The Cold Spot on the Staircase

My name is Leo, and I’m almost thirteen. I know you’re all going to say I’m just a kid with an overactive imagination, but I’m not. I don’t believe in ghosts. At least, I didn’t. But now I’m not sure what to believe.

It started about a month ago, after we moved into this old house on Ashworth Lane. The house is from the 1920s, with creaky floors and a damp, earthy smell that clings to everything. My room is on the second floor, at the end of a narrow hallway. The first time I walked in, I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold.

At first, it was just a feeling—like someone was standing behind me, watching. I’d spin around, but there was nothing. Then the noises started. A soft scratching from my desk, like a pencil rolling back and forth. The chair would squeak, as if someone had just sat down. I’d look over, and the chair would be empty, but it would still be wobbling slightly.

But the worst part is the cold. It’s not a normal cold. It starts in my bones, a deep, unnatural chill. When I feel it, I know he’s near. And when he gets close, he touches me. Not like a hand, but like a patch of ice that presses against my skin. One time, I felt it on my cheek, so cold it almost burned. Another time, on my wrist, making my entire arm feel numb.

I tried to tell my parents. They said it was an old house, full of drafts and creaks. They told me I was being dramatic, just trying to get attention. My mom even bought me a nightlight, as if that would help. But the nightlight only made the shadows darker, and the cold only grew stronger.

Last week, I woke up at 3 a.m. to a rattling on my desk. My heart hammered as I sat up, squinting into the dark. My pens were rolling across the surface, as if an invisible hand were pushing them. My clock was shaking. I shouted, “Stop!” and everything went still. But then the cold hit me like a wave, and I saw something out of the corner of my eye.

I turned slowly. There, in the center of the room, was a faint, shimmering shape. For just a second, I saw him—a boy, maybe my age, with hollow eyes and a thin, sickly face. He was wearing old-fashioned clothes, like from a sepia photograph. And he was staring at me with a look of pure desperation.

Before I could scream, he vanished. But the cold remained, as if he were still standing there, watching.

I’m not hallucinating. I know what I saw. But what scares me the most is the look on his face. It wasn’t threatening. It was… pleading. Like he wanted something from me. Like he was trapped and needed my help. But what am I supposed to do?

This morning, I found something new. On my desk, in the dust, there were letters scratched into the wood. It spelled out one word: “RUN.” But running won’t help. I can’t leave this house. I’m stuck here with him. And he’s not leaving me alone. I just hope that wherever he is, he doesn’t want to take me with him.