The Visitor at the Gilded Lily

My parents had dragged me along on their business trip to the city of Meridian, a place of glass towers and tangled freeways that seemed to swallow the sky. They had meetings all day, so I was left to my own devices in the hotel, a place called The Gilded Lily, which was as ornate and sterile as a funeral parlor. The room was all cream-colored walls and dark mahogany furniture, a single window looking out over a parking garage, and a small kitchenette with a miniature fridge that hummed like a trapped insect. I was twelve, bored, and desperate for something to do.

That’s how I ended up at The Copper Kettle, a bar that, despite its name, was the most popular spot in the city. The owner, a burly man with a gold tooth, didn’t card at the door, and the place was always packed with a strange mix of office workers and drifters. I was sitting at a corner booth, nursing a soda, when I saw a woman across the room watching me. She was tall, with hair so black it seemed to drink the light, and she wore a long coat that shimmered like oil on water. She didn’t look away when I met her gaze; instead, she smiled, and there was something wrong with that smile. Too wide, too many teeth.

I decided to leave. As I walked through the crowded bar, I felt a presence behind me, and I heard the soft shuffle of footsteps that didn’t match my own. I spun around, expecting to see someone, but there was no one close enough to be following me. Just the usual crowd, laughing and shouting. The feeling lingered as I pushed through the doors and into the night air. My friend, a woman named Mara who was supposed to be watching me, was waiting in her car, a beat-up sedan with a dented bumper. I climbed in, and we started driving back to the hotel.

Halfway there, I felt a gentle touch on my right shoulder. I flinched and snapped at Mara, ‘Stop poking me.’ But her hands were on the steering wheel, and she glanced at me with a frown. ‘I’m not touching you,’ she said. The touch didn’t repeat, but the spot on my shoulder felt cold, as if a piece of ice had been pressed against it.

Back at the hotel, I told Mara I was tired and went up to our room. The room was dark, and I could see the faint outline of the king-sized bed against the far wall. I flicked on the light, and for a split second, I saw a figure lying in the bed, curled up like a child. But when I blinked, it was gone. The covers were smooth, untouched. I ran to my mom’s room next door, but she was already asleep, and when I shook her shoulder, she just mumbled and turned over. I was too scared to go back to my own room, so I curled up on the floor beside her bed, but sleep didn’t come easily.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I woke to the sensation of being watched. I opened my eyes, and there, standing at the foot of the bed, was the woman from the bar. She was still wearing that shimmering coat, and in the dim light, her face was shadowed. She just stood there, staring at us, her head tilted slightly. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. I closed my eyes and prayed, and when I opened them again, she was gone.

The next morning, I told my mom about the woman, but she dismissed it as a nightmare. ‘You had a long day,’ she said, brushing my hair back. ‘You probably saw a shadow.’ But I knew what I saw. Later that day, I found my cousin, Dana, who worked as a waitress at The Copper Kettle. I told her everything, and she paled. ‘Oh, no,’ she whispered. ‘That’s not a woman. That’s the Visitor. They say she comes for people who stay at The Gilded Lily, especially the ones who go to the bar at night. She watches them sleep, and then she takes them.’ I asked her what that meant, but she just shook her head. ‘You need to leave. Tonight. Don’t stay there.’

But my parents wouldn’t listen. We stayed one more night. That night, I didn’t sleep. I sat in the corner of the room, my eyes glued to the door, waiting. And just before dawn, the door unlocked with a click, and the woman stepped inside. She walked past me, to my parents’ bed, and stood over them, her hands reaching out. I screamed, and this time the sound tore from my throat. She turned to look at me, and her eyes were empty, black pools. And then she was gone. When my parents woke, they found me shaking, pointing at the now-empty space. They packed our bags and left the city that day. But sometimes, late at night, I still feel that touch on my shoulder, and I know the Visitor hasn’t forgotten me.