The Motel at the End of Route 13

Every guest vanishes—but their names appear years before they’re born.

They say the sign only lights up for those who are meant to vanish. On nights when the desert wind howls across Route 13, the flickering neon glows blood-red against the sand—“Vacancy.” But the strangest thing? The register already knows your name.

Rain was rare in the Nevada desert, but that night it came down in sheets, hammering the cracked asphalt of Route 13. Sam Keller squinted through his windshield, gripping the wheel tighter as lightning flashed over the horizon. His GPS had died twenty miles back, and the fuel gauge hovered just above empty.

He hadn’t seen another car for hours. Only endless sand, power lines, and the dark.

When the sign appeared through the downpour—a flickering red glow that read “Desert View Motel”—he almost didn’t believe it. A lone building stood by the roadside, squatting in the dark like something half-asleep.

Sam pulled in, engine sputtering.

The parking lot was empty except for a single black sedan covered in dust. The neon buzzed overhead, every flicker echoing like a heartbeat.

He stepped inside, the door creaking as if it hadn’t opened in years.

The lobby smelled faintly of cigarettes and rain-soaked carpet. A bell sat on the counter, and behind it—a guestbook. No computer, no staff. Just a single lamp casting a sickly yellow light.

“Hello?” Sam called out.

A door behind the counter opened, and an old man shuffled out. His skin looked almost gray, his eyes milky but sharp.

“Evenin’,” the man rasped. “Rough night out, huh?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, forcing a laugh. “Car’s nearly out of gas. Just need a room till morning.”

The man smiled without warmth. “Got plenty of those.” He slid the guestbook forward. “Sign in.”

Sam reached for the pen, hesitating as he looked down. The book was thick, the pages yellowed. Hundreds of names filled the columns.

He flipped to the most recent page.

There it was—Samuel Keller.

Room 7.

Dated August 12, 1968.

He blinked, heart skipping. “Uh… someone already signed my name.”

The old man tilted his head, as if that didn’t surprise him. “Happens sometimes. Names have a way of findin’ their place, don’t they?”

Sam frowned. “Is this a joke?”

“No joke, son. Just fate.” The man handed him a rusted key. “Room seven. Top of the stairs. You’ll sleep fine.”

The hallway upstairs was lined with faded wallpaper, the kind that might’ve been floral decades ago. The carpet squished under his boots. Every door had a tarnished number plate; some hung crooked, as if clawed at.

Room 7 waited at the end.

Inside, the air was stale, trapped between the smell of mildew and dust. A single lamp buzzed beside the bed. There was no TV, just an old radio, the kind with a big dial.

Sam dropped his backpack on the chair and sat on the bed, letting out a tired sigh. The rain had stopped, but thunder still rumbled in the distance.

He turned the radio knob. A burst of static filled the air, then—soft music.

A woman’s voice hummed faintly, followed by a recording that crackled through the static:

“Welcome to the Desert View Motel. Guests are reminded to check out by sunrise.”

Then silence.

Sam rubbed his eyes. “Weird.”

He stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes.

He didn’t remember falling asleep.

But when he woke, the room was freezing. The lamp flickered dimly, and the radio was still on—playing faint whispers beneath the static.

“...help me...”

He sat up, heart pounding.

The voice was faint, distant, but it came again.

“He’s coming…”

Sam stood and approached the radio. “Who’s there?”

No answer. Only the sound of something scratching inside the wall.

He froze. The sound grew louder—scraping, dragging. Like fingernails.

Then the light went out.

“Damn it!” He fumbled for his phone flashlight.

When he turned it on, something caught his eye—words scrawled across the wallpaper near the headboard. They hadn’t been there before.

“DON’T CHECK OUT.”

His stomach twisted. He backed toward the door.

But as he grabbed the handle, the air shifted. The smell of rot filled the room. A shadow passed under the doorframe—slow, deliberate.

Then a whisper, just beyond the door.

“Room seven… always room seven…”

Sam stumbled backward. His flashlight flickered.

When the light steadied, the door was gone.

Not locked—gone. Just wallpaper where it used to be.

His breath came in gasps. He turned toward the window—also gone. Every wall was seamless, like the room had folded in on itself.

Then the radio came alive again.

“Good evening, guests. It’s 2:13 AM. Tonight’s new arrival: Samuel Keller, Room Seven.”

He dropped the phone. The voice on the radio wasn’t a recording this time—it was the old man’s voice.

“Please remember—names go first. Bodies follow later.”

The walls began to breathe. He could hear them—groaning, stretching, pulsing faintly like muscle beneath wallpaper. A dark stain spread from one corner, thick and wet.

Sam clawed at the wall, tearing the paper away. Beneath it—faces. Dozens of them. Eyes wide, mouths open in silent screams, their features warped into the plaster.

He stumbled back, gagging.

“Let me out!” he shouted, pounding on the wall. “Let me out!”

But the faces only moved, whispering his name in broken unison.

“Sam… Keller…”

The door reappeared suddenly, slamming open. He bolted through it, sprinting down the hall.

The corridor had changed—longer, darker. Doors lined both sides, each one slightly ajar. From within them came faint sounds—crying, scratching, murmurs.

He ran, turning corner after corner, until he crashed into the front lobby.

The old man stood behind the counter, smiling as if nothing had happened.

“Checkin’ out already?” he asked.

“What the hell is this place?” Sam gasped. “What’s happening here?”

The old man shrugged. “You checked in, didn’t ya? The book don’t lie. Been waitin’ for you.”

Sam slammed the guestbook open. His name glowed faintly on the page, ink fresh and wet.

“Why—why does it say 1968?” he demanded.

The old man leaned closer. “Because that’s when you arrived the first time.”

Sam’s vision swam. “What are you talking about?”

“You all come back, son. Every few decades. Different faces, same name, same soul. The motel keeps what it’s owed.”

Sam staggered back. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe.” The man smiled wider. “But you’ll understand soon enough.”

Lightning flashed outside. For an instant, Sam saw his reflection in the lobby window—only it wasn’t him. The face staring back was older, hollow-eyed, wearing the same clothes but decades worn.

He blinked—and it was gone.

The old man held up the guestbook. “Once you sign, it’s forever.”

Sam lunged forward, grabbing the book and tearing at the pages. But as he ripped one free, the room shook violently. The lights burst, plunging everything into darkness.

Something cold touched his shoulder.

“You shouldn’t have done that…”

He turned—and saw himself.

An older version, skin pale as dust, eyes black. It smiled slowly. “I checked in long before you did.”

Sam screamed as the thing reached out.

When morning came, the rain had stopped. The sun rose over the desert, turning the sand gold. A red neon sign buzzed softly: “Vacancy.”

Inside, the old man sat at the counter, humming to himself. He flipped open the guestbook.

Fresh ink shimmered on the page:

Samuel Keller – Room 7 – November 4, 2025.

He smiled, closing the book.

“Names first,” he whispered. “Bodies later.”

Outside, a new car pulled into the lot—a young woman stepping out, tired from a long drive. She looked up at the flickering sign, relief in her eyes.

“Finally,” she sighed. “A motel.”

The old man straightened behind the counter, the bell ready beneath his fingers.

Ding.

“Evenin’, miss. Welcome to the Desert View Motel. Got plenty of rooms tonight.”