The Empty Villa

Six months into my role as guest relations manager at a quiet resort in the hills of Sri Lanka, I thought I had seen it all. The Villa was a sprawling, colonial-era estate that had been converted into a boutique retreat, with only a handful of villas scattered across the tea plantation. That week, we had exactly one group: four guests from Brazil, two couples, who had booked the two largest villas, Villa A and Villa B. They were the only guests, and the low season meant the grounds were eerily silent, save for the birds and the distant chime of temple bells.

On the morning of the incident, they had departed at sunrise for a full-day trek arranged by a local guide. I went through my morning duties: checking the breakfast logs, coordinating with the kitchen, and responding to emails in my small office above the main hall. By noon, everything was done, and I retreated to my office with a plate of rice and curry, looking forward to a quiet afternoon.

At 2:15, my head butler called. There was a guest on the line, asking to speak to me. He didn’t mention the villa, and I assumed it was one of the Brazilians. The caller had a pleasant, accented English, and asked about the afternoon tea selection. I suggested they review the menu in their villa and call back with their choice. Then, as routine, I asked for the villa number. He said, ‘Villa C.’ That was odd. We only had two villas occupied, and Villa C was a standalone gem at the edge of the property, so isolated that it was only rented out during peak season.

I checked the front desk log: no one had checked into Villa C. In fact, Villa C had been locked for months, and the key was kept in the manager’s safe. My curiosity piqued, not frightened, so after the call, I decided to walk over to Villa C to see if perhaps the guests had wandered in from a neighboring resort.

The path to Villa C wound through a grove of ancient cinnamon trees. The air was thick with the scent of spice and damp earth. The villa itself was a faded white bungalow, its veranda overlooking a winding river that ran along the property’s edge. As I approached, I noticed that the front door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open, expecting to find it empty. But there was a figure inside: a man in a linen shirt, standing with his back to me, gazing out the window. He didn’t turn when I greeted him. He spoke in a low, calm voice, describing the afternoon tea as if he had been staying there for days. I asked him politely if he was part of the Brazilian group, and he laughed. ‘No, no. I have been here for years. This is my home.’

A chill ran down my spine. I knew for a fact that Villa C had not been occupied since before the resort opened. I backed away slowly, mumbling an apology, and returned to the main building. I immediately checked the CCTV footage for that afternoon. The front gate showed no entry of any guest or vehicle. The cameras around Villa C were angled to capture the driveway, and they showed nothing but the empty path. Yet, during that time, I had a call from Villa C’s internal line, which ran through the main switchboard. The call log showed a ten-minute call from Villa C, but the phone records indicated the line had been cut for years.

I tried to dismiss it as a prank by one of the staff, but the staff were all accounted for in the kitchen and garden. The Brazilians didn’t return until nearly 6 PM, and when I casually asked them about their day, they said they had never left the resort, as they decided to spend the day by the pool. That made my blood run cold. I had seen them leave in the morning, and the driver had confirmed they were dropped at the trailhead. But they insisted, and the villa manager, a local man named Nadun, looked at me strangely and said, ‘You must have seen their doubles.’

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I replayed the phone conversation in my head, the man’s voice, which had a strange, echoing quality, as if it came from a deep well. I decided to check the villa’s registry, which was kept in the manager’s office. Under Villa C, the last entry was from ten years ago, when the original owner had lived there. The name was scrawled in faded ink, but I could read it: a single word, ‘Samael’.

The next day, I was scheduled to give a tour of the property to a potential client. As I walked past Villa C, I felt an unsettling presence. The door was locked, but I could hear a faint, rhythmic tapping from inside, like someone knocking on wood. I put my ear to the door and heard a voice, the same voice, saying, ‘You forgot the mint. The tea should have mint.’

I stumbled back and ran to the main hall. I begged the manager to open Villa C, to show me it was empty. He complied, unlocking the door with a creak. The room was dusty, the furniture draped in white sheets. But on the small tea table in the center, there was a fresh pot of tea, still steaming, and two cups, one of them with mint leaves floating in the brew.

I left the resort that evening, without giving notice. I have not returned to Sri Lanka since. But sometimes, in my dreams, I see Villa C, and the man in the linen shirt, with his face obscured, motioning for me to sit across from him. And always, the same words: ‘The tea is bitter tonight. You forgot to steep it.’ And I know, with a certainty that chills me, that I am the one who is supposed to serve him forever, as if my employment there was only a prelude to a position I never accepted.