The Motel

The wind blows leaves onto the windshield, and the heavy rain quickly presses them flat against the glass. Turning on the wipers barely helps; sometimes it only makes things worse, pushing the wilted bits of vegetation toward the edges of the car. The raindrops sharply fracture the red glow of the traffic light, casting it across the interior as I sit at an intersection. I haven’t seen a single vehicle pass through, so there hardly seems to be any point in sitting here, perhaps for several minutes already. The rain is coming down so hard it forms an almost solid curtain in front of me, making it difficult to see much of anything. Early November has certainly shown what autumn is capable of. For days, the weather reports have been saying nothing but the same thing: severe rainfall sweeping across nearly the entire state, again and again.

It is chilly inside the car, but no matter how much I fiddle with the heater, my ancient Honda Civic refuses to show even the slightest sign of cooperation. The air freshener I bought months ago dried out a long time ago, leaving nothing but a stale, musty smell lingering around me. My two carry-on bags sit abandoned on the back seat, containing nearly everything I own. I would like to reach the border as soon as possible, but in weather like this, even driving no longer feels like the safest idea. The light turns yellow. I put the car into gear, and when green spills across the wet asphalt, I gently press the accelerator.

The wipers are already moving at full speed, yet my view keeps clouding over, and even though there is no traffic, the thought of driving for several more hours does not seem ideal. Maybe I could pull over somewhere and wait for the worst of the storm to pass. As I consider it, I notice a flickering neon light in the distance. Maybe a gas station. I could park beneath the canopy and wait there, even if it takes hours. As I get closer, the sign slowly becomes clearer: 0-24 MOTEL.

Luckily, I filled the tank before leaving, so fuel is one thing I do not have to worry about. A motel would not be much help if that were the problem. A few possibilities run through my mind. I have been behind the wheel for at least three hours. My limbs have gone numb, and since I barely slept before setting out, my concentration is not at its best either. Maybe I could stay here for the night. Before I can think twice, I flick on the left turn signal and pull off the road.

As I ease into the nearest parking space, I look around. The rain is still coming down heavily, so I cannot see much, but I doubt the place is anywhere near full. In fact, I am not even sure there are more than a handful of people here at all. The marked spaces around me are empty, though there may be a few other vehicles somewhere near the middle of the lot or farther off on the other side. For now, I only want to ask about a room, so I leave my belongings where they are. I switch off the engine, pull the hood of my jacket over my head, and step out onto the asphalt. I can hear the raindrops striking the fabric of my coat. I quicken my pace, not wanting to get soaked through. Fortunately, I find the entrance quickly.

An old wooden door stands before me, rotten in places, though the handle looks almost brand-new. I press it down and step into the dimly lit lobby. The reception desk is empty, and at first glance there does not seem to be another soul inside. Looking farther in, however, I see flickering lights behind the frosted-glass windows of a room off to the side, and I can hear the faint murmur of a television. An old-fashioned service bell sits on the wooden counter. I step closer and strike it firmly, producing a sharp clang that cuts straight through the quiet atmosphere.

A deep, rasping sound reaches my ears, as though someone is taking a breath for the first time in a very long while. In the room where the television is playing, a dark silhouette shifts, as if someone had been sitting in an armchair until now. For several moments, nothing happens. I am just about to ring the bell again when, amid a series of loud cracks, someone stands up inside. A wheezing sound follows, then the shape of the black figure seems to rearrange itself.

It is difficult to make out exactly what is happening through the thick glass, but it looks as though a head tilts unnaturally to one side and two arms jerk into place. Then the shadow begins moving slowly toward the open doorway, its movements nothing like those of a human being. An uneasy feeling crawls over me. For a moment, I consider turning around and leaving just as quickly as I came, but then a hunched, awkward old man appears in the doorway and shuffles out.

“Good evening, young man!” he greets me, peering up through a pair of thick-framed glasses.

“Good evening,” I reply.

“Quite the weather we’re having.” He rocks his head from side to side. “What brings you out here? Other than whatever is raging outside.”

He tries to follow the remark with a laugh, but the attempt quickly dissolves into a coughing fit. He clears his throat, then stops on the other side of the reception desk. Heavy bags hang beneath his eyes, and a few gray hairs cling stubbornly to the top of his head. He stares at me with an empty expression.

“Well, I’ve been driving for hours.” I gesture behind me with my thumb. “I figured it probably wouldn’t be wise to keep going through the night in weather like this. So I was wondering whether you had a room available?”

A name tag pinned to his knitted sweater tells me the man standing in front of me is called Maverick. I hear him tap a key on the keyboard in front of him, and a monitor flickers to life, its glow reflecting sharply in his glasses.

“We’re fairly full,” he says, clicking through something on the screen. “But I’m sure I can find you something. Let’s see…”

While he searches, I glance around the room. There is a corkboard on the wall beside the entrance with several things pinned to it. I step closer and examine the papers, nearly all of them curled at the corners. A couple of local notices about a town I have never heard of, a menu from a nearby restaurant. Then I find myself staring into several troubled faces. Photographs of people with the word MISSING printed beneath their names, followed by a few desperate lines and phone numbers to call.

My gaze drifts upward. In the upper-right corner, I notice a photograph pinned to the board that looks fairly recent. It shows the reception desk. The picture must have been taken with a poor-quality camera because it is extremely grainy. I am just about to look away when I notice someone standing in the shadows near the edge of the window beside the room Maverick came out of, as though peering from behind it. The features are difficult to make out, but looking at the upper half of the figure, the two eyes on the blurred head are impossible to ignore. Two tiny white lights glow inside them. I lean closer for a better look. It feels as though that pair of eyes is staring directly at me. A chill runs down my spine, yet I cannot look away. At the back of the photograph, the edges of the reception area seem to grow darker and darker, and whatever is standing there appears to be moving closer. The lights above my head begin to flicker. For a moment, the entire background disappears into darkness, and the black figure seems to rush straight toward me. Fear floods through me, and I begin to step backward.

“Ah, there we are!” Maverick says loudly, making me snap my head toward him.

He is still standing behind the desk, the light from the monitor filling the small space around him. The flickering overhead lights have stopped. I turn back toward the photograph, but all I see is the same grainy reception area as before. There is no trace of what I thought I saw.

“Sir…” I begin uncertainly. “That photograph… what exactly does it show? I swear it looked like it moved just now.”

“Oh, that?” He looks over as well. “The owner took it the other day. You see, we’re about to renovate, and he wanted, as he put it, a before picture. Don’t let the lighting fool you, son. Sometimes it even plays tricks on me.” He waves a dismissive hand, then turns back toward the monitor.

I walk over to the desk, with no desire whatsoever to look at the photograph again. It feels colder in here than it did a few minutes ago.

“Room 314 is available. The previous guest checked out just today. Don’t worry, I’ve already cleaned it.” He pulls open a drawer and rummages around inside for a few moments. “Here you go. Your key.” He holds out a silver metal ring with the room number attached to it.

“How much?” I ask after taking it.

“Ten dollars,” he replies. “Cash only.” He straightens his posture.

I place the key back on the counter, then gesture behind me again.

“I’ll go get my wallet.”

“Of course. I’ll be right here.”

I pull my hood over my head again and step outside. To my surprise, the rain has stopped completely. The curtain of water has been replaced by thick fog, so dense that seeing even a few feet ahead is difficult. Since I remember where I parked, I head toward the car. I find myself thinking that for ten dollars, it would be foolish to pass up the chance to get some rest. I reach the vehicle, open the door, and take out my two bags. I dig my wallet from one of the side pockets and pull out a bill.

I cannot shake the prickling sensation that someone is watching me. I slam the doors shut, lock the car, and look around. I can still barely see anything in the fog-covered darkness, but judging by the deathly silence, there is no one here. I make my way back toward the entrance and step inside again. Maverick is standing in exactly the same position as when I left him. I walk over, hand him the ten-dollar bill, and pick up the key from the counter.

“If you’ll take some advice, young man, don’t wander around the motel grounds at night. It isn’t the safest place,” he warns me.

I look at him in surprise. His eyebrows are drawn together.

“You’ll find the stairs on the left. Third floor, then turn right. It’ll be the second door.” He smiles, as though the ominous remark from a moment ago had never happened. “I’ll need one form of identification from you.”

I take out my driver’s license and hand it over. He takes it and examines it closely.

“Ethan Walter. Nice name.”

“Thank you.”

He pulls open a drawer, tosses the license inside, then pushes it shut again.

“Good night,” he says.

He puts the money away in the register, then shuffles back toward the room where the television is still playing.

I try to shake off the faint unease crawling through me and step back out into the chilly air, heading around the side of the building. I can only move slowly because the visibility is so poor that I have to watch every step. Eventually I find the first step of the metal staircase and begin climbing. Two turns take me to the first floor. Maverick said the motel was fairly full, yet I cannot see even the faintest glow anywhere to suggest that a light is on in any of the rooms.

I keep going. The second floor is no different from the first. There is not the slightest sign of life. A few moments later, I reach the third. I turn right and look for the second door along the walkway. I spot the number 314 beside a window with the blinds drawn. I set my things down and I reach out until my hand finds the door. I take out the key, but when I reach for the handle, I realize it’s not closed. It is sitting slightly ajar. Maybe Maverick forgot to lock it after cleaning earlier today.

I push it open and take a step inside. Complete darkness and silence fill the room, along with the smell of mold. I feel along the wall for the switch, and when I flick it upward, light bursts from a chandelier in the center of the room. I have to squint for a moment while my eyes adjust, then I take in the interior. The bed is unmade, clothes are scattered across the floor, and two overturned chairs lie abandoned in the middle of the room.

“Hello?” I call out. “Is anyone here?”

There is no answer. I am slightly annoyed because it is obvious that no cleaning has taken place whatsoever. Even if I am only paying ten dollars for the room, I would still prefer somewhere a little more presentable to rest. I decide to head back downstairs and tell Maverick I want another room. Before I can step out, I notice what looks like a small open booklet lying on the floor. I bend down and pick it up. It is a passport.

A man’s face looks back at me, with a name printed beside it: Kevin Alfonso. Both his features and his name seem familiar, though I cannot place where I have seen them before. It probably belonged to whoever stayed here before me. I can hand it in at the desk. I slip it into my pocket, grab my things, and head back down to the ground floor. The fog is still thick, but I remember where the entrance should be. As I walk along the wall, however, I cannot find the door, even though I could swear this is exactly where I came out. I am confused.

It was right here, not far from the stairwell. Maybe I misjudged the distance. The terrible visibility could be messing with my sense of direction. I keep walking. Even ten yards farther down, there is still no entrance, and farther ahead all I can see is the same bare wall.

For a moment, I consider saying to hell with all of it and getting out of here as fast as I can. But where is my car? I have completely lost my sense of direction. Then I remember I would not get far anyway—my driver’s license is still sitting in one of the drawers. As surreal as the situation feels, I have no choice but to keep going if I want to get it back. Eventually, all I can see in front of me is another wall. I must have reached the end of this wing. What the hell is going on?

I turn and continue along the side of the building. I am probably imagining things, but I could swear I can hear someone’s footsteps behind me, as though I am being followed. I stop and look back. There is nothing but deathly silence, no one breathing down my neck. I take a few more steps, trying to ignore the sound of my own shoes. Then I hear it again. Someone is moving behind me at exactly the same pace. I deliberately stop short, hoping the footsteps behind me will continue.

They do not. Either my growing fear is playing tricks on me, or whoever is following me can somehow see me and is almost mimicking my movements. I shake my head and keep going. I become more and more convinced that this is something beyond my imagination, so I quicken my pace, hoping I can finally find that damn door.

Once again, I end up facing a wall. I am beginning to feel as though I have been walking in circles. I turn again and break into an almost-run, even though my bags are heavy. Finally, I spot the entrance. I stop just long enough to sling both bags over my shoulders, then immediately reach for the handle.

Now I can hear it clearly. I was not imagining anything. Someone is running behind me, fast, getting closer by the second. I wrench the door open, step inside, and slam it shut behind me. I pull the handle toward myself with all my strength so that if whoever is outside tries to force their way in, I can at least put up some resistance.

But nothing happens.

I press the side of my head against the door and listen for any sound outside. Everything seems completely silent, yet I still do not feel safe. Long moments pass. My breathing gradually slows, and I begin to calm down.

Then something slams into the door from the other side with such force that the entire wooden structure shudders. I scream and instinctively stumble backward. My foot catches on one of the bags, and I crash to the floor. Whoever is outside keeps pounding against the door with full force. I try to prepare myself for some kind of fight, but suddenly the intruder’s assault stops. A scraping sound follows, like claws being dragged across the outside of the door. Then, after a deep rasping growl, the figure begins moving away with heavy footsteps.

A minute passes. Maybe two. I remain sitting completely still. Then a deafening roar erupts from somewhere inside, as though the television has suddenly been turned to maximum volume, except all I can hear is white noise. I force myself to my feet and stagger over to the desk. I slam my palm down on the bell with all my strength. The unbearable noise cuts off instantly.

“Maverick!” I shout desperately. “Maverick!”

Darkness now fills the space behind the frosted glass, but once again I hear strange noises from inside. This time they sound unmistakably like bones cracking. Then the figure begins moving toward the doorway. I hammer the bell frantically, anything to keep those sounds from filling the silence.

“Young man, I heard you the first time!” the receptionist snaps as he emerges with measured steps.

“Maverick!” I point at him. “What the fuck is going on here? Someone followed me. Someone practically tried to break down the door. And the room you gave me is a wreck.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. You’re our only guest tonight,” he replies.

“Fifteen minutes ago, you told me you were almost full.”

“Did I?” he asks, looking genuinely surprised. “I must have read something wrong in the system. My apologies.” He steps closer.

“Look.” I pant. “I don’t need any fucking room. Give me back my driver’s license, keep your damn ten dollars, and I’ll be gone.”

He stops in front of the desk, then smiles.

“You’ll find the stairs on the left. Third floor, then turn right. It’ll be the second door,” he murmurs.

“What the fuck?” I whisper, rubbing both temples.

“If you’ll take some advice, young man, don’t wander around the motel grounds at night. It isn’t the safest place.”

“You already told me that. And I don’t give a shit about how safe this place is anymore. Give. Me. Back. My. Driver’s. License.” I stress every single word.

“Of course,” he says, and the smile vanishes from his face so abruptly it is as though his mouth never moved at all.

He pulls open the drawer and begins rummaging through it again.

“Just a little patience, if you please. It’s quite a mess in here,” he mutters as he searches.

“Yeah, I noticed.” I run a hand through my hair.

Then I remember the passport in my pocket. I take it out. Kevin Alfonso. Why does that name feel so familiar? I look over at the corkboard. The poster in the middle shows exactly the same man. The word MISSING beneath his photograph makes me feel suddenly light-headed.

“Here it is,” I hear Maverick say as he closes the drawer again.

I turn back toward him.

“Tha—” I begin.

The old man has climbed onto the desk, and his face is only inches from mine. For the second time tonight, I scream in terror and stagger backward. His neck is twisted unnaturally to one side, and both of his arms look broken in several places.

“What the fuck?” I shout at the top of my lungs.

“I hope you enjoyed your stay, young man!” he says in a voice so deep and unnatural it sounds almost demonic.

I scramble upright, yank my driver’s license from his hand, grab my bags, and storm out of the building.

The fog is somehow even thicker now, but I do not care. I run straight ahead, toward where my car should be. When I finally reach it, I could almost cry with relief. I unlock the doors, throw the bags onto the back seat, then glance back before climbing into the driver’s seat.

The fog has completely lifted. What stands before me is a rotting, decaying, half-collapsed building. There is no trace of the motel I saw before.

I do not care what I am looking at, and I do not care whether there is any rational explanation for it. I jump inside, slam the door shut, throw the car into reverse, and floor the accelerator as I pull away from the ruined structure. I turn back onto the road, and the pouring rain suddenly returns out of nowhere, drops hammering against the roof and windshield.

Once again, a curtain of rain stretches out in front of me, but I do not care. I push the pedal down as far as it will go, desperate to put as much distance as possible between myself and that place—and the terror still crawling through me.

I have been driving for about ten minutes when I finally begin to calm down. I try to convince myself that the whole thing was nothing more than a nightmare. One hand grips the steering wheel while the other rubs at my eyes. When I open them again, my blood runs cold.

A black figure with a twisted body is sitting on the hood of the car. Its rotting, bulging eyes are staring directly into mine.

I jerk the steering wheel sideways on instinct. The car hits a rocky embankment at full speed, and then I feel the vehicle dropping beneath me. The last thing I see before impact is two glowing white spots inside a skull.

Mr. Javis felt relieved when he came across the motel. He had been on the road all night and wanted nothing more than a good, long sleep. The receptionist, Maverick, seemed like a kind old man. While he rummaged through a drawer, Mr. Javis walked over to the corkboard.

A few local notices. A restaurant menu. And several eerie faces staring back at him from missing-person posters. The man on the far edge of the board must have been added recently, because the paper still looked fresh. A chill ran through Mr. Javis when he saw the photograph. Ethan Walter. A man with striking features. Beneath his picture was the word MISSING. The date was only a few days old. Mr. Javis found the photograph pinned in the upper-right corner strange as well. For a moment, it looked as though a black shadow moved inside it. Maverick’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. He turned toward the old man beneath the flickering lights.

“Ah, there we are!” Maverick said, holding up a key. “Room 314 is available.”