The Amulet Behind the Lotus

The first night in Chiang Mai was a raw wound of sleeplessness. Marta and I, fresh from São Paulo, lay in our hotel room, the air thick with the scent of jasmine and something faintly metallic. Jetlag had us in its grip, our bodies screaming for rest while our minds refused to surrender. The room was modest, with a single large window overlooking a narrow soi where the occasional motorbike sputtered past. A painting of a lotus pond hung on the wall opposite the bed, its frame ornate with dark, carved wood.

I decided to shower, hoping the warm water might coax my muscles into relaxation. As I stepped into the tub, I noticed a few strands of dark hair clinging to the porcelain, not long and flowing like mine or Marta’s, but coarse and short, as if from a different scalp entirely. I grimaced, resolving to complain to housekeeping in the morning. The water pressure was weak, a thin drizzle that barely wet my skin, but the heat was comforting. As I lathered, I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me, but a glance through the steamed glass revealed only the empty room.

When I emerged, wrapped in a thin towel, I found Marta standing on the bed, peering behind the lotus painting with a flashlight from her phone. Her face was pale, her eyes wide. ‘O que é isso?’ I asked, toweling my hair. She turned, her lips pressed into a thin line, and gestured for me to come closer. Perched on the mattress, I leaned in. Behind the painting, taped to the wall, was a small cloth pouch, no larger than my palm. It was soiled, as if it had been there for years, the fabric faded to a nondescript grey. A single red thread was tied around its drawstring.

I reached out to touch it, but Marta grabbed my wrist. ‘Don’t,’ she hissed. She had heard stories, she said, of Thai amulets, some meant to bring luck, others to curse. I scoffed, reminding her that we were in a modern hotel, not some jungle shrine. But my hand trembled as I pulled back. We decided to leave it alone, to call the front desk in the morning. But sleep was impossible. Every creak of the building, every distant shout from the street, seemed to echo in the room.

Around midnight, I heard a faint scratching, like nails on wood. I sat up, my heart thudding. Marta was already awake, her eyes fixed on the painting. The scratching grew louder, more insistent, coming from behind the frame. Then, a soft thud, as if something had fallen. I flicked on the bedside lamp. The painting was now slightly askew. Marta whispered, ‘Did you hear that?’ I nodded, my throat dry. We both froze as the painting tilted further, then fell to the floor with a clatter, revealing the bare wall behind it. The amulet was gone.

A cold draft swept through the room, despite the windows being shut. I shuddered, pulling the blanket up to my chin. Marta began to hum a tune I didn’t recognize, a lullaby she’d learned from her grandmother. I asked her to stop, but she continued, her voice hollow and distant. When I called her name, she turned to me, but her eyes were not her own. They were dark, empty, and a smile stretched across her face that was too wide. ‘Está aqui,’ she said, in a voice that was not hers, deep and guttural. ‘It’s here.’

I scrambled off the bed, backing toward the door. But Marta followed, her movements jerky, unnatural. She reached into the pocket of her pajama shorts and pulled out the amulet. It was wet, glistening as if freshly taken from water. ‘You should not have touched it,’ she said, her voice layering over itself like twisted fibers. I didn’t remember touching it, but my palm itched. I looked down; red welts were forming in the shape of a claw. Marta held the amulet to her ear, listening. Then she laughed, a sound like dry leaves crumbling. ‘It wants to go home,’ she said. ‘And you’re taking it.’

The lights flickered and went out. The room plunged into darkness, but I could see Marta’s silhouette against the window, her hair floating as if underwater. She began to walk toward me, her steps heavy, each one leaving a wet print on the floor. I fumbled for the door, found the handle, and pulled it open. The hallway was dim, the lights buzzing, but as I stepped out, I felt a tug on my ankle. I looked down and saw a hand, grey and withered, gripping my foot, emerging from the shadow of the doorframe. I kicked free and ran, not looking back, down the stairs, through the lobby, and out into the rain-soaked street.

I ran until my lungs burned, until I found myself at a small temple gate. The monks there, with their saffron robes and serene faces, took me in, offering dry clothes and warm tea. But when I tried to explain, they would only shake their heads, their eyes lingering on the space behind me. One of them, an old man with skin like cracked earth, handed me a small bell. ‘Ring it,’ he said, ‘and follow the sound.’ I rang it, the tone clear and pure, and it seemed to cut through the haze in my mind. I followed its resonance back to the hotel, where I found Marta sitting on the curb, the amulet in her lap. She was crying, but her voice was her own again.

She told me that she had blacked out after I left, and that when she woke, she found herself walking toward the river. She didn’t remember anything else. We packed our bags and checked out that morning, leaving the amulet under the pillow of the bed. On the flight home, I realized the welts on my palm had formed a pattern, like a map of the Mekong River, and that a strand of coarse black hair had wrapped itself around my wrist, so tight it left a deep red line. I cut it away, but the mark remains, and sometimes, when I look at my palm, I see the faint outline of a lotus, and I wonder if it ever truly left us, or if it just bides its time, waiting for us to cross its path again.