Based on the short story "Cool Air" by H.P. Lovecraft. This story was first published in Tales of Magic and Mystery (March 1928) and was later published in Weird Tales (September 1939).

Host: To the shoppers, the hunters, the sifters and winnowers, to those of you who comprise that vast fraternity of picture-watchers, we offer you this salon of the special and the supernatural. Painting number one. It has to do with death, usually the last chapter in every man's book of life. The ashes and the dust, the tomb and the engraving on the stone. Death the finale. But our first painting offers up a tale with the final curtain not quite the final curtain. There's an epilogue. We offer you now a little item called Cool Air. Tonight's first painting in the Night Gallery

Agatha Howard: Once a year, I visit his grave. A ritual born of habit, and, I suppose, some fleeting little ghost of obligation. Fleeting, for it was over 50 years ago that I knew him. And there are times when I find it difficult to remember his face, or the sound of his voice. And the circumstances are indistinct around the edges, like an aging photograph, clouding and yellowing over the years. But I remember the cool air. I remember it with a special horror. An icy draft that still whistles across half a century like a mournful dirge. A fitting kind of music to this man.

Mrs. Gibbons: Is he expecting you?
Agatha Howard: Well, well, well no, not exactly.
Mrs. Gibbons: Well, "not exactly" isn't good enough for me, sister. The doctor doesn't like visitors.
Agatha Howard: Oh, no, I'm sure he'd want to see me. He and my father were acquaintances. Just tell him Professor Howard, from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.
Mrs. Gibbons: The Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Tell him yourself, sister. I got enough getting upstairs without dragging the Massachusetts Institute of Technology with me.

Dr. Juan Munoz: Forgive me, Miss Howard. But like my room, my touch is uncomfortably cold.
Agatha Howard: But I am sure, doctor, that like the man I will find it warm.

Agatha Howard: Lips and touch, both cold beyond description. And yet the man was warm. Sensitive. And I found myself instinctively liking him and somehow moved by him. Moved by his loneliness. His isolation. And I carried with me an impression of a man full of all the fiery passion peculiar to vibrant men, but enclosed by walls of ice. I know how fragile his life, and how temporal, but in the case of Dr. Munoz, it seemed to be measured in the piston strokes of a small engine. And those walls of ice, did they imprison him or protect him from death waiting impatiently outside?

Dr. Juan Munoz: Necessity is the mother of invention. And survival, you might say, is the father of desperation.

Agatha Howard: Yes, each year I visit his grave and I wonder if I'm mourning something that was, or something that might have been. But I won't ponder the question, "What might have been?" It raises elements of horror that might drive me insane. And as always, I find any icy draft or wind unbearable. It conjures up images, memories, remembrances of the nightmare. It's a funeral dirge that sings of death, and so I'll leave.