The Sixth Bed

May 26, 2026

by Loyce

In the summer of 2013, Carl returned to his grandmother’s sprawling estate in the rural outskirts of Cusco, Peru, after a decade abroad. The old hacienda, with its thick adobe walls and creaking wooden beams, had been in the family for generations. Since Carl had been gone so long, the house was filled with cousins and distant relatives who had come to welcome him back. The place had six bedrooms, but with so many people, they had to double up. Carl shared a room with his cousins, Diego and Mateo, in the largest of the guest rooms.

On the second night, Carl lay awake, listening to the wind rattle the windowpanes. He felt an inexplicable heaviness in the air, as if the darkness itself was pressing down on him. He could hear Diego and Mateo breathing softly in their sleep, but he couldn’t shake the sensation that there was a fourth presence in the room—a cold, watchful presence that seemed to hover near the foot of his bed. He told himself it was just jet lag and homesickness for his wife, whom he had left behind, but the unease persisted.

The next morning at breakfast, Diego looked at Carl with a knowing grin. ‘Slept badly?’ he asked.

‘How did you know?’ Carl replied, puzzled.

‘I saw you last night,’ Diego said, his smile fading, ‘standing at the foot of the bed, staring at yourself. And you weren’t alone.’

Carl’s blood ran cold. He had no memory of getting out of bed. ‘What do you mean?’ he managed.

‘I thought you were sleepwalking, but then you turned to me and said, ‘There are only three of us now.’ I didn’t know what to do, so I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep. When I opened them, you were gone, and the closet door was open.’

Mateo, who had been silent, added, ‘The room used to be my great-grandmother’s. She had a twin sister who died in there when they were young. They say her spirit still lingers, and if you see her, she’ll take one of you to be her companion.’

Carl scoffed, despite the chill creeping up his spine. ‘That’s just a story,’ he said, but his voice was shaky.

That night, Carl couldn’t sleep. He lay in the dark, staring at the closet door, which he had locked. But as the hours dragged on, he felt a presence again—cold and suffocating. He heard a faint whispering, like a woman’s voice murmuring his name. He saw a shadow detach from the closet and move toward his bed. It formed the shape of a woman, featureless but for a gaping mouth that seemed to breathe his air.

He tried to scream, but no sound came out. The shadow reached out a hand, and Carl felt a biting cold on his cheek. Then, as quickly as it came, it vanished, leaving Carl gasping in the stillness. He leapt out of bed and fumbled for the light. Diego and Mateo lay motionless, their faces pale in the dim bulb. Carlos shook them, but they didn’t stir. He put his hand to their noses—no breath.

Panicked, Carl ran through the house, shouting for help. But when he reached the dining room, the other relatives were there, sitting around the table, their eyes blank. They turned to him in unison and said, ‘There are only three of us now.’

Carl looked at his own hands and saw them fading, becoming translucent. He realized then that the shadow had not taken Diego or Mateo—it had taken him, and now he was the one trapped in the room, forever doomed to haunt the living, waiting for the next visitor to share the space.

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