My husband and I had booked a room for our vacation, expecting a simple and relaxing stay. From the outside, the hotel looked nice: clean lines, modern bay windows, a quiet lobby with a citrus scent, and fresh sheets. It was the kind of place you choose because you feel safe, reassuring, and easily forget about it, in the best possible way.
This illusion lasted less than an hour.
We arrived in the late afternoon. The sun was already beginning to set behind the buildings, casting long shadows in the corridor as we made our way to our room. I remember thinking about how tired I was, about the pleasure I would get from putting down my luggage, taking off my shoes, and simply existing for a moment, without thinking about anything.
We opened the door, entered, and the room greeted us with polite neutrality: beige walls, a made bed, curtains slightly ajar letting in a thin sliver of golden light. Everything seemed normal. Almost too normal.
That's why I noticed it immediately.
The object was firmly attached to the wall, as if it had grown there or been intentionally glued on. It wasn't flat like dry plaster. It had volume, depth, almost a sculpted appearance. I leaned forward to examine it, searching for a logical explanation that would soothe the unease rising within me.
"That's disgusting," my husband said from behind me. "Probably an insect nest."
That word – nest – made my stomach clench.
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