Like a Breath of Cold Air

By December, Montreal was buried under a heavy coat of snow that had been piling up since late October. Grey slush lined the streets, the result of salt and traffic grinding the once-pristine snow into a dirty, icy mess. The biting cold cut through even the thickest coats and the endless scraping of shovels and snowploughs provided a constant backdrop to city life. Holiday decorations were everywhere, but their cheer felt commercial, more of a reminder to spend money than a celebration. The air smelled faintly of exhaust and wet wool, the kind of scent that lingered in crowded metro stations and poorly insulated homes. 

Yet, as Veronique walked through the city streets, her boots crunching against the fresh snow, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. She’d always loved the holidays. As a child, she’d marvelled at the shimmering decorations, the sound of boots crunching against ice, and the occasional scent of poutine wafting from nearby diners. But this year, the joy seemed oddly hollow, as if it were a beautiful façade masking something dark and unspoken. 

She paused at the corner by Sherbrooke, her breath curling in front of her in frosty puffs. It wasn’t just the odd unease she’d felt all week. There were other signs, too—small things that would have gone unnoticed if she weren’t already on edge. Like the fact that the streetlights on Peel Street flickered every time she passed, even though they stayed steady for everyone else. Or the elderly woman at the grocery store who stared at her just a little too long, her milky eyes narrowing in suspicion before she hurried away. 

Then there was the panhandler. Brian had been a fixture outside McGill University’s McLennan Library for as long as Veronique could remember. Now in her third year, she’d often passed him on her way to classes. Wrapped in layers of tattered coats and scarves, he was well-known among the students, who occasionally dropped coins into his cup. Brian had a reputation for getting himself thrown in jail during the harshest nights of winter—a desperate but effective way to stay warm. 

Last year, however, everything had changed. Brian had started muttering about the Winter Watcher, claiming to have seen him lurking in the city. His stories grew more frantic, and the locals dismissed him as crazy. Then, one night, Brian’s body had been found in an alley, his lifeless form curled against the icy ground. Officially, it was chalked up to exposure, but his wild claims lingered in Veronique’s mind. 

Lately, she’d been seeing Brian again—or at least, she thought she had. Every time Veronique walked by the library, he’d be sitting there, looking directly at her, his eyes impossibly sharp and knowing. But no one else seemed to notice him. When she asked Tara, her friend had just laughed nervously. “Brian’s been gone for a year, Veronique. Maybe you’re just remembering him.” And when she glanced back, it was as if he’d vanished into thin air. 

“Get a grip,” Veronique muttered to herself, pulling her scarf tighter around her neck. She glanced around the bustling street. Everything looked perfectly ordinary. People bustled into malls or hurried underground into the metro system to escape the biting wind. 

And yet, she still felt the weight of something looming just beyond reach. 

She turned toward Upstairs Jazz Bar & Grill on Bishop Street, a cosy spot where she could grab a reasonably priced lunch and momentarily escape the cold. As she walked, she couldn’t shake the nagging sensation that Brian’s ghostly presence had followed her. Even now, she felt as if a pair of eyes were drilling into her back, though every glance over her shoulder revealed nothing but bustling pedestrians. The regular waiter, Roman, who hailed from Poland, greeted her with a familiar nod. People like Roman weren’t called baristas in the 1990s, but he knew her usual order by heart. 

“The usual, Veronique?” Roman asked, already reaching for a menu but knowing she probably wouldn’t need it. 

Veronique nodded, offering a half-smile. She found a seat near the small stage, cradling her coffee as jazz music played softly in the background, its warmth seeping into her hands. She stared out at the bustling street, searching for…what? She didn’t know. But the feeling of being watched pressed against her back, making her fidget in her chair. 

“You okay?” Roman’s voice startled her. He had appeared beside her, his concern etched across his features. 

“Yeah. I’m fine,” Veronique said quickly. “Just tired, I guess.” 

Roman hesitated, then nodded. “Well, let me know if you need anything.” 

When he walked away, Veronique caught sight of something in the reflection of the window. The panhandler from outside the library, standing still as stone on the opposite side of the street. She whipped her head around, but the spot was empty. The crowd moved on, oblivious. 

Veronique’s pulse quickened. She could’ve sworn she’d seen him. Not just anyone, either—it was unmistakably the same man. His ragged layers and piercing gaze haunted her thoughts. She shook her head, taking a long sip of her mocha. Maybe she was imagining things. 

That night, the whispers returned. Veronique lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, her heart pounding in the dark. The murmurs were faint but unmistakable, as if coming from the walls themselves. 

“Who’s there?” she called out, her voice trembling. The whispers stopped abruptly, leaving the room in suffocating silence. Veronique reached for her phone, its glow a small comfort in the oppressive dark. She typed a quick text to her best friend, Tara. 

I think I’m losing it. Weird noises in the house again. 

A reply came almost instantly. Want me to come over? 

Veronique hesitated. She didn’t want to drag Tara into this. Whatever this was. 

No, I’ll be fine. Just needed to tell someone. 

She set the phone down and closed her eyes, willing sleep to come. When it finally did, her dreams were restless—a blur of faceless figures, snow turning crimson, and the sound of bells tolling deep and low. 

The next morning, Veronique decided she needed answers. If she didn’t do something, the unease would consume her. She started with the McGill library, its towering stone façade dusted with fresh snow. The interior smelled of aged paper and varnished wood. The librarian, Mrs. Haversham, greeted her with a kind smile. 

“Researching something special?” 

Veronique hesitated, unsure how to phrase her question without sounding unhinged. “Actually, have you ever heard of anything…strange happening around here? Like weird stories or…legends?” 

Mrs. Haversham’s smile faltered. “Strange how?” 

“I don’t know. Just…things that don’t feel right. Or people seeing things that aren’t there.” 

The librarian’s gaze sharpened. She glanced around to make sure they were alone before leaning in. “You’re not the first to ask questions like that. This city has its…quirks, let’s say. Especially around this time of year.” 

“What do you mean?” Veronique pressed, her pulse quickening. 

Mrs. Haversham hesitated. “There’s an old story about someone called the Watcher. It’s just a folktale, of course, but some say he appears in times of great personal unrest. They say he watches, waiting for…something. But here’s the strange part: only the one he’s watching can see him.” 

Veronique swallowed hard. “Have you…seen him?” 

The librarian’s face darkened. “No. And I hope I never do.” 

That evening, Veronique found herself standing in her living room, staring at the Christmas tree she’d painstakingly decorated the week before. The ornaments gleamed under the soft glow of the fairy lights, but the sight brought her no comfort. Mrs. Haversham’s words echoed in her mind. 

The Watcher. 

She’d looked up the story online when she got home. Most of the information was vague, but the consistent thread was that he appeared during moments of deep vulnerability, as if drawn to people who felt unseen themselves. 

The knock at the door made her jump. She turned, her heart racing. It was probably Tara, she told herself, though a chill crept over her as she remembered the last time she’d seen Brian. Was he outside again? Could ghosts knock? 

But when she opened the door, no one was there. Just the cold wind and the faint sound of carollers in the distance. 

She stepped outside, peering into the night. Snow fell softly, blanketing the world in an eerie stillness. Then she saw him—Brian, standing at the end of her driveway. There was no mistaking it. His tattered layers and unblinking stare were as vivid as they had been when he was alive. She wanted to call out, to demand answers, but her voice caught in her throat. The figure didn’t move, only watching her with an intensity that froze her in place. 

Veronique’s breath caught in her throat. She stumbled back inside, slamming the door and locking it. Her hands shook as she grabbed her phone to call Tara, but before she could dial, the whispers started again. Louder this time, surrounding her. She clamped her hands over her ears, but it was no use. 

The lights flickered. Then, with a final, shuddering gasp, they went out. 

In the darkness, Veronique felt the weight of his presence. She didn’t need to see him to know he was there, just beyond the door. Watching. Waiting. 

And for the first time, she understood what he wanted. 

Her. 

The next morning, Veronique’s house stood as it always had, its cheerful decorations a stark contrast to the unease that lingered in the air. Neighbours passed by, unaware of what had transpired within those walls. But Veronique was gone, leaving behind only faint footprints in the snow leading toward the city streets. 

And in Montreal’s busy streets, the holiday festivities carried on. But every so often, someone would pause, glancing over their shoulder, a fleeting sense of being watched brushing against their mind before disappearing like a breath of cold air.