The Warmth on the Stairs

The morning air in the old school building was always a few degrees colder than the outside, a damp chill that clung to the stone walls and made the corridors feel like the inside of a crypt. Marisol, fifteen, with a rebellious strand of hair escaping her ponytail, wrapped her scarf tighter, the wool scratching her neck. She hated winter in Santiago—not the cold so much, but the constant dampness that seeped into everything, making her bones ache and her skin prickle with goosebumps. As she walked toward the patio for the first break, she tried to scratch the itch without unwinding the scarf, her fingers fumbling awkwardly behind her neck. But as her hand brushed the fabric, she felt something else: a warmth, not like her skin, not like the wool, but like a feverish palm pressed gently against the back of her neck. It was so sudden, so intimate, that she froze mid-step, her heart lurching for a beat. The sensation vanished as quickly as it came, leaving only a lingering warmth that faded almost instantly. She turned around, but the hallway was empty, the usual clatter of other students echoing from the patio. She pressed her hand to the spot, feeling only the cold, damp skin of her neck. Must have been a draft, she thought, though she knew deep down that drafts didn’t touch you like that.

Later, at the second break, the memory of that warmth had almost faded, replaced by the mundane chaos of teenage life—homework, crushes, the upcoming math test. She was walking back from the restroom, her mind already running through the equations she’d have to memorize, when she felt a hand on her shoulder. This wasn’t a brush, or a tap, but a firm grab, as if someone had caught her attention with intent. The fingers were cool at first, then the warmth returned, spreading through the fabric of her jacket. She jumped, spinning around, her heart pounding. But again, the hallway was empty. A few meters away, a door creaked shut, as if someone had just entered a classroom. A draft again, she told herself, but the sensation had been too deliberate. She thought about it for the rest of the day, the memory of that warmth haunting her like a half-remembered dream.

On her way home, the streets were quieter, the usual bustle of the afternoon not yet begun. Marisol walked slowly, her mind replaying the two incidents like a film loop. She was not scared, not truly. It was more like a curiosity, a need to understand. And as she walked, she found herself talking under her breath, not to herself, but to this unseen presence. ‘If you’re going to keep touching me, at least introduce yourself,’ she said, a grin threatening to break despite the absurdity. ‘I’ll call you Julia, since you like surprises.’ She didn’t know why she chose that name; it just came to her. She told ‘Julia’ about her day, about the annoying math test, about the boy in her class who kept looking at her, about the stray cat she fed near her grandmother’s house. The conversation felt silly, but it made her feel less alone, as if she had a secret friend. By the time she reached her door, she had made a habit of talking to Julia, and she almost expected a reply.

That night, in her room, the warmth returned with a vengeance. Marisol was about to fall asleep when she felt it again—not on her neck, but on her arm, as if a hand was sliding up her skin. She sat up, flinging the covers off, but the room was empty. Yet the warmth remained, a pulsing heat that seemed to emanate from the air itself. She whispered, ‘Julia, is that you?’ And she swore she felt a pressure on her hand, as if someone was squeezing it. For a moment, she felt a strange, comforting presence, and then it was gone. She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling both frightened and strangely excited. She told Julia about her fears, about the dark, about her fear of what might be coming. And she felt a warmth on her forehead, a gentle touch, as if to say, ‘I’m here.’ But then the warmth turned cold, ice-cold, and Marisol felt a sudden, overwhelming dread. The pressure on her forehead intensified, and she heard a faint whisper, like a sigh, but it was not human. ‘I’ve been waiting,’ it said, and the words were like ice in her veins.

She didn’t scream, couldn’t scream. She just lay there, frozen, as the cold seeped into her bones, and she knew, with a clarity that terrified her, that Julia was not a friend. She was something else, something that had been waiting in the cold, using the warmth as a lure to get close, to gain her trust. And now, as the cold enveloped her, Marisol realized that the warmth on the stairs was not a kiss, but a brand—a mark that had chosen her for something darker. She tried to speak, to ask Julia to leave, but her voice was a thin rasp. The cold tightened around her, and she saw, out of the corner of her eye, a shape forming in the shadows of her room—a tall, gaunt figure, with a face that was blank, a skin of pale, lifeless grey. It reached out a hand, and Marisol felt her own hand rise to meet it, as if by its own accord. ‘No,’ she whimpered, but her hand was taken. ‘Julia’ smiled, if it could be called that, and Marisol knew then that she would never be alone again, not in the way she wanted. The last thing she saw before the blackness swallowed her was the figure’s eyes—empty, but gleaming with a terrible, ancient hunger.