The Blossom of the Dead

I work the night shift at a small, old hotel perched on a cliff above the sea. The building has a history, but I never believed in ghosts. I believed in what I could feel: a pressure on my shoulders, a creeping heat on my back, a taste of copper. That was my ‘sensing’. It had never failed me. Not until the night the Jansen boy died.

His name was Lukas. He’d been a regular at the hotel since he was a toddler, his parents bringing him for the sea air during his treatments. I’d watched him grow, fragile but bright, with a smile that could light up the dreariest of lobbies. The last time I saw him, he was gaunt and pale, his head wrapped in a soft cloth cap. His parents led him to their usual room, the one with the balcony facing the water. He waved at me, a ghost of his usual self, and I felt nothing. Not a shiver, not a whisper of warmth. Just the hollow click of the elevator doors.

That night, I was alone at the front desk, the only sound the sea’s rhythmic breathing through the open window. Around 2 a.m., a cold draft swept through the lobby, carrying a scent of salt and rot. I looked up, expecting a guest. There was no one. But the hair on my arms prickled. That’s when I saw it: a vase of white lilies on the counter, which had been perfectly fine a moment ago, now had petals that were brown and curled, as if they’d been dead for days. My heart hammered. I reached a trembling hand to touch a petal, and it crumbled to dust.

A wave of vertigo washed over me. I staggered, bracing myself against the counter. My entire body felt like a tuning fork struck by something immense. This was not the familiar weight of a presence. It was a pressure from within, as if my very marrow was being drawn out. And then I heard it: a child’s voice, soft and clear, in my ear. ‘It’s so dark here. No one can see me.’ I spun around, but the lobby was empty. The light above the front desk flickered.

I knew then it was Lukas. I don’t know how I knew, but I did. I walked, as if in a trance, my legs moving without my command, toward the elevator. The buttons were unlit, but the doors slid open on their own, revealing a corridor that was darker than the night outside. The walls were slick with moisture, as if the sea had seeped through the plaster. I stepped inside, and the doors closed behind me with a clang. The elevator didn’t move. Instead, the floor tilted, and I fell onto my hands and knees. When I looked up, I was in a hospital room.

It was the room from Lukas’s last stay in Barcelona. I recognized it from the photographs his mother had shown me. The bed was empty, the sheets rumpled and stained. Machines beeped. And on the bedside table, there was a half-eaten peach, its flesh starting to brown. I heard the child’s voice again, but it wasn’t in my ear this time. It was coming from the corner of the room. ‘I didn’t want to go alone.’

I turned. There he was, a shadow against the wall. He was no longer bald and wasted, but a boy of five, laughing, with a full head of golden curls. But his eyes were black, like two pools of oil. He held out a small, withered hand. ‘Come with me,’ he said. ‘It’s so warm.’

A tidal wave of grief and terror crashed over me. I wanted to run, but my feet were rooted. He took a step closer. ‘Why won’t you feel me?’ he asked. ‘Feel something. Anything.’

And then I understood. He was not a ghost. He was something that had once been a ghost, but had been left unfinished. He was not tethered to the living because he had never truly crossed over. He was a void, a hollow thing that fed on the emotions he could no longer feel. And he was desperate to make me feel him, in any way possible.

He reached out and touched my hand. A jolt of ice-cold fire shot up my arm. I felt my blood as it raced, my veins as they constricted. I felt the very atoms in my body tearing apart. And then, just as quickly, the feeling vanished. He was gone. I was standing in the elevator, the doors open onto the silent lobby. The lilies were white and perfect again.

I didn’t sleep that night. I called in sick the next day. And the day after. The hotel manager, a practical woman named Mrs. Delgado, called me to ask if I was coming back. I told her about the elevator, the room, the boy. She was silent for a long moment. Finally, she said, ‘The Jansen boy died this morning. They called to cancel their reservation.’

I never went back to that hotel. I moved to a city where I thought the dead couldn’t find me. But sometimes, on the quietest nights, I feel a weight on my shoulders, a growing heat on my back. And I’m terrified that one day, it will be Lukas, seeking to make me feel him again, the only way he knows how.

I’ve tried to reason with him, to feel for him, to carry his grief. But he is a void, and I am a vessel. And every time I let my guard down, I see his black eyes, and I hear his voice, not in my ear, but in my bones: ‘Why won’t you feel me?’

I think he’s found me again. The lilies in my apartment are starting to wither, and there’s a chill in the room that has nothing to do with the draft. I’ll have to face him. I have to hope that this time, I can give him what he needs.

I am not a medium. I am a mirror.

And the boy became my reflection.