart, nose twitching, and pulls back with a low growl. She’s not a fan of the shed on a normal day, and tonight, her fur is puffed, tail twitching like a warning.
I reach out and brush my fingers over the heart. The chill hits me instantly, so cold it feels like a burn. I pull back, flexing my fingers as a shiver runs through me. But I’m hooked now, and my gaze drops to the instructions on the note. “Assemble all parts before beginning.”
I gather the gears and wires, clicking them into place. Each piece slides in perfectly, like they’re meant to fit together. The heart begins to glow brighter, and the temperature in the shed seems to drop a few degrees. I can see my breath hanging in the air now, misty and pale.
The next line reads: “Infuse with cold energy.” I frown, unsure, but I place my hand over the heart again. This time, an icy shiver shoots up my arm, so cold it feels alive, like it’s crawling under my skin. Bijou hisses, her fur bristling as she backs away from the bench, eyes locked on the heart.
“Nothing’s wrong, Bijou,” I murmur, though I don’t entirely believe it myself.
The next instruction makes me pause: “Give it life.”
My eyes wander to the walls, where an old chainsaw hangs from a rusted hook, its blade dull but its teeth sharp, gleaming in the dim light. I feel a strange unease, as if the chainsaw is watching me back, almost daring me to continue. I shake my head, dismissing the thought, but Bijou is already backing toward the door, her gaze flicking between me and the chainsaw.
I place my hand over the heart, feeling the chill pulse under my palm. “Alright, heart,” I whisper. “If you need life, then take it.”
The temperature drops instantly, frost forming along the walls, and the heart flares with a fierce blue light. The chainsaw rattles on its hook, the sound low at first, but then it shudders and crashes to the floor, coughing to life with a roar that shakes the shed.
I jump back, stumbling, as the chainsaw’s motor snarls to life, blade spinning in a vicious blur. It jerks toward me, as if pulled by an invisible hand, teeth gleaming in the eerie blue glow. Bijou darts away, vanishing through the crack in the door, leaving me alone with the thing.
My mind races, but my body feels frozen, eyes locked on the spinning blade. The chainsaw lunges, tearing into the floor, splintering wood as it inches closer. I grab the heart off the bench, clutching it tight, the icy burn biting into my skin.
“If you’re alive, then stop this!” I shout at the heart, my voice echoing through the shed.
The heart pulses once, twice, and then…stillness. The chainsaw falls silent, its motor sputtering and dying as it collapses to the ground with a heavy thud. The frost recedes from the walls, the shed warming by slow degrees. I release my grip, staring down at the now-dull heart in my hand, as cold and lifeless as a stone.
I exhale, my breath shaky, and Bijou reappears, creeping in cautiously. She pads over to the chainsaw, sniffing it as if to confirm that it’s truly dead. Her eyes flick to me, and I swear there’s a question there, something like, What kind of heart have you made?
Without another word, I slip the heart into my pocket and leave the shed, locking the door behind me. But sometimes, late at night, I think I can still hear it—the faint hum of gears, the whisper of a blade, the slow, steady beat of something waiting in the dark.
