The Unseen Cold

James’s breath puffed out, thick and white, dissolving into the biting air like smoke. His mitts, thin and worn, did little to ward off the numbness creeping into his fingers, making them feel like clumsy wooden blocks. Every gust of wind through the skeletal branches above them seemed to tug at his scarf, threatening to unravel the meagre warmth it offered. He hunched his shoulders, pulling the threadbare hood of his jacket tighter, trying to disappear into the cheap polyester.

He didn’t like walking this way at night. Not this part, anyway. The alley behind the old cannery, where the lights from the street didn’t quite reach, leaving pockets of absolute, ink-black dark that felt… deep. Like they swallowed sound, and maybe other things too. His mum always said to stay on the main road, but Chrissie insisted the alley was faster, especially after practice. She was never scared. Or, she acted like she wasn't. James wasn’t so good at pretending.

He glanced over at her, her small frame trudging steadily beside him. Chrissie’s head was down, her favourite bright blue toque pulled low over her ears, but he could see her eyes flicker, darting into the gaps between the leaning dumpsters and the tall, unkempt weeds that were now stiff with frost. She said it was nothing, just old broken things. But James felt it. That prickle on the back of his neck, like someone was looking, really looking, and not in a good way.

“You cold, Li?” Chrissie’s voice was a bit reedy, not quite as steady as she usually managed. She still called him ‘Li,’ even though he was almost ten now. It felt babyish. But he didn’t correct her tonight. Too cold to argue.

He rubbed his numb nose with the back of his mitt. “Freezing. You think we could just… run it? The rest of the way?”

Chrissie stopped, her worn boots scraping on a patch of black ice. “And slip? Break an arm? Mum would kill me. Anyway,” she started walking again, a little faster, “it’s not that far now. Just past the big willow.” The big willow had lost all its leaves, its long, weeping branches now resembling bony fingers clawing at the sky. James hated the big willow.

He kicked at a loose stone, sending it skittering across the frozen ground. It made a sharp, brittle sound that echoed in the silence, and then, he was sure, stopped too quickly. The sound just… died. Swallowed. He scraped his hands into his pockets, though there was nothing there but a few forgotten lint balls and the sharp edge of a broken crayon. He wished he had a flashlight. Or a dog. Anything.

The Slow Pull

He remembered last week, Mrs. Henderson had left her porch light on, a warm, yellow square spilling onto the pavement. Tonight, every house they passed had its blinds drawn, its warmth sealed away. It felt like the whole world was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. Like it knew. And he felt it again, that quiet, insistent pressure, like a low hum behind his ears, growing with every shuffle of his boots. He pictured it, stupidly, as a dark, oily stain, slowly seeping out from between the shadows, spreading. Getting closer.

“Did you finish your social studies project?” Chrissie asked, suddenly, breaking the quiet. Her voice sounded too loud in the stillness, crackling like static.

“No. Not really. I can’t remember anything about… whatever those people did,” James mumbled, his mind still on the feeling. The school was always too cold anyway. His pencil kept slipping. He hated social studies. Hated Mrs. Davison’s voice. He wished he could just stay home and watch old cartoons. He still liked those. Chrissie said they were for babies. But sometimes, when she thought he wasn't looking, she'd watch them with him.

“It was about the voyageurs,” Chrissie said, patiently. “The fur traders. You know, how they paddled all the way across the country.”

“Yeah, but why? For… hats?” He stumbled a bit on an uneven patch of frozen dirt, scraping his knee against the rough fabric of his trousers. The fabric was thin, and the cold bit through immediately. He didn’t complain. Not to Chrissie. He pushed his mind away from the sting, back to the feeling of being watched. It was stronger now, a definite weight on his shoulders, though he couldn't see anything. Just the ordinary, stark-naked trees and the shapes of old broken machinery by the fence line.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, then opened them. Nothing different. Still the same dreary, empty stretch of frozen earth and skeletal branches. But the knowing was there. Like the wind was telling him, a shiver running through the very ground. He wanted to shout, to ask Chrissie if she felt it too, but he knew what she’d say. ‘It’s just your imagination, Li.’ She always said that.

He thought about the rabbit he saw once, frozen still on the path, just before the hawk swooped down. He’d been small then, maybe six. Cried for hours. Mum had hugged him, tight. Said it was nature, just the way things were. But this felt different. Not nature. Not an animal wanting food. This felt… mean.

A rusted chain-link fence, twisted and broken in places, marked the boundary of the deserted industrial park they were cutting through. It was supposed to be a shortcut, but tonight it felt like a labyrinth. There was a section where the bottom wires had been pried up, creating a small, muddy crawl space. They’d used it a hundred times.

“Here,” Chrissie said, stopping, already bending to test the gap. “You go first.”

James hesitated. The gap looked even smaller tonight, darker. The ground inside was a frozen mess of mud and sharp bits of metal, glinting dully in the non-existent light. He could feel the eyes on him, prickling his skin. Like the space was too narrow, and something big was right behind him, pushing. He imagined getting stuck, half in, half out, and then…

“Li? Come on.” Chrissie gave a little huff of impatience, though her shoulders were a bit hunched too now, and she kept glancing over her own shoulder, just like he had. She wasn't fooling him.

He dropped to his hands and knees, the frozen ground chilling his palms even through his thin mitts. He pushed his school bag through first, then wriggled, feeling the cold, damp earth against his cheek, the stiff wires scraping along his back. A tiny bit of rust flaked onto his jacket. The air was thick with the scent of damp soil and something metallic, like old pennies. He caught his breath, squeezing through, feeling the ground rumble, or was that just his heart, hammering against his ribs? He scraped his knee again, a sharper pain this time, but he pulled himself through, scrambling to his feet on the other side.

He turned to help Chrissie, but she was already halfway through, a blur of blue toque and frantic movement. She grunted as she emerged, brushing mud off her trousers with a swipe of her hand. Her face was flushed from the effort, or maybe the cold, and her eyes were wide, scanning the darkness behind them.

“You hear that?” she whispered, her voice barely a breath, finally admitting it. James shook his head, though he had heard it. A faint scraping, like something dragging, just behind the fence line. He’d heard it and pretended not to. Just like she always did.

They started walking faster, almost running now, their breath coming in ragged gasps. The cold didn’t feel quite as bad when they moved, but the fear was a knot, tightening in James’s belly. He focused on the rhythm of his feet, one after another, crunch, crunch, crunch on the hard ground. Don’t look back. Don’t look back.

He remembered the time his dad had told him about the coyotes, how they followed you sometimes, just out of sight, watching. Not to hurt you, necessarily, just… watching. And he knew, deep down in the cold pit of his stomach, that this wasn’t a coyote. This was something else. Something heavier. Something that didn’t just watch, but *waited*.

They burst out of the alley, onto the cracked pavement of their street, and the sudden, harsh glare of the single flickering streetlight felt like a punch to the eyes. It buzzed, a low, mechanical drone, and cast long, exaggerated shadows that danced and twisted with every slight movement of the bare trees. James gasped, sucking in the cold, thin air. They were here. Home. Or, almost.

Their houses were still a few blocks down, past the empty park where the swings hung still and frozen, like petrified ghosts. The air on the main street was colder, somehow, more exposed. The wind whipped around them, biting at their ears, tugging at their clothes. But the feeling… it didn’t go away. It just changed. From a stalker in the dark, it became a passenger. A cold passenger, tucked deep inside James’s chest, nestled beside the thumping of his heart.

He looked at Chrissie. Her shoulders were still hunched, her gaze fixed on the flickering light, her small face pale and drawn. She must feel it too, he thought. She had to. That constant, quiet presence, just out of sight, always there. Always watching. Even now, with the distant glow of home just visible, the cold felt deeper, more insidious. It wasn’t just the winter chill. It was the other thing. The thing that had followed them, silent and unseen, all the way home.

He shivered, pulling his jacket tighter. It felt like it was going to follow them right through the front door. Right into their beds. And he knew, with the stark certainty of a child who had seen too much, that it wouldn’t leave. Not ever.

The Persistence of Cold

They walked on, two small figures dwarfed by the looming, indifferent houses, the silent, watchful winter night. The streetlights stretched their shadows long, thin, and brittle, then swallowed them whole, only to spit them out again a few paces later. James kept his eyes fixed on the pavement, noticing the tiny cracks, the frozen leaves embedded in the ice, trying to focus on anything but the creeping sensation. Chrissie walked a step ahead now, her pace steady but rigid, her hands balled into tight fists inside her mitts. Neither of them spoke. There was nothing left to say. The wind was a low wail, a mournful song that seemed to carry the promise of more than just a colder night. It carried something else, something they both understood, wordlessly. Something that would still be there when the sun finally crawled over the horizon, if it ever did. Something that had settled into the very marrow of their bones, a permanent chill that even the warmest fire couldn't quite chase away. The front door of his house was just two more streetlights away. He could almost see the chipped paint on the frame. Almost feel the faint, stale warmth of the hallway. But the cold, the true cold, felt like it was already inside.

He didn't know if this feeling was something you could ever outrun. Or if, maybe, it eventually just became a part of you. Like the cold of winter itself, settling deep, unmoving.

He tripped on an uneven paving stone, stumbled, and caught himself with a gasp, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Chrissie didn't turn, didn't stop. Just kept walking, a small, determined figure melting into the gloom ahead. The alley had been darker. But the street felt heavier. The shadows here, even under the streetlights, felt like they were holding their breath. And something still watched. He knew it. The feeling was a solid, undeniable weight in his gut now. A cold, heavy stone. And he knew, too, that it wasn't just him feeling it. Chrissie, ahead of him, still didn't look back.

They turned the corner onto their block. The porch light of their house, a small, weak beacon, was just visible. Almost there. But the presence was not behind them anymore. It was everywhere. A part of the cold itself. The way the air felt too still, too quiet. He slowed, just a fraction, the dread a bitter taste in his mouth. What if it wasn't just watching? What if it was waiting?

Chrissie opened the front door with a key that always seemed too big for her small hand. A sliver of yellow light, tinged with the familiar scent of old cooking oil and dusty heating vents, spilled out into the brutal night. James stepped inside, the heat prickling his frozen skin, but the feeling of the watcher, that cold, quiet presence, simply flowed in with him, settling into the corners of the small, cramped hallway. He hung up his jacket, the cheap fabric still faintly smelling of damp earth and the metallic tang of the frozen air. He looked at Chrissie, who had already pulled off her toque and was rubbing her ears. Her eyes, still wide, met his. And in that shared, unspoken glance, he knew: it had followed them inside.

The world beyond the windows remained a vast, dark canvas under the bruised clouds, holding its secrets tight. And the cold, both outside and in, settled deeper.

The house was warmer, yes. But the feeling of unseen eyes, the deep, pervasive chill that wasn't just the winter air, had made itself at home, tucked itself into the quiet corners of the hallway, a permanent guest. James pulled off his mitts, flexing his still-numb fingers, and glanced at Chrissie. She was already kicking off her boots, her gaze fixed on the closed front door. The sounds of their mother moving about in the kitchen were a dull thud, distant and reassuring, but they couldn't quite banish the quiet hum that James still felt behind his ears. The night was over, their journey done, but the watchful cold had just begun its longer stay.

He didn't know if this was just how it was, now. This quiet, cold companion. This feeling that sometimes, even when you were safe inside, you were still out there, under the gaze of something dark and patient.