The Cold Patch of Air

My name is Elias Vance, and I have always been able to see things that others cannot. It is a gift, or a curse, depending on the day. My mother worked as a senior analyst at the state Department of Agricultural Research, a sprawling complex of offices and laboratories tucked away on the outskirts of the city. As a child, I visited often, wandering the sterile hallways and peering into glass-walled rooms where scientists in white coats studied seeds and soil. Even then, I felt a strange presence there, something ancient and watchful, lingering in the corners of my vision. But it was only recently, in the summer of 2020, that I truly came face to face with it.

With the pandemic throwing the world into chaos, I needed work, and my mother pulled some strings to get me a part-time position as a laboratory aide. My first day was in June, the air heavy with humidity and the constant hum of air conditioners. The facility had recently undergone a renovation, and I was struck by the sleek new interiors: polished concrete floors, glass partitions, and state-of-the-art equipment. After my shift ended at six, I lingered, my phone in hand, snapping photos of the empty offices and the seed laboratory. I was fascinated by the way the late afternoon light filtered through the frosted windows, casting long, distorted shadows across the white benches.

I took a photo of the main corridor, then another of a row of microscopes. As I lowered my phone, I felt it: a cold, clammy touch on the back of my neck, as if someone had placed a small, moist hand there. I spun around, but the corridor was empty. The air conditioner hummed above me, and I thought, It’s just the drafts from the vents. Still, my skin prickled. I decided to head to the break room, where I found my mother and her boss, Dr. Armitage, packing their bags. ‘Ready to go?’ my mother asked. I nodded, and we left, the building’s lights flickering off behind us.

At home, I sat on my bed and opened my photo gallery, eager to relive the day. The first few photos were ordinary: desks, chairs, a potted plant. But then I came to the one I had taken of the seed laboratory, and my blood ran cold. In the background, near a row of metal cabinets, stood a tall, thin figure. It was vaguely human-shaped but distorted, its limbs too long, its head tilted at an unnatural angle. Its skin was pale, almost translucent, and its eyes were dark pits. I zoomed in, and the figure seemed to be looking directly at the camera, a faint, mocking smile curving its lips. I dropped my phone, my hands trembling. I had seen plenty of strange things in my life, but this was different. This thing was real, and it had been for me.

I didn’t sleep that night. I kept replaying the moment when I felt that cold touch, and now I knew it hadn’t been a draft. The next morning, I forced myself to return to work. I avoided the seed laboratory, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. During my breaks, I walked the corridors, peering through windows, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. That afternoon, I decided to look at my photos again, hoping I had imagined the figure. But when I opened the app, the photo of the laboratory was gone. In its place was a new image, one I never took. It showed the break room, and in the corner, partially obscured by a vending machine, was the same pale figure, its head turned toward the door. I nearly screamed. I deleted the photo, but I knew it was a message.

Over the next few days, the incidents escalated. Voices whispered my name in empty rooms, doors would creak open unless I unlocked them. I noticed the temperature would drop sharply whenever I entered the seed laboratory, and occasionally I would catch a glimpse of a moving shape in my peripheral vision. I tried to tell my mother, but she dismissed it as nerves. ‘It’s just the stress of a new job, Elias,’ she said. But I knew better. This was connected to the facility, to its history. I asked the older staff if there were any rumors about the building, and an elderly janitor, Mr. Kowalski, pulled me aside. He told me that the facility had been built over an old Native American burial ground, and that during the renovation, foundation workers had uncovered bones and artifacts. ‘They didn’t stop construction, though,’ he said, his voice low. ‘They just sealed it up and kept going.’ He claimed that strange things had happened ever since, especially in the seed lab, which was directly above the site.

Determined to get to the bottom of it, I decided to stay late one night, after everyone had gone home. The building was eerily silent, the only sound the hum of the refrigerators in the lab. I walked toward the seed laboratory, my footsteps echoing on the concrete. The door was locked with a keypad, but I had been given the code for my shifts. I punched it in, and the door slid open with a hiss. The room was dark except for the emergency lights, casting a faint green glow. I stepped inside, and the temperature dropped. I could see my breath. I walked toward the cabinets where I had seen the figure in the photo, and there, tucked between the metal doors, was a small, old leather journal. I pulled it out. It was filled with handwriting, entries from a previous employee who had also sensed the presence. The last entry read: ‘I have seen it. It follows me home now. I don’t know how to stop it. If you are reading this, it has found you too.’

A chill ran down my spine, and I heard a soft, wet sound behind me. I turned, and there it was. The figure stood in the doorway, its head tilted, its dark eyes boring into me. It took a step forward, and I felt that cold touch again, this time on my cheek. I screamed and ran, but the door was sliding shut, and I barely made it through before it clanged shut. I raced down the corridor, not looking back, and crashed into the main lobby. The figure was not chasing me, but I knew it was still there, lurking in the shadows.

I quit my job the next day, and I never returned to that facility. But the presence did not leave me. At home, I would hear faint whispers, and sometimes I would see a pale face in the reflection of my computer screen. It was always watching. I threw away my phone, bought a new one, but the photos reappeared, always with that figure, always in a new room of my apartment. Last night, I woke to find it standing at the foot of my bed, its cold, clammy fingers brushing my ankle. I screamed, and when I turned on the light, it was gone. But I know it’s not really gone. It’s waiting. And it has chosen me as its new companion. I am writing this as a warning: if you ever feel a cold patch of air on your neck, don’t dismiss it. Some things are real, and they are waiting for you.