The Visitor in the Blue Room

The inn at Stillwater was a relic from a time when people believed in ghosts, but I took the job because I needed the money. It was off-season, and I had the third floor to myself, a long corridor of empty rooms with peeling wallpaper and radiators that clanked like chains. My own room, number 12, was at the end of the hall. It had a window that looked out onto the frozen lake and a bed so soft I sank into it like a marshmallow.

That first night, I was exhausted from the drive and fell asleep almost immediately. I was on my back, which was unusual for me, but the mattress seemed to pull me into that position. At first, I heard nothing. Just the wind. Then I heard a voice, barely a whisper, as if someone was talking right next to my ear. It was a woman’s voice, but I couldn’t make out the words. It was like static, or a radio tuner that couldn’t catch a frequency. I tried to move, to turn on the lamp, but my limbs felt like lead. Then the pressure came. Something heavy, like a sack of flour, landed on my chest. The weight was immense, pressing the breath out of me. I couldn’t gasp, couldn’t scream. The whispers grew louder, more frantic, and then I managed to force out one word: ‘Help.’ As soon as I said it, the weight vanished, and I could breathe again.

I sat up, trembling. The room was dark, and the only light came in faintly from the parking lot’s sodium lamps, casting long shadows. I was alone. I told myself it was a dream, a stress-induced night terror. I drank a glass of water from the bathroom tap and tried to go back to sleep, but I was afraid to lie on my back. So I turned on my side, facing the wall, my heart pounding under the thin blanket. I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew, I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was cold, and it gripped me with a strength that was not human. It yanked me, spinning me onto my back, and then the weight returned, heavier than before. This time, I forced my eyes open.

What I saw made my bladder nearly give out. It was crouched on my chest, a thing with a long, grey face like a wolfhound, but with eyes that were too intelligent, too full of rage. Its body was thin and reedy, like a man who hadn’t eaten in years, but it was strong. Its hands were wrapped around my throat, squeezing, and it was whispering directly into my face. The whisper was a torrent of syllables, a language that hurt my ears, and it grew louder with each second. I tried to think of a spell, a prayer, anything, but all I could think of was my mother. She had been dead for three years, but I croaked out ‘Mom’ as a final plea.

The effect was instantaneous. The creature’s eyes widened in something like surprise, and it lifted off as if yanked by invisible strings. It hovered for a moment, its mouth still moving, then it dissolved into the dark. I lay there, gasping, my throat raw. I didn’t sleep the rest of the night. I stayed curled against the headboard, the lamp on, watching the corners of the room, and when the first grey light of dawn came, I packed my bags and went to my car. I drove away without telling anyone, and I never went back to Stillwater Inn. But the whispers followed me. I hear them now, as I write this, a faint hiss behind the hum of my refrigerator. And sometimes, at night, I feel a pressure on my chest, like a phantom hand, and I know that the visitor from the blue room is not done with me. It has my name now.