The Passing Through

In the autumn of 2019, I was living in Barcelona, studying art restoration at the University of Barcelona. My parents and my younger brother had flown over from Ohio to spend two weeks with me, and we were determined to see all the city’s famous sights. One crisp Tuesday morning, we set out to visit the Sagrada Familia, tickets already secured online, but we decided to walk the winding streets to soak in the atmosphere.

As we turned onto a narrow lane lined with ancient stone buildings, the sidewalk constricted until we had to walk single file. My father led, followed by my mother, then my brother, and I brought up the rear. The alley was cool, shaded from the sun, and the only sounds were our footsteps echoing off the damp walls. Suddenly, my father stopped mid-stride. He turned his head, looking over his shoulder, his face puzzled. Then my mother did the same, then my brother, and finally I turned just as a sensation brushed past my legs.

It was like a thin, solid ribbon sliding through the gap between my calves. It wasn’t wind—there was no draft, no chill. It felt like a velvet rope, smooth and firm, moving with purpose. It passed through all of us in quick succession, and as it went, I caught a faint, almost imperceptible whisper of air, as if something had drawn a breath. But when we looked around, there was nothing. No animal, no person, no stray fabric. The street was empty.

We stood in stunned silence for a moment, exchanging glances. My brother laughed nervously, my mother made a joke about a ghost, but my dad—an engineer, a man of logic—stared at his legs with a deep frown. He didn’t say anything, but I saw him touch his calf as if expecting to find some residue. We continued on, but the experience lingered, like a faint perfume in the air.

The rest of the day passed normally, but that evening, as we dined at a small tapas bar, we couldn’t shake the feeling. My dad mentioned that the sensation reminded him of something he’d read about ‘anomalous tactile experiences’ in old European cities. My brother joked that we’d been ‘ghost-brushed’. But as the night deepened, I noticed that the street lamps outside seemed to flicker in a pattern, almost as if they were responding to something passing by.

The next morning, we decided to visit the Gothic Quarter, a maze of narrow alleys that predated even the cathedral. As we walked, the same thing happened—exactly the same. A single-file line, a sudden stop, and that tangible yet invisible thing weaving between our legs. This time, it was more pronounced. I felt a distinct pressure against my left calf, as if a small hand had pressed firmly, then released. I looked down, expecting to see a child, but there was nothing.

My father, determined to find an explanation, had brought a small digital voice recorder. He’d set it to record throughout our walks, hoping to capture any anomalous sounds. That evening, as we listened back, we heard it: a faint, rhythmic thumping, like footsteps on cobblestone, but softer, more padded. And beneath that, a delicate titter, almost like a child’s giggle, but pitched impossibly high. It wasn’t human. It wasn’t animal. It was something in between.

Over the next days, the phenomenon became more frequent. It didn’t happen every walk, but when it did, it always occurred in the narrowest passages, always when we were in single file, and always with that same sensation of something brushing or pressing against our legs. We began to feel a strange sense of anticipation, almost as if something was playing with us.

One afternoon, in the labyrinthine alleys near the Picasso Museum, the feeling intensified. As the invisible presence passed, I felt a distinct tug on my jeans, as if someone had grabbed the fabric. I spun around, and for a split second, I thought I saw a shimmer in the air—like heat rising from asphalt—but it was cool and shaded. The shimmer darted around my legs and then vanished into a wall.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in my hotel room, listening to the distant hum of the city, and I kept replaying the sensation. I decided to research the history of the area. I found an online archive of local legends, and in an old Catalan folklore text, I stumbled upon a reference to ‘els passa-llibres’—the ‘passing ones’. According to the legend, these were spirits of children who had died in a plague centuries ago, and they would run through the streets, weaving between the legs of the living, seeking warmth or play. It was said that they were harmless, but if you tried to catch them, they would become angry and pull you into the shadows.

My heart raced. That explained why it never frightened us—they were just playful. But the tug I felt suggested a growing boldness. The next day, I told my family about the legend. My dad, always the skeptic, scoffed, but I saw him glance at his legs nervously. We decided to visit the old plague cemetery, now a quiet park, to pay our respects and hopefully appease the spirits.

The park was serene, with old cypress trees and a small stone shrine. As we stood there, the air grew still, and I felt a gentle pressure against my ankle, as if a small hand was resting there. I looked down and saw the faintest of impressions in the grass, as if something was standing beside me. A soft, breathy voice seemed to whisper in my ear, ‘Thank you.’ I froze. My father saw my face and asked what was wrong. I told him I thought I’d heard something.

That evening, as we packed for our final night, I felt a sense of peace. The presence had not returned since the park, and I took that as a sign of gratitude. But as I lay in bed, I felt a sudden weight at the foot of my blanket, as if something had sat down. I held my breath. A tiny voice, as clear as a bell, whispered, ‘Will you come with us?’ My blood ran cold. I grabbed my phone and called my father, my voice trembling. He rushed into my room, but by then the weight was gone.

We left Barcelona the next morning, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was following us. On the plane, I felt a light brush on my leg, and I looked down to see nothing. My father, sitting next to me, noticed my expression and asked if I was okay. I didn’t want to alarm him, but I knew then that the ‘passing ones’ had not let go. They were not done playing with us. And somewhere, in the narrow alleys of that beautiful city, they were waiting for our return, their invisible fingers reaching out from the shadows.