The Maroon Stain

I was sixteen, and I had just moved with my mother and younger brother to a cramped apartment in the industrial part of Grayhaven. The walls were thin, and the heating was a rusty radiator that clanked and hissed like a dying animal. My mom and I had been at odds since the move, mostly because she insisted on treating me like a child. That night, after a particularly stupid fight about curfew, she stormed into my room, slammed the door, and flicked off the light. I yelled at her from under my covers, “Don’t close the door! Don’t turn off the light!” But she was already gone, her footsteps fading down the hall.

I lay there, fuming, the darkness pressing in. The radiator grumbled, and the wind outside rattled the window. I pulled the blanket up to my chin, my heart still pounding with anger. Then, without warning, the blanket ripped from my hands and flew across the room, slapping against the wall. I gasped and sat up, fumbling for the lamp. But before I could find it, something cold and wet slapped my face with a sickening smack. I screamed, clawing at the sheets as I scrambled to the wall and hit the light switch.

The room flooded with harsh yellow light. My face stung. My little brother, Danny, burst in, his eyes wide. “What happened?” he asked, breathless. He looked at my face and went pale. “You have, uh, a mark.” I stumbled to the bathroom mirror. On my right cheek was a perfect handprint, the size of a dinner plate, a deep maroon color, as if someone had pressed a paint-stained palm against my skin. It throbbed. The handprint was twice the size of my own hand.

I called for my mom, who came in with a scowl. She saw the mark and rolled her eyes. “Cut the crap, Mia. I don’t have time for your pranks.” She shoved a bottle of makeup wipes at me and left. Danny lingered, his eyes darting to the dark corners. “You know,” he whispered, “there was a story about this building. A guy who murdered his wife in the fifties. The room we’re in? It was the kitchen.” I told him to shut up and go to bed.

The next day, I tried to cover the mark with foundation, but it bled through, darker. In algebra, I sat against the wall, near the back. The teacher’s voice droned on, but I felt a chill creep up the back of my neck, like someone was breathing on me. I turned around. The air vent was on the opposite wall, and the window was closed. But the cold air was unmistakable. It brushed against my ear, a soft whisper I couldn’t quite make out. I shivered and tried to focus on the equations.

That night, I fell asleep exhausted. At 1:00 AM, the cold woke me. My breath puffed in the air. The radiator was silent, and the room felt like a freezer. Before I could react, my childhood teddy bear, Barnaby, was snatched from my arms. I sat up, reaching for him, but he was floating in mid-air, as if held by invisible hands. Then he dropped to the floor with a thud. I was about to cry out when I felt a sharp pain on my forearm. I looked down: a fork was raking across my skin, leaving angry red lines. The fork was floating, covered in rust. I screamed and swatted at it, but it jabbed me again, deeper. Blood welled up.

I scrambled out of bed, but the fork followed, scratching my legs. I managed to flick the light switch. The fork clattered to the floor, and I saw that it was old, with tarnished silver and a bent prong. My arms were covered in scratches, some deep enough to need stitches. I ran to my mom’s room, but the door was locked. I pounded and screamed until she opened, half-asleep and annoyed. She saw the blood and scratches and finally looked worried. She called the police, but they found nothing. They suggested I had a seizure or sleepwalking episode.

The next night, I refused to sleep. I sat in the corner with the lights on, clutching a kitchen knife. The radiator clicked on, then off. At exactly 1:00 AM, the room temperature plummeted. The bed frame creaked. A chair slid across the floor, hitting the wall with a bang. Then, the mirror above my dresser fogged up, and letters appeared, written in a careless scrawl: “Leave.” I ran. I stayed at a friend’s house for a week, but when I returned, the mark on my face had darkened to a bruise, and my arms still stung.

The last night I spent in that apartment, I was determined to confront it. I set up a camera, but the footage showed nothing but static. At 1:00, I felt the cold again. I spoke into the darkness: “Who are you?” A whisper, like dry leaves, answered: “I am the one who was left.” I asked what it wanted. It said, “Everything.” Then the lights flickered, and I heard the sound of a fork scraping against the wall. I felt a hand press against my face, the same size as the mark. It pushed me toward the window, but I grabbed the radiator and held on. The hand let go, and the room warmed again.

I left the apartment the next morning, and we moved across town. But the maroon handprint never fully faded. It remains, a faint stain on my cheek, a reminder that some places hold onto the past, and some pasts will not let go.