The December Thaw

I first noticed something wrong on a frozen morning in early December, two years ago. I woke to the sound of my own teeth chattering, which was odd because I always kept my bedroom warm. My window was open, a thin layer of frost on the sill, and the wind was biting. I curled up, pulling the quilt tight, and that’s when I felt it: the cool air on my bare thighs. My pajama bottoms were gone, wadded up on the pillow beside my head. I sat up, heart thumping, but the room was empty. The door was ajar, which I never left. I lived with my parents and my two little sisters, but no one would ever come into my room like that. I checked the hallway, the stairs, the living room. Everyone was asleep. I chalked it up to some strange sleepwalking incident, though I’d never sleepwalked before. I locked my window and door that night, but the memory lingered.

Last December, I had moved in with my boyfriend, Marcus, in a small apartment on the third floor of an old building. The radiators clanked, and there was always a draft from the single-pane windows. I’d nearly forgotten about the first time, but on the same week, a year later, I woke up with a start. The room was freezing, and the curtains were billowing. The window was wide open, and snow had drifted onto the floor. My pajama bottoms were gone again, this time in a crumpled heap near the door. Marcus was asleep beside me, his arm still around my waist. I knew he hadn’t moved; he was a heavy sleeper, but I would have felt him. I got up, closed the window, and picked up the pajama bottoms. They were damp, as if they’d been left outside. A strange smell, like wet earth and stale smoke, clung to them. I didn’t tell Marcus. I thought maybe it was some sort of sleep disorder, but the window open in winter, the precise timing—it felt intentional.

Now it’s December again. The first is tomorrow, and I can’t shake the dread. I’ve taken to wearing sweatpants to bed, tied tight, and I lock the windows even though the apartment gets stuffy. The other night, I dreamed of a man standing in the corner, his face obscured by shadow, his breath forming clouds. He reached out a hand, and his fingers were too long, with joints that bent at odd angles. In the dream, he said, ‘You’re not supposed to wake up.’ I snapped awake, but the room was warm, and Marcus was snoring. I didn’t tell him. I’m afraid if I say it aloud, it’ll make it real.

Tonight, I’ve decided to stay awake. I’ve made coffee, but it’s gone cold. Marcus is in the living room, watching a movie, and I’m in the bedroom, sitting against the headboard, the lamp on. The window is locked, but I keep staring at it, waiting. The clock says 1:17 AM. A draft tickles my neck, and I reach behind me, expecting the wall, but my fingers brush air. The window is open. I didn’t hear it. The wind gusts in, sending papers flying. I scramble to close it, and as I touch the frame, I see a frost pattern on the glass that wasn’t there before—a handprint, but the fingers are too long, the thumb on the wrong side. My breath fogs, and I turn around.

Marcus is standing in the doorway, but his face is wrong. His eyes are too wide, and his mouth is open in a silent scream. He takes a step toward me, but his movements are jerky, as if he’s being pulled by strings. He raises his hand, and it’s covered in frost. I realize he’s not Marcus. He’s the man from my dreams. He points at my crotch, and I look down. My sweatpants are gone. I feel a cold hand on my thigh, and I can’t move. He leans in, his breath like a winter grave, and whispers, ‘You’ll never stay awake.’

The lamp flickers. I wake up on the floor, my pajama bottoms on the pillow, the window open. Marcus is asleep in bed, unaware. I check the calendar. It’s December 1st. The first snowfall of the season is just beginning. I know it will happen again next year, and the year after. And each time, a piece of me will wake less. I look at the frost pattern on the window, the handprint, and I realize it’s a warning. Something is waiting, just beyond the glass, and it’s learning to come in.