The guest room at our family friends house smelled faintly of old linen and sandalwood. It was the kind of deep, suffocating quiet that only happens when you're sleeping in a space that isn't your own. My mom and my younger sister were already sunk deep under the covers, their breathing slow and steady.

I was eleven, and too wired on the strange quiet and late hour to sleep. I had my latest teen magazine propped open, the faint glow of the small lamp on the bedside table barely illuminating the page. The rest of the room was consumed by the shadows of the unfamiliar furniture.

I had just turned a page, eyes blurry from reading in the dim light, when a prickle of cold air hit the back of my neck. I froze.

Slowly, carefully, I lifted my gaze from the magazine toward the doorway. The door was wide open, revealing a stretch of dark hallway.

And she was standing there.

She was short and plump, an older Asian woman with a severe, dark knot of hair held high by a pair of ivory chopsticks. She was draped in a silky, heavy red kimono robe that seemed too bright for the surrounding darkness.

But it was her face that stopped my heart. She was looking right at me, and her face was fixed in the most unnerving expression, a silent, wide smile that didn't reach her eyes. Her eyes were dark, flat and seemed to drank in the small light spilling from the lamp.

I couldn't move. I couldn't scream to wake my mom, whose warm weight pressed against my side. I was just a rigid, terrified eleven-year-old pinned by that unnerving cheerful, unmoving gaze. The air grew thick, pressing the sound out of the room. It felt like hours, though it must have only been seconds, that she stood there, perfectly still, just watching me.

Then, as quickly and silently as she had appeared, she was gone. No footsteps, no swish of the heavy robe, just a sudden, empty view of the dark hallway.

I slammed the magazine shut, plunging the room into total darkness, and buried myself beneath the blanket until I couldn't feel the air on my skin. I never told my mom or sister what I saw, terrified they'd say it was just a dream, or worse, that it was the truth. But every time we stayed over at the family friends house after that, I always made sure to close the guest bedroom door, latching it firmly against whatever might be smiling on the other side.