The Figure in the Frost

I was ten years old when the winter shadows began to move. It happened a week before my birthday, deep in the heart of a cold December. I was lying in bed, unable to sleep, watching the moonlight paint patterns on my ceiling.

I turned towards the window and saw it. A patch of fog, glowing with a soft green light, was pressed against the glass. In its center were two dark, unblinking points. My heart hammered in my chest, but I stayed perfectly still. It watched me for a long time before it slowly faded from view.

I let out a quiet breath, but then the air grew colder. A shape formed in the corner of my room. It was the outline of a woman, dressed in clothes from a much older time. Her entire form was the color of faded ash. She held a long, thin object that might have been a walking stick or a rod.

She didn’t look at me. Her gaze was fixed on the far wall, as if watching a scene I could not see. I know I was truly awake because I held my breath until my lungs burned. I watched her until my eyes grew heavy and sleep finally took me.

Nearly a year later, on a chilly February morning, I opened my eyes to a different visitor. Something new stood at the foot of my bed.