The Cold Caress of the Glass Ones

It happened during the tail end of a dreary autumn semester, when the campus library felt more like a mausoleum than a place of learning. My name is Mara, and I was twenty then, drowning in assignments and the monotony of lecture halls. One particular Thursday, our philosophy professor, a man known for his theatrical monologues, was conspicuously absent, and a hasty email informed us that class was canceled. The weight of the unending week pressed down on me, and instead of heading to the student union or the library, I made a decision that would unravel my reality: I went back to my rented room.

My lodgings were a cramped attic space in an old Victorian house on the edge of town, a place that had always felt a bit too quiet, the radiators clicking like knuckles, the floorboards groaning in the night. That afternoon, the pale light filtering through the dormer window cast long, skeletal shadows across the bare wooden floor. I kicked off my boots, shrugged off my coat, and collapsed onto my narrow bed, the TV flickering to life with a low-volume documentary about deep-sea creatures, their bioluminescent forms dancing in the darkness of the Mariana Trench.

I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew, the room had transformed. The familiar attic was gone, replaced by an expansive, seamless white void. There was no floor, no ceiling, no walls – only an infinite, sterile whiteness that seemed to hum at a frequency just below hearing. My bed was nowhere to be seen; I was lying on a surface that felt like polished glass, smooth and cold against my skin. My heart hammered against my ribs, but my limbs felt weighted, as if submerged in honey.

A presence emerged from the white. I couldn’t discern features – their faces were blurred, like looking at photographs through smeared Vaseline – but I knew there were two of them. One was taller, broader, exuding a masculine energy; the other shorter, with a soft, feminine silhouette. The air around them rippled with a cold that didn’t just chill the skin but seemed to seep into the marrow of my bones. The male figure approached me first, his hand reaching out to touch my cheek. His touch was ice, but it sent a wave of warmth through my body, a conflicting sensation that made my head spin.

His fingers traced down my jawline, and I felt an overwhelming compulsion to kiss him. I leaned in, and his lips met mine – cold, smooth, like pressing my mouth against a frozen lake. The kiss was not just physical; it felt like a deep, invasive exchange, as if he were tasting my thoughts and memories. Then, his hands began to wander, sliding down my torso, over my shirt, then under it, his icy fingers sending shivers that were far from discomfort. I was repulsed, yet my body responded with an ardor that confused me, a primal pleasure overriding my will to fight.

Then the female figure came closer. Her touch was gentler, her lips soft, and when she kissed me, I felt a sweetness that defied my orientation. The moment was surreal, my mind screaming contradiction, but my body was a traitor, surrendering to the pleasure. But then the male figure moved, positioning himself above me, and I felt a presence between my legs. With his weight pressing down, there was a sudden, sharp pain in my lower region, a sensation so intense, so alien, it clawed at my consciousness. It felt like a lance of ice piercing me from within, and I let out a gasp that was swallowed by the silence.

The pain lasted no more than a minute, but it felt like an eternity. Then, just as suddenly as it began, the white void collapsed inward, and I was back in my attic room, gasping for breath, my sheets tangled around me, drenched in sweat. The TV was showing static, and the room was plunged in a twilight gloom. I sat up, my body trembling, and I felt a lingering coldness in my core, a phantom ache that refused to fade.

I tried to shake it off as a vivid nightmare, a product of stress and fatigue. But in the days that followed, I noticed changes. I would feel cool fingers on my neck when I was alone, turning to find nothing. My dreams were invaded by that white void, the blurred figures always watching, waiting. And there were the marks – small, faint bruises appearing on my hips, my thighs, their shape resembling the imprint of fingers chilled to the bone.

I researched, poring over folklore and obscure online forums. I read about phenomena like the one I experienced, but nothing fit exactly. What I found were accounts of beings that fed on energy, leaving their victims drained, marked, and forever altered. But the descriptions of the ‘Glass Ones’, as I came to call them for their featureless faces and cold, reflective skin, did not match any known mythology.

One night, a week later, I woke to find myself not in my bed but standing in the center of the room, my bare feet on the cold wooden floor. The moonlight streamed in, casting a ghostly pallor on the walls. I saw them again, in the corner, their forms shimmering with a faint iridescence. They were not moving, simply observing me. I tried to scream, but my voice was frozen in my throat. The male figure took a step forward, and I felt that familiar cold hand on my cheek.

‘This is only the beginning,’ a voice echoed in my mind, not harsh, but terrifyingly calm. Then the world went black.

I woke the next morning in my bed, covered in bruises, the taste of ice on my lips. I knew, with a chilling certainty, that this was not the last time. They had claimed me, and they would return whenever they pleased. I am writing this as a warning, to anyone who feels unexplained cold touches, who wakes with just a hint of that lingering chill. They are real, and once they find you, you become their plaything. I am no longer Mara; I am a vessel, a canvas for their cold caresses, and I fear there is no escape from the void they inhabit.