Story B:
Nothing. No sound except for the empty road and the hum of tires against cracked asphalt. It was just him, the road, and that damned hotel.
The neon sign flickered against the black desert sky, buzzing like a dying firefly against glass. Darkness engulfed the rest of the night, leaving only the looming hotel in view. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. 2:17 AM. He could afford to drive a little farther and look for something more reputable.
He hit the gas, turning the radio dial to the first available station. "The skies are clear, and boy is it nice outside. Any of you hooligans out and about at this hour can at least enjoy the sixty-five-degree weather out there," the DJ droned.
He scoffed. "Ah, yes, perfect weather for driving straight into a Twilight Zone episode." Static choked out the next station, then the next. Nothing reached else reached him, no matter how much fiddling with the dial he did.
The neon sign flickered in front of him. His stomach tightened. He'd passed that sign an hour ago. Another glance at the dashboard. 2:17 AM, still. He hit his palm against the dash. "Fucking clock must be broken. Fantastic." He gritted his teeth and pressed harder on the gas.
Neon sign. 2:17 AM. A knot formed in his gut.
His eyelids drooped. His fingers slackened on the wheel. When had he last seen a gas station? A turnoff? He couldn't remember.
The headlights sputtered. The radio crackled; a voice broke through. "...boy is it nice outside..." The same inflection. The same words. Again. He reached for the dial, but only static greeted him. He went back to the weather station, deciding any human voice was better than none. "...perfect weather for driving straight into a Twilight Zone episode." His blood ran cold. Those were his words. Then, silence. No static.
In the rearview mirror, his reflection stared back with hollow eyes. The shadows of his face didn’t match the dashboard lights. When he turned his head, it hesitated before following. He pulled into the gravel lot and killed the engine. He had to stop. Just one night.
The air inside smelled of warm vanilla and cinnamon; underneath it lay a cloying scent, like perfume rotting on old skin. The woman at the desk smiled. Her teeth sat too clustered together in her mouth. He winced, thinking her dentist probably deserved jail time. "Welcome," she said, sounding sonorous. "I think you'll find your room satisfactory."
His brows furrowed. "I didn't ask for a room yet."
Her smile didn't falter. “They always want a room.” She turned and took a key off the rack— he noticed that every key displayed the same number: three.
His fingers recoiled before he registered why. The room key felt warm, almost feverish to the touch.
He didn’t comment further on the strangeness. He just wanted a place to rest. The keys gleamed with their polished brass numbers. Heat crept up his spine. He blinked rapidly, his vision swimming for just a second. His footsteps made no sound, as if the hallway refused to acknowledge his presence at all. The lights shone down with an unnatural glow. A whisper just behind him.
He spun, heart slamming against his ribs. But when he glanced back, there was nothing. The lobby seemed impossibly far away, as if the hallway had stretched while he wasn’t looking. "Well, that’s not unsettling at all," he muttered under his breath, turning back to the door in front of him.
His hand hovered over the doorknob. Every instinct screamed to turn back. Naturally, he turned the key and walked straight in. "What's wrong with you?" he spoke, addressing only himself. "Doesn't a lobby that smells like expired potpourri and a receptionist who may or may not consume human souls for fun scream 'five-star hotel?" He had a history of making terrible choices, but this one felt like it might take the crown.
He collapsed into the armchair, feeling the cushions mold to his shape like they had been waiting. The fire flickered, dancing shadows along the walls, but the warmth never reached him. The walls pulsed with a familiar heartbeat. He took a shaky breath, pulling a blanket over him for heat. Goosebumps spreaded down his spine.
Paintings depicting golden light and distant mountains hung on the wall. When he stared too long, they warped, shifting as if something beneath them wanted out. Dizziness forced him to shut his eyes. He told himself it was just a trick of the light. "Besides, there's nothing like a little shifting eldritch horror décor to make a place feel homey."
The grandfather clock in the corner of the room caused him the most unease. It ticked unevenly, missing the beat with every movement. The numbers were all wrong, warped and distorted beyond recognition.
Laughter rose from somewhere far away, threading under the door like smoke from something still burning. He started to get up to see what had caused the emotion, then he heard a soft creak from the closet. Fear restrained him to his chair.
His eyes closed as he tried to ground himself back in reality. "It’s just exhaustion. No big deal," he whispered. "The only weird thing here is you talking to yourself."
His hand shook as he reached for the remote. His fingers trembled, barely managing to press the button, but the screen flickered to life. He breathed an audible sigh of relief and flipped through a few channels— an old sitcom, a cooking show... then stopped on a news report. They were covering a car crash near his hometown, almost two thousand miles away. Such a small story to be broadcasting over such a distance.
A knock on the door caused him to jump. He walked over, trepidation marking his every step. He twisted the handle and nudged the door open, fearing whatever lurked in the hallway.
A woman stood before him, grinning wide. She held a stack of towels. "I think we may have forgotten to restock a few of the toiletries in your room," she explained. "Here you are. Apologies for the inconvenience."
He nodded, taking the towels from her as he replied. "Not a problem."
After closing the door, he went into the bathroom and set the towels on the marble counter. A glimmer of something in the mirror caught his eye, but it was gone when he looked again. He shook his head. "I need sleep," he muttered to himself, studying his reflection in the mirror.
He rubbed a hand over his jaw, grimacing at the rough stubble. He needed a shave. Or maybe he didn’t— no one was going to see him anytime soon. His fingers twitched. He hadn’t meant to clench them, but something in the mirror sent a static jolt up his arm. His reflection smiled. He hadn't. He blinked, and all was back to normal.
He glared at the bathroom's lighting. He could handle the eerie silence. He could handle the warped paintings. He could even handle his own eyes playing tricks on him. But a fluorescent light in the bathroom? That was going to drive him insane before anything else had the chance. Inexcusable, really.
He stumbled back into the main room, his mind racing. His legs felt like jelly, but he forced them to move, his footsteps heavy on the thick carpet. Finally, he made it to the queen-sized bed, where he collapsed, utterly exhausted.
The air conditioner rattled, and the mattress felt unnaturally cold against his side. He turned, pressing his face into the pillows only to be assaulted by a damp, earthy odor, vaguely reminding him of the time hemp had been passed around at a party he'd attended. "They must not have changed the pillows since the last guy," he grumbled as he flipped back over onto his back.
He fumbled with his phone, pulling it out in a desperate hope for something, anything that could ground him. No bars. No WiFi. Fine. But the time— 2:17 AM. He locked the screen and flipped it over in his palm, like a gambler waiting for the right card.
His hand slipped, and his phone clattered onto the floor beside him. He sighed and reached down, his body hanging off the side of the bed— but felt nothing. His hand swept across the thick carpet. His phone was gone. He considered getting fully out of bed and searching, but saw no point if the idiotic device wouldn't work anyway.
Eventually, his eyes drifted back shut. The laughter echoed in his mind until it was the only sound; it felt like it was inside his own head, but that was impossible. The lights flickered. Once. Twice.
He stood in the hallway without recalling getting up. He turned; his door was shut. A quick check revealed that the key had returned to his pocket, at least. He took it out, then... strange. He could've sworn it hadn't been key number five this whole time.
The laughter grew louder, skittering across the walls like spiders. He followed it to an elaborate ballroom. Inside, people swayed in slow, lazy circles. Their faces, beautiful but wrong, stretched into too-wide smiles.
A woman with hair like spun gold took his hand. Her dry touch startled him. "Dance with me."
He tried to step back. “Yeah, see, I usually require at least three drinks before I start making a fool of myself in public."
Her head tilted. “Dance with me.”
The music shifted, soft and hypnotic. Familiar. Old. A memory just out of reach. He was moving before he realized it. The room spun. The faces blurred. The woman leaned in close, breath like wine, voice like a whisper against his skin. "You're home now."
He tore his hand from the woman’s grasp and stumbled back. The floor didn’t feel solid beneath him anymore—like walking on the surface of a deep, still lake. He turned, searching for the exit. The heat closed in, pressing against his ribs like a second skin. He turned to the door. Gone. The walls had shifted. Or had they ever been walls at all?
The laughter scraped against his skin, jagged as broken glass. He squeezed his eyes shut. Counted to five. When he opened them, the golden light swelled, throbbing with his heartbeat. The melody wove through his bones, winding tighter with every note.
A man in a suit stood before him, an unearthly smile plastered on his face. "Don't worry, you'll get used to it," he assured.
He ran, but the carpet dragged at his feet, thick as wet sand. The door handle writhed away from his grip, snaking away with a disturbing sentience. The hallway swallowed the exit, stretching into something endless, corridors that twisted and folded in on themselves. His breath came short and ragged as he staggered back into his room. He wrenched open the curtains. His car sat undisturbed in the lot below. He dug into his pocket for the keys, his fingers clumsy and desperate.
Gone.
He shoved his hands into the other pocket. Then his jacket. His backpack. His body moved frantically, searching, but he already knew. The hotel had taken them.
The laughter crept closer.
Behind him, the woman sighed. Her voice sounded like velvet, but the words felt like chains. "You can check out anytime you like," she murmured, grabbing onto his shoulder with icy hands, "but you can never leave."
He stepped back, trying to pry himself out of her grasp. The woman’s fingernails dug into his skin.
He didn't turn around. The music drifted back to his ears. His throat closed. The vanilla scent was thick, suffocating. He coughed, but the sweetness clung to his tongue. The laughter roared, devouring him whole, its pitch rising to unbearable heights. It wasn't just outside him anymore. It bubbled up his throat, curling at the edges of his mouth. His own.
Another voice in the chorus, singing the same song, forever.
