The Last Motel in America

Welcome, and happy October! This is my third annual horror story series . . . welcome to the Sinister Garden! Meander through the lush overgrowth and the minutely insidious marvels of life that can be found in the fungal kingdom . . . and now in the greater world at large. Please enjoy!

The change from soft bioluminescence to powerful sunlight was a gradual, if not choppy, change that registered as sudden warmth heating the thin skin of her eyelids. The sleep that crusted them was almost enough to keep her eyes from fluttering open, but they soon widened enough to get a blurry first view of a swirling mosaic of greens and cream, before clearing up into the sharp vision of a cracked popcorn ceiling and the fungal growth that covered it like a large, textured abstract painting. In the corner of her eye, the mass of bioluminescent fungi that grew on either side of the large window flickered light, once, twice, then stopped. Good night.

“Good morning.” Spring muttered back, and yawned widely. Rolling onto her stomach and stretching her limbs out almost knocked her out again, but with a low grumble Spring clambered out of the bed. Looking around for a minute to reorient herself, Spring scratched her lower back and shuffled over to the jugs of water, picking up the one marked for washing. Grabbing the tiny blue bucket next to it, Spring poured out just enough to wash her face and hands, and capped the jug again. The bucket was brought into the bathroom and placed atop the counter. With careful movements, Spring dabbed a cloth into the water and wiped her face, neck, wherever humidity had lingered and sweat perfumed her skin. A little water was devoted to detangling her hair, fluffing the dirty coils, rolling the shed hair into little balls to feed to the ground later. She squinted at the pieces of mirror still visible in the gaps of the slowly pulsating mass of partly furry, partly slimy growth that grew on, around, and above the mirror up to about the light fixture overhead. A gash in the mold slowly opened, tiny strings along the corners of the mouth like spittle. 

“You know, you masturbate too much.” The gash gurgled, the force it spat out its vowels made the little silver crucifix attached underneath it tremble violently. 

Spring looked evenly at the growth. “Jealous you can’t do that anymore?”

Spring cleaned up and decided the boxers and large red t-shirt with “FLORIDA” on it she’d worn to sleep would do fine to wear on her rounds today. Opening the door she grimaced at the wave of hot air that immediately rushed in. It was late summer. Which meant checking on her traps in the courtyards and the rooms with broken doors, sweeping away fallen leaves, checking the rain barrels, stopping by the nurseries, and going through the rooms one by one to see which ones were still usable for guests and which ones would become multipurpose. There was no time for idleness in the apocalypse. Or were they in the post-apocalyptic stage now? How did you know when to call your life one or the other? 

Spring didn’t mind the chores as much now as she did when first taking over the motel two years ago. By that point, it had been seven years since the modern world ended, and humans had recouped enough to start attacking each other based on new parameters of bigotry, and Spring had opted to break ties with humanity and move on her own. But washing her hands of humans didn’t mean they were done with her, oh no. That’s why late summer was so important. This was the most active time of the year for humans to move, running from place to place for various reasons– old colonies had been overrun by Rot, weather had destroyed their settlements, runaways, etc, etc. This was pretty much the only time of year Spring had to worry about humans stumbling upon her little roadside crap shack out here in the middle of nowhere. But Spring was the overseer of this motel, and she would greet her guests always. They were important, after all. And Spring knew . . . it was due time for her to receive her first guest of the year, any day now.

By three o'clock, Spring was lounging in a bright pink inflatable pool, just a little too short to lie back fully, but enough to soak in the cool rain water she'd collected earlier in the month. The pool was set underneath a copse of orange trees she'd grown three months after arriving at the motel, and rested on a springy bed of clover. The clover shivered, and Spring opened her eyes, head pivoting against the squeaky plastic of the pool to turn to the west.

Her first guest  of the season was due to arrive.

And quite quickly.

It took another three hours for the first guest to make their way to the motel. Spring had washed up to the litany of the bathroom growth's crowing about unclean women and unsubtle come-ons, and adorned her least stained pair of jeans, a bra, and a blue button down. Standing behind the front desk, Spring absentmindedly rolled a penny bun underneath her palm. The balls of bitter oyster in the lanterns strung up along the rafters added weak but serviceable light, the only lights on in the whole place. The guest wouldn't be able to miss it.

A tiny creak from the wall behind her had Spring turning around, watching an oyster mushroom sproutling begin to break through a portrait on the wall, glass sporting tiny fractures from its insistent force. It grew right over what was once the gold tooth of the former manager, Gladys Cornwall . . . or so the photo plaque said. Her eyes drifted over to see the last janitor who ever worked here. Dale Cuthbert. He had been in his mid sixties, thin white hair that curled by his ears, an awkward yet mean expression, and a tiny silver crucifix resting underneath his collarbones.

A soft rhythm pricked at Spring’s ears, a far off thumping that became pounding footsteps, staggering and indicative that her first guest was both haggard . . . and quite possibly harried. Interested, Spring straightened up from her slouch against the front desk and watched as a figure suddenly appeared in her view, having just burst out from a breezeway into the front parking lot. Whoever it was looked slim, cloth sloppily draped over their form, and was most definitely exuding the body language of the distressed and harried. Spring was just waiting for the wildly twitchy human to finally see her through the glass of the front doors– it ought to be easy, she’d just shined them.

Ah! The human had finally spotted her. Spring watched as the human nearly ate shit trying to run towards the door, catching themself on a flower bed before yanking on the doors twice, finally realizing they were push, and leaping inside to collapse on the musty brown carpet.

For a while there was only the sound of coughing and wet gulps for air, and the teeny tiny creaks and groans of an old room being overtaken by fungi. Spring hated having to start conversation, usually people were already like, “Who are you? What are you doing here? Are you alone? What do you have?” If you relied on Spring to start a conversation, it would never happen. But as the front desk of the motel . . . she’d probably have to get the ball rolling. Reputation, and all that.

Spring cleared her throat, shoulders beginning to climb up in awkwardness. “Welcome to the Hypha Motel. Uh.” She stopped suddenly. She’d never worked at a hotel before in her life. Again, usually the guests prompts helped her move these interactions along.

The human looked up, and Spring tentatively guessed that it was a girl. “Please.” the voice was rough, choked, but higher on the register of tone than Spring would have initially guessed. “Please help me. Help me. They’re coming after me, please—”

Spring made a noise deep in her throat and held up a hand to stop the girl. The girl obliged, mouth closing with a click that made Spring wince. “Hunters?”

“Huh? Uh— no, uh, maybe— they killed my old group and they’re gonna—” The girl shuddered, eyes taking on a desperate light as she choked on the next word that would have come out.

“Oh.” Spring paused, considering. Fingers tapping on the desk, Spring tilted her head from left to right as she thought it over. The girl hadn’t gotten up from her position on the floor, but if she was comfortable there then Spring wouldn’t mention it. “How many in that group?”

The girl inhaled slowly and released it in a shuddering breath. She could calm herself down then, that was ideal. “Um. Six. Six men. They’re armed, like, a lot of—”

“Can you help me set up? I assume they’re close behind you.” Spring interrupted with a breezy tone, turning promptly to the broken glass case that held the room keys. With a thoughtful hum she hovered her fingertips over each key before making her selection for five rooms.

“Set up? What are you gonna offer them fucking rooms?!” The girl cried out, heaving herself up finally from the ground, shaking in fear. Spring eyed her curiously. Oh, she seemed younger than her . . . if she was a kid she could see how this would all be a bit much. Had the old— no, Spring didn’t need to know the details. She needed to accomadate her guests.

“Yes, we are.” Spring smiled brilliantly, grabbing a jacket.

A rusted, purple pick-up truck roared into the parking lot of the Hypa Motel, beat up body dully shining in the light of the setting sun. It idled there, large body swaying back and forth for a minute before its doors were opened and its filthy innards spilled out in shades of plaid and grime coated denim.

Six men looked around, eyes sharp and mouths either grinning maliciously or puckered with careful hate. Five looked forward as the one wearing a black leather duster took the center position.

“That little bitch is here. Ain’t no other place for her to go.” The man mused, hands coming up to rest on his belt, thumbs rubbing the cracked brown leather. “Split up.”

A man in a blue shirt with the ford logo on it shuffled nervously. “Darren what about . . .”

“You’re the ones with guns. If you can’t take care of no fucking freaks, or a little girl, then you should die and save me the trouble, Pete, dontcha think?” Cold eyes assessed the impact of his words on the other, and when Pete just nodded his head, he hummed in approval. “Pete, Hugh, take the left side. Chris, Aaron, the right. I’ll check around in the open, see if she doesn’t try to make a run for the woods again.”With a sharp whistle, they all followed his command, each splitting up to find their prey.

Pete and Hugh moved to the east wing, giving each other sharp nods and tightening their grips on their pistols as they started checking each room. The rooms without doors were checked quickly, noses wrinkling at the stench of mold and mildew. Some doors were locked and they kicked them open, getting inside and checking each room out.

Pete walked to a closed door and kicked it, nearly stumbling when it swung wide open and hit the wall with a bang. He hadn’t expected it not to be locked. He stepped inside with his pistol held at the ready, and the moment he focused on the sight before him, he froze in shock.

Cradles. Four cradles, back to back, in the middle of the room with a broken TV and a shattered bathroom mirror, the only light coming from a hole in the cieling at the corner of the room. Cradles, somehow kept safe from the leaking water, a handmade mobile overhead that held a pothos plant, its long tendrils draping around the cradles almost like a makeshift curtain. Snuffling sounds were coming from the cradles, mewling whimpers. Pete felt a chill creep up his back, nearly stumbling away in horror.

“What the fuck.” He whispered, hand holding the pistol wavering between lowering it and holding it up. With a gulp, he carefully stepped closer and closer, each step he took produced loud creaks from the floorboards underneath and further set the cloth wrapped bundles inside the cradles into distress. He was close enough to touch the cradle when the first cry of a baby pierced the air. The baby’s cries soon enough prompted echoing responses from the other three wriggling bundles, a cacaphony of life and wrongness that nearly made Pete clutch his ears.

“Oh Jesus! Jesus there are babies here. What the fuck.” Pete babbled, stumbling forward to look closer. It had been years since he’d seen a baby. Babies! That meant there were people hiding here . . . and women. Pete gaped at the bundles in shock and a growing sense of glee, pistol now hanging loosely from his hand as he leaned closer to see the babies. But something was strange. Why were the babies so wrapped up? Could they breathe like that?

A sense of unease started to battle the savage joy and shock in Pete. Because these babies were covered up completely. And their crying sounded . . . odd? But he couldn’t be sure, it had been years and years since he saw a baby. A large hand moved forward to poke at the cloth wrapping around the baby. Cautiously, a finger lightly dragged against the material, and felt not cloth, but something smooth and light. It felt like flower petals. Pete jerked his hand back, and made to take a step away, but wasn’t able to. Frightened, Pete’s head jerked down, and saw thin vines quickly wrapping up his legs. Mycelium. With a shout, he reached down to tear away the roots, but more shot out suddenly from underneath the cradle, wrapping around his wrists and up and up. Shrieking, Pete toppled over, squirming and bucking wildly. There was no escape. The mycellium grew and stretched until they could find gaps in his clothing, touch his skin. Once they felt warm human skin, the tips pierced into his flesh, blood seeping out in thin streams. Pete’s screams reached a tortured crescendo.

Two doors down, Hugh was checking out a room covered completely in mold like shag carpet,e very wall and surface adorned with it. He heard Pete’s screaming, and jumped. “Pete?!” He hollered, lurching around to charge out and find his friend. He took two steps and tripped on a broken floorboard, stumbling and then crashing down to the floor. The slimy, wet feel of te mold on the floor smearing across his face and into his hair made him gag, but he grit his teeth and pushed himself up onto his hands and knees to get back up.

He tried to raise a knee up to continue the path upwards, but suddenly found he was stuck. Looking down, Hugh looked puzzled as he suddenly realized his hands were nearly submerged in the mold. How come he hadn’t felt himself sinking down into the mold when he had walked in earlier, if it was this much? He tried to pull his hands up, and began to realize that the mold was . . . not letting him go. Why wasn’t it letting him go?! Fear beginning to shorten his breath, Hugh used all his strength to try and pull away from the mold that felt like concrete around his wrists and his knees, grunting and swearing in panic.

The mold pulled back.

Hugh found himself crashing back down onto the ground, hands now outstretched , and he felt his legs being pulled to lock down on to the ground, even his boots held immobilized by this freakish fungal mass.

“Help! Help me! Darren HEL—!” Hugh began to scream, but that open hole was just what the mold wanted. The whole room rippled, like waves on the lakeshore, an undulating wave that started from the top of the ceiling and moved down over the walls, the fixtures, the floor, until it reached him. The wave rushed over the hills of his prone, furiously struggling body, into his mouth and tear ducts, up his nostrils, the burn of it and the wretched taste prompting a hideous, garbled shriek from the man as he began the process of assimilation.

Darren, in the courtyard now, stood frozen, baffled. His ears were assaulted with the sounds of his crew howling, screaming, in terror and pain. He heard Hugh’s cut off scream of aid, and the continued squeals and bawling of Pete. At nearly the same time, he heard Aaron’s screams coming from the pool he had previously thought empty. A fast, harsh rustling as if trees caught in a gale, and the screams of a man slowly dying. He didn’t see what had dragged Aaron down there, just his body being whipped from standing to disappearing beneath the lip of the pool with a screech. The stench of blood was growing, the copper scent thick on his tongue, almost enough to make him grimace.

“Darren! DARREN! MY LEGS!” Chris’s hollers broke Darren from his trance, and he hauled ass over to the last room in the breezeway before the gate to the pool. Skidding a little as he grabbed the side of the doorway, he looked in and saw Chris collapsed on the floor and frantically pawing at the two bear traps mangling his legs. The room struck him as odd, reminding him of a florist’s shop but with anything from empty cans of beans to shoes acting as flower pots, but he had bigger things to worry about. With a muttered curse Darren moved towards the man and crouched down, looking for the mechanism to pry the jaws apart.

“What the fuck is going on here.” Darren hissed. “We never saw any indication a group had moved in here.”

“Who fucking cares just get me out of here!” Chris yelped, leaning on his elbows.

“I’m gonna get you out of here,” Darren grunted, finding what he was looking for and beginning to pry the trap apart. Chris screamed behind gritted teeth, eyes clenched shut. “Just quit bitching—”

BAM! The loud sound of a gunshot made Chris yell, but the feeling of hot blood and something a little meatier spraying on his face made him freeze up. A second gunshot, or more like the impact of the bullet through his forehead, made him topple over and lie in a growing pool of blood. The plants around them shivered, as if anticipating something delicious. Slowly, mycellium rose from underneath their bodies, from the floorboards, and slowly began to wind around the flesh and blood offered to them a mobile feast that would transfer to the appropriate flora.

From outside the doorway, Spring lowered the shotgun she’d taken from the man becoming a nursery for Golden Chanterelles. She turned behind her to look at the girl, face ashen and body trembling minutely. There was quiet for a little while, the sound of increasing wind and the feel of weather turning proving a night rain was due. An odd, dying moan, or the sweetly jubilant rustle of new growth.

The girl opened her mouth, then closed it. Opened it again. Asked, “Are you one of them . . . Fungalites?”

Spring scoffed, nose wrinkling at the bumbling sound of the syllables awkwardly rolling off the girl’s tongue. “Is that what they’re calling us now? We got our own name. Mychorrans.”

The girls swallowed. Nodded slowly. “That sounds . . . pretty. Can I . . . ?”

“Thanks. And, uh . . . sure—” Spring propped the shotgun against the wall and rolled up her sleeves. She slowly rotated her forearms and wrists, concentration clear on her face. Small, tiny strands of light danced up and down her arms, like light-up veins showing brilliantly against the dark skin, a road of stars in her blood. Spring reached up and gathered a bunch of hair in each fist, stretching the curls out just enough for the girl to lean forward and watch the tips of Spring’s hair wiggle slowly.

“Holy shit.” The girl gasped, leaning back slighlty. But there was no disgust or fear on her face, just interest. “Did it hurt?”

“Nah. Not like I had much choice in the matter, but . . . i guess I was lucky with the strain that infected me.” Spring shrugged. “Anyway, you want a room? I can set you up for a few days, but it’lll be better to find a more permanent place before November.”

"Um,” the girl hesitated, suddenly bashful it seemed as she ducked her head and looked sideways at Spring. “I actually uh . . . I was wondering if you were hiring?”

Spring stared. “. . . Hiring?”

“. . . Yeah.”

Spring stared, turned to look at the pool, and turned back to stare at the girl again. Slowly, the corners of her lips curled up. “What’s your name?”

The girl grinned. “My name is Ashley.”

I hope you felt icky reading this story, ha ha~ Keep an eye out for a new story in the Sinister Garden coming out next week. Share and like this story if it kept the goosebumps on your skin. May your dreams be strange and unsettling tonight.