The Locket of Summer

The midday heat pressed against the windows of my room, thick and heavy as a wool blanket. I sat cross-legged on the wide bed, sketching a broken heart in the margins of my notebook, the pencil lead smudging under my sweaty palm. I was eight years old, and the summer before fourth grade stretched endless and boring. My mother was downstairs, hauling boxes with Aunt Rosa from the rental truck, their voices echoing up the stairwell in bursts of Spanish and laughter. I had just finished shading the cracked edges of the heart when the air changed.

It was like stepping into a walk-in freezer. A wave of cold rolled over me, sharp and sudden, prickling the sweat on my arms into goosebumps. The curtains, which had been still, rippled as if touched by an unseen hand. I gasped, my breath fogging in front of me. The windows behind me were locked, the seals old but tight. The cold pressed against my skin, seeped into my bones, and I scrambled for my sweatshirt on the floor, pulling it over my head. Then, as quickly as it came, the chill vanished. The room snapped back to sweltering, the heat returning like a slap. Sweat beaded on my forehead again, and the curtains hung limp.

I sat there, heart thumping. The cold had felt… intentional. Not like a draft, but like a presence watching. My mother was busy; she wouldn’t have turned on the AC. I tried to shrug it off, chalking it up to the old house’s temperamental pipes. I got up and padded to the kitchen for water, the tile cool underfoot. As I filled a glass at the sink, I felt it again—a creeping chill that started at my ankles and climbed upward. The hair on my neck stood up. I turned around, expecting someone, but the kitchen was empty. The cold intensified, wrapping around me like a frozen cloak. A whisper, so faint I could barely make it out, brushed past my ear: ‘Where is it?’

I dropped the glass, which shattered on the floor. My mother called up the stairs, ‘¿Qué pasó, mija?’ I didn’t answer. I stared at the kitchen table, where I had left a small locket—a silver oval with a tiny photo of my grandmother inside. It had been my abuela’s, passed to me after she died last winter. The locket was open, empty, as if the picture had been removed. I hadn’t touched it since morning. A deep, primal fear took root in my chest. The cold air wasn’t about the temperature; it was about me. It wanted something.

The rest of the day, the chill followed me. When I went back to my room, it lingered in the corners, making the sunbeams look like frozen rivers. At night, as I lay in bed, the cold wrapped around me like a partner in a dance. I could almost see a shape in the darkness—a tall figure with no face, wearing a long coat that seemed to absorb all light. It stood by the dresser, tilting its head as if listening. I pulled the covers over my head, but the cold seeped through. I heard a man’s voice, low and raspy, say, ‘Give it back, child. It’s mine.’

I didn’t know what ‘it’ was, but my fingers instinctively clutched the locket which I had put back on the nightstand. I realized the photo was missing—the only picture of my grandmother I had. I had taken it out to show Aunt Rosa, and I had forgotten to put it back. In my mind, I saw the photo on the kitchen table, right where I had left it. But when the cold first came, I had been in my room—and the photo was still in the kitchen. The ghost, if that’s what it was, was looking for the photo. It needed it.

The next morning, I confessed everything to my mother. She listened, her face pale, and then she hugged me. ‘Abuela always said this house was built on an old village, but no one believes,’ she whispered. She took my hand and led me to the kitchen. The photo was still there, but it was wet, as if someone had cried on it. My mother picked it up and pressed it to her heart, then she said a prayer. She made me apologize to the air, to whatever was lingering, and she placed the photo back into the locket, kissing it. That night, the cold came again, but softer, like a sigh of relief. The figure appeared by my bed, but this time it reached out and touched the locket gently. I felt a wave of sadness, and then it was gone.

From that day on, the room never became cold again. But I often feel a chill when I pass the spot where the figure stood, and I keep the locket with me always, with the photo intact. I know that my grandmother was a healer, and perhaps she had taken something from the land, and the spirit was just reclaiming it. Or perhaps it was just lonely. But I learned that some places hold onto their past, and sometimes the past wants to be remembered.