The Midnight Motel

The open highway stretched endlessly, a ribbon of cracked asphalt cutting through the vast, empty desert. Paul drove with the windows down, the warm wind whipping through his hair as the hum of the engine droned on. He had been driving for hours, chasing the horizon with no destination in mind. But now, exhaustion weighed on him, and the gas gauge hovered dangerously close to empty.

As he glanced at the dashboard, a flickering neon sign appeared in the distance, barely visible in the twilight.

"Motel Rest Stop – Vacancies"

No phone service, no nearby towns, just this lone motel glowing like a beacon. Paul hesitated, but the gas light blinked insistently, and fatigue was quickly taking over. He had no choice but to stop.

He pulled into the gravel parking lot, the crunch of his tires the only sound breaking the desert’s eerie silence. The motel was old and dilapidated, its once-bright paint peeling, and the sign buzzed weakly, struggling to stay lit. A single row of rooms stretched out under a sagging roof, with only one or two windows showing faint light inside.

Paul parked, killed the engine, and stepped out. A strange, pungent smell hit him, something sour and burnt, but he brushed it off as the desert’s unforgiving heat. He walked toward the office, the door swinging open with a soft creak as he stepped inside.

The interior was as rundown as the exterior—dim lighting, faded wallpaper, and dusty furniture that looked untouched for years. A lone man stood behind the counter, his gaunt frame silhouetted against the dull glow of an old desk lamp. His pale skin was stretched tight over sharp features, and his eyes seemed too dark, too sunken.

“Room for the night?” the man asked, his voice low and raspy.

Paul nodded, suddenly feeling uneasy. “Yeah. And is there a gas station nearby? I’m running low.”

The man smiled faintly, revealing crooked teeth. “Plenty of gas in the morning. Room 7 is ready for you. I’ll bring your key.”

Without another word, Paul handed over some cash, took the key, and left the office, trying to shake off the odd feeling creeping over him. As he reached his room, the door opened with a soft creak, revealing a small, dingy space. A single bed, a nightstand with a flickering lamp, and a cracked TV set filled the room. The smell he had noticed earlier was stronger here, but his exhaustion outweighed any concerns.

He dropped his bag on the floor, kicked off his boots, and collapsed onto the bed, hoping for a few hours of sleep before continuing his journey. But as he lay there, staring at the ceiling, a sense of dread crept in, his mind replaying the unsettling encounter with the motel clerk.

The silence outside was unnerving. No passing cars, no wind, just stillness. Paul’s eyes fluttered shut, but a sudden knock on the door jolted him awake.

He sat up, his heart racing as another knock came, louder this time. Who would be out here in the middle of nowhere at this hour? His gut twisted with apprehension, but he forced himself to stand and approach the door.

“Who’s there?” he called out, his voice sounding weaker than he intended.

No answer. Just the knock, steady and insistent.

Paul hesitated, then unlocked the door, opening it just a crack. No one was there. The hallway was empty, dimly lit by the flickering lights overhead. He stepped outside, peering down both ends of the corridor. Nothing.

With a nervous laugh, he shook his head and closed the door, locking it securely this time. But the moment he turned around, he froze.

A figure stood in the corner of the room.

The motel clerk.

Paul’s heart hammered in his chest as the man stepped forward, his eyes glinting in the dim light. “I told you,” the man rasped, “there’s plenty of gas in the morning. But the night belongs to us.”

Before Paul could react, the man lunged. A flash of silver caught the light— a long, rusted knife in his hand. Paul dove out of the way just in time, crashing into the nightstand and sending the lamp to the floor, plunging the room into near darkness.

Panting, he scrambled to his feet, his mind racing. He had to get out. He dashed for the door, but the man was faster, blocking his escape with a sickening grin.

“There’s nowhere to go, you know,” the clerk said, his voice calm and unnerving. “This place... it doesn’t exist outside the night. You’re already ours.”

Paul’s breath came in ragged gasps as he backed toward the window, his hand gripping the cracked curtain. Without thinking, he yanked it open and crashed through the glass, falling hard onto the gravel outside. The jagged edges of the window tore at his skin, but adrenaline pushed him forward. He stumbled to his car, fumbling with the keys, his hands shaking uncontrollably.

The engine sputtered to life, and Paul slammed the gas pedal, tearing out of the lot, gravel spraying behind him. The neon sign flickered in his rearview mirror, growing smaller and smaller as he sped down the empty road.

But no matter how fast he drove, the unease lingered. The road stretched endlessly, the desert swallowing him whole. Hours passed, or maybe minutes—it was impossible to tell. But the further he went, the more he felt the presence still watching him, still waiting.

The gas gauge hit empty, and the car began to slow. Paul’s hands gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white as he scanned the barren landscape for any sign of life.

And then, in the distance, a familiar flicker caught his eye.

A neon sign, glowing faintly in the dark.

“Motel Rest Stop – Vacancies”