The Nutella Stain

I’ve never been one to shy away from the unexplained. Growing up, my grandmother’s house was a museum of oddities—crystals, dried herbs, and a ouija board she swore was a portal. She’d read my tarot cards and predict things that came true with unsettling accuracy. But I was also the kid who took apart her gadgets to see how they worked, the one who needed a logical explanation for everything. My job as a ghost walker in our small Ontario town was a perfect compromise: I’d share the legends, but I’d also debunk them when I could. I’d debunked more than a few creaking floors and flickering lights in my time.

In March of 2019, my girlfriend Mara and I flew to Chicago for a conference. The hotel was a grand old dame in the Loop, all marble and brass, with a history that seeped from its walls. We checked in late, dropped our bags, and immediately sought out the famous Nutella café on Michigan Avenue. The line was long, but the rich, hazelnut scent was worth it. We got our coffees, one with an extra swirl of Nutella, and headed back to the hotel, laughing and talking.

As we crossed the lobby, a drop of Nutella fell from Mara’s cup onto the polished floor. She made a sound of annoyance, but I shrugged and said, ‘We’ll clean it later.’ We took the elevator to our floor, walked down the long, dim hallway to our room at the end, and fumbled with the keycard. The door swung open with a groan, revealing a room lit only by the neon glow from the window. It smelled musty, like old carpet and something sweet, almost cloying.

We settled in, and I noticed a faint brown stain on the carpet near the window. I thought nothing of it—maybe it was from a previous guest. But as I started to unpack, I heard a soft, wet pop behind me. I turned to see a fresh, glistening drop of Nutella on the carpet, right where the stain was. ‘Did you get more on the floor?’ I asked Mara. She was in the bathroom, and she called back, ‘No, I didn’t even bring my coffee in here.’ I stared at the drop, a chill running through me despite the warm room.

I knelt and touched it. It was still warm, and the smell of Nutella was strong. But we hadn’t brought any food into the room. I rationalized it: maybe the cleaning staff had spilled something, and the heat from the radiator was making it seep up? But the carpet was dry everywhere else. I cleaned it up with a tissue, and we went to bed.

That night, I woke to a faint slurping sound. The room was dark, but I could make out the shape of Mara asleep beside me. The sound came from the corner, near the window. I sat up, heart pounding, and saw a dark, glistening puddle forming on the carpet, spreading like liquid shadow. I fumbled for the lamp, and in the light, the puddle was starkly brown—Nutella. But it was moving, slowly, as if alive, and the smell was overwhelming, sickeningly sweet.

Mara stirred and groaned, ‘What is that smell?’ She saw the puddle and gasped. I grabbed a towel and tried to mop it up, but it kept spreading, more and more of it, until the towel was soaked and the puddle was the size of a dinner plate. I threw the towel in the bathroom sink and ran the water, but the Nutella stained it black, and the drain clogged. I felt a wave of nausea and dizziness, and the room seemed to tilt.

Then, I heard a voice, not Mara’s, but a soft, childlike whisper from the corner. ‘Sweet.’ I spun around, but there was no one. The Nutella puddle had formed a shape—a handprint, small, as if a child had pressed their hand into the carpet. The handprint began to move, dragging across the floor toward the bed, leaving a thick trail. I screamed, and Mara screamed with me. We fled the room, ran down the hall, and pounded on the manager’s door.

The manager, a tired-looking man named Mr. Callahan, came to our room with a flashlight. The puddle was still there, but now it was dried into a crusty stain. He sniffed the air and frowned. ‘This room’s been sealed for years,’ he said. ‘There was an incident. A family died here—carbon monoxide poisoning, they said. The daughter, little girl, she was only eight. She was obsessed with Nutella. Her parents wouldn’t let her have it, said it was too much sugar. So she’d hide it, eat it in secret.’ He paused and looked at the stain. ‘We’ve tried to clean this carpet, replace it, but that stain always comes back.’

I demanded a new room, and we got one on a different floor, far away. But as we sat in the lobby, sipping plain coffee, I couldn’t shake the feeling. I looked at the floor, and there, near our feet, was a fresh drop of Nutella. Then another. And another, forming a trail leading back toward the elevator. I stood up, my legs trembling, and followed the trail with my eyes. It led to the elevator, and the doors were opening, as if waiting. I felt a cold presence beside me, and I looked down to see a small hand, sticky with Nutella, reaching for mine.

I didn’t sleep that night. I booked the first flight out the next morning. As we left, I saw the drop in the lobby, and I felt the weight of my grandmother’s words: ‘Some things, you can’t explain away.’ Now, whenever I see a Nutella stain, I can’t help but wonder if it’s a sign, a sweet, cloying invitation from the other side. And I know, deep down, that the veil isn’t thick at all—it’s just a thin smear of Nutella.