“Oh wow, it’s Raining cats and dogs outside.”
“A-yah.”
“I’m soaked to the bone.”
“A-yah.”
“So, uh. Hi, do you guys have any rooms left?”
“A-yah. We have one. Room 212, but you don’t want that room.”
“Why don’t I want it?”
“Cause it’s haunted.”
He couldn’t tell if the old man was joking or not. He stood there looking at him. His face was old and leathery, and his eyes never left the folded newspaper he was reading.
“Does it have a working shower with hot water?”
“A-yah,” the old man said from behind the counter, his eyes never moving.
“Comfortable bed, maybe working heat?”
“A-yah. Got all that N more.”
“Even more?”
“A-yah. Got a coffee maker couple pouches of coffee or tea if ya prefer. Even one them flat screen tv’s.” the word TV’s came out like teevees.
“That all sounds great. How much?”
“$85, but you don’t want it.”
“Cause it’s haunted, gotcha. The thing is, I do want it. To be honest, I kind of need it.” The younger man said as he pulled a credit card from his wallet.
“OK, but it’s your funeral.” The old man said, finally putting down his paper, reaching under the desk, and pulling out a form. “fill this out while I run your card.”
The younger man filled out the form and handed it back as the old man returned his card.
“Tom Jones, like the singer?” the old man said as he reached for the lone key on the board of empty hooks behind the counter.
“Who?”
“Never mind. Here ya go, room 212. Have a pleasant night Mr. Jones.” A smiled creeped across his face, and Tom Jones shivered. The shiver could have been caused by the fact that he was wet and freezing cold, but he knew it was the smile.
“Yeah, you too.” Tom Jones grabbed the key to room 212 and headed down the hall. Tom found the room and stood there staring at the numbers on the door. 212. He stared at it, realizing that either way you read it, it was always 212. The hand holding the key began to sweat a little. “Jesus Christ, get a grip on yourself. It’s not haunted. There are no such things as ghosts.” It was late, and he was exhausted and soaking wet. He lifted the key and noticed he was shaking a little. He closed his eyes and began to breathe steadily. As he did, the shaking stopped. He put the key into hole below the knob, turned it, and opened the door.
As the door swung open, he stood in the doorway and peered into the dark room. A red light glowed from behind the wall in the room. He could feel his heart jump into his throat. What had the old man said, that he didn’t want the room because it’s haunted.
Maybe the old man was right, ghosts are real, and this room is haunted. And maybe he didn’t want this room after all. "Quit being an idiot. Ghosts don’t exist, and even if they did, why would they want to haunt one room in a shifty, old, cheap motel?"
He jumped as the door opened. He spun around to see a young man staring at him.
“You staying in there?”
“Yeah, I am.”
“Good luck to ya.” He said, shaking his head as he headed down the hall towards the lobby.
“Thanks?” He reached in, found the light switch just to the right of the door, and flipped the switch to the on position. To room exploded into life in the warm yellow light. The Red glow he saw when he opened the door was either gone or drowned out by the light. To Tom, the room looked like any other cheap motel room. The bottom of a queen-sized bed protruded from behind the same wall, where the red light seemed to originate. He stepped inside slowly. To his left, he saw a small hallway leading to the bathroom. On one side of the hallway was a sink and the coffee maker the old man had told him about. On the other side was a bar with hangers. Above the bar was a shelf made of metal chrome tubing. He stepped in a little further, making sure the door stayed open. As he came to the wall, he peered around, hoping the red light was gone, but a small part hoped whatever caused it was still there. As he looked, he saw the thing from where the red glow came from. A digital alarm clock with bright red numbers said it was 1: 15 a.m.
He smiled and laughed a little. “There is no such thing as ghosts,” Tom said to the empty room. He turned around and shut the door, still laughing at himself.
When Tom finally turned the shower off, his fingers looked like prunes, and he could barely see the bathroom due to all the steam. After he dried off, he looked in the mirror. The shower’s steam covered the mirror with condensation, making it useless. He wiped the condensation off with his towel and let out a small scream at the pale, smiling face behind him. He spun so quickly that he almost lost his balance and fell.
There was nothing there. He looked into the mirror again and saw nothing. The face or whatever he saw was gone. Looking back at the shower, he reached and pulled the curtain open. He knew no one could have been there, but somehow thought there had to be. He searched the tub, and there was nothing, no one. There was no closet in the room for someone to hide in, and the bathroom door was shut and hadn’t opened. I’m just tired, Tom thought to himself. My tired mind is seeing things that aren’t there. He turned back to the mirror and froze. Earlier, he had felt his heart jump into his throat, but now he wasn’t sure his heart was beating anymore. Just below the swipe, he had made with the towel earlier were the words:
You’re gonna die
Tom opened the bathroom door and ran into the room. He stared at the bathroom in disbelief. “Someone is fucking with me. Has to be.” He began to shiver again and to sweat at the same time. “Someone wrote that on there before I checked in. As a joke, a prank. They wrote it and formed those words when the steam from the shower collected on the mirror.” He said, rationalizing it to himself.
Then why didn’t you see it when you got out of the shower? He thought to himself.
“Because I either missed it or it hadn’t formed yet. That’s it, that’s gotta be it.”
What about the face? He thought.
“Just my tired mind playing tricks on me, that’s all. I just need to get some sleep.” He returned to the bathroom, grabbed his wet clothes, turned off the light, and shut the door. He hung his clothes in the hangar, hoping they would dry by morning. Walking by the dresser, he turned the TV on, shut off all the lights, and lay in bed. He had planned on turning the TV off but thought it would be nice to have the light from it as he slept. He looked at the clock beside the bed, and the red digital numbers read 2:12. He smiled and closed his eyes. He fell asleep to the sound of Fred Sanford faking a heart attack. I almost had one for real, Fred, old buddy; he thought as he fell asleep.
A loud bang caused him to jump to a sitting position. The room was dark again, except for the red glow from the alarm clock. What happened to the TV, he thought. He pulled the covers back and stood. The room was freezing now. Gooseflesh crawled along his entire body as he began to shiver again. Did the heater go out, was that the bang, he wondered. As he approached the end of the bed, he saw the TV had been knocked off the dresser. He picked it up and set the TV back on the dresser. Fred had given away to Alf, who was laughing and smacking the table. He looked at the clock to see the time. The Red numbers now read 3:33 a.m. Just then, the shower turned on.
Maybe it was in another room, he thought. But he knew it was coming from his bathroom. He slowly began to walk towards the small hallway. He stood there staring towards the bathroom. In the doorway, he could see an outline of a woman. “I don’t know who you are, but this is my room, and you need to leave before I call the front desk.” He said, his voice trembling with fear. Then he heard a high-pitched giggle. It wasn’t coming from the figure in the bathroom door but from the other side of the room. He wanted to look but couldn’t take his eyes off the woman. He blinked, and when his eyes opened, she had drawn nearer. He didn’t know how but in that brief moment, she had.
He reached for the light switch and found it. He flipped the switch, and the woman’s figure disappeared as the light turned on. “Jesus Christ, what is happening?” He said aloud to the empty room. “Ghosts aren’t real!” As he screamed, the bulb exploded in a flash, spewing glass everywhere, and encasing the room in darkness once again. He shielded his eyes, when he opened them; the woman was back. He began to back up towards the bed, away from the door. The woman followed him. He screamed as the broken bulb dug into the bottom of his feet.
He fell, and his bare ass landed on more broken glass. He didn’t notice his flesh opening because he watched her get closer without moving. Closer and closer shelved as he crawled away from her. “Ghosts aren’t real.” He muttered over and over again. Then she disappeared again as he reached the farthest corner of the room between the bed and the window that didn’t open. He watched as words began to appear on the mirror above the dresser. Written in blood, his blood:
Ghosts aren’t real
You’re gonna die
He screamed and screamed.
Sitting at the lobby desk, the old man looked up from his paper when he heard the screaming. He picked up his phone and dialed.
“Hey, Bill.”
“Room 212 again, Fred? Jesus, why do you keep renting that room out?”
“I warn them. Besides, 85 bucks is still 85 bucks.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there. I’m on my way.”
“See ya soon, sheriff.”
When Sheriff Bill Holler opened the door to room 212, he wasn’t shocked at all. Over the years, he had seen this scene a few times, and it always bothered him. He figures it always will.
Blood was strewn all over the wall and furniture. The young man who had rented the room was lying on the floor in a pool of blood. Fred had told Bill his name was Tom Jones; he was in his mid-thirties with dark brown hair. The man lying here looked like he could have been his father. His hair had turned solid white, and the blood loss made him look like he was in his early to mid-sixties.
He had scratches all over his body, his throat had been scratched out, and his manhood ripped off. Bill knew they would find the missing part in the shower.
After the police and coroner had investigated the scene, they taped up the doorway and closed it. Sheriff Bill Holler then locked the door to room 212.
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