The handprint was small, no bigger than the palm of a seven-year-old, pressed flat against the glass from the inside of the glass.
I stood there in the quiet rustle of the gravel lot, the afternoon sun beating down on my shoulders, staring at the oily smudge. My first instinct wasn’t fear—it was logic. I reached out and touched the glass from the outside. My fingers aligned with the mark, but the residue was clearly on the interior side, sealed safely within the locked air-conditioned cabin of my sedan.
I looked back at the hospital.
St. Jude’s had been decommissioned in the late nineties. It sat off Highway 9, a hulking mass of sun-bleached concrete and shattered glass. Ten minutes ago, I had pulled into the overgrown lot to stretch my legs and make a quick phone call. That was when I saw her: a pale face in a third-floor window, a tiny hand fluttering against the glass.
I had gone in thinking I’d find a lost kid or a runaway. Instead, I’d found stripped plaster, rusted bed frames, and empty corridors that echoed with my own footsteps. Not a soul.
Unlocking the car, I slid into the driver’s seat. The air inside smelled faintly of stale upholstery and something else—something cold and metallic, like coin copper. I wiped the windshield with a microfiber cloth from the glove box. The smudge smeared, but didn’t disappear entirely.
My phone buzzed on the passenger seat, making me jump. It was a text from my wife, Sarah.
Where are you? Dinner’s at 6.
I snapped a quick photo of the handprint on the glass, sent it to her, and typed: Just leaving the old highway. Found something weird. Tell you when I get home.
I put the car in drive and pulled onto the tarmac.
For the first ten miles, nothing happened. The tires hummed against the asphalt, and the late afternoon sun cast long, distorted shadows across the dashboard. But as I merged onto the interstate, a strange sensation settled over me. It was the feeling you get when someone is standing too close behind you in a crowded line—a sudden, heavy shift in air pressure.
I glanced in the rearview mirror.
The back seat was empty. Just my gym bag and an old jacket tossed across the leather.
I shook my head, cutting the air conditioning up a notch. That was when I noticed the climate control display. The digital reading was plunging rapidly. 68°F… 54°F… 41°F…
My breath began to plume in front of me, thick and white in the enclosed car.
“What the hell?” I muttered, reaching out to turn the dial off completely.
Clack.
The sound came from the back. It was the sharp, distinct click of a seatbelt being buckled into place.
