"The Crawlspace":
I’d been driving for hours, my eyes burning from staring at the endless highway. My hands ached from gripping the wheel, and my back was stiff from sitting too long. A flickering neon sign up ahead read “Rest Easy Inn.” The motel looked like it hadn’t been touched in decades—paint peeling off the walls, windows smudged with grime, and only a couple of cars in the cracked parking lot. I didn’t want to stop, but I was too tired to keep going. I pulled in, my tires crunching on loose gravel, and parked near the office. The engine ticked as it cooled, and I sat for a moment, trying to shake the heaviness in my limbs.
The office door was heavy, its glass cloudy with age. A bell above jingled weakly as I stepped inside. The air smelled of stale cigarettes and old coffee. A man stood behind the counter, middle-aged, with greasy hair slicked back and a faded flannel shirt stained with what looked like ketchup—or something worse. His eyes flicked up from a yellowed ledger, sizing me up like I was a package he was deciding whether to accept.
“Need a room?” His voice was low, raspy, like he smoked too much. He didn’t smile, just stared, his fingers tapping the counter.
“Yes, please,” I said, my throat dry. I forced a polite nod, though my skin crawled under his gaze. “Just for the night.”
He grunted, flipping a page in the ledger. “Room 12. Fifty bucks. Cash only.” He slid a key across the counter, its metal cold and scratched. His hand lingered on it, his nails chipped and dirty, before he let go.
I fished out the money, my fingers brushing the counter’s sticky surface. “Is there Wi-Fi or a phone in the room?” I asked, hoping for some connection to the outside world.
He shook his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “No Wi-Fi. No phone. You got a problem, come to the office.” His tone was flat, like he was reciting lines he’d said a hundred times.
I nodded, clutching the key. “Thanks,” I mumbled, turning to leave. The bell jingled again as I stepped out, the sound sharp in the quiet. Room 12 was at the far end of the motel, past a row of faded doors. The building felt too still, like it was holding its breath. My shoes scuffed on the uneven sidewalk as I walked, the key biting into my palm.
The door to Room 12 groaned when I unlocked it, the hinges rusted. Inside, the air was thick with a musty smell, like wet carpet left to rot. The room was small—a sagging bed with a thin, faded comforter, a chipped nightstand with a flickering lamp, and a carpet with dark stains that made my stomach turn. A small bathroom sat in the corner, its door half-open, revealing a cracked sink and a shower with a yellowed curtain. On the floor near the bed, I spotted a crumpled rag, stained with something dark, maybe oil or blood. I didn’t want to know. I nudged it under the bed with my foot, my heart beating a little faster.
I dropped my bag on the floor and locked the door, sliding the bolt in place. It clicked, but the frame looked weak, like a good shove could break it. I tested the handle, twisting it hard. It held, but I didn’t feel safe. My phone showed no bars, just a blank screen. No signal. I sighed, rubbing my eyes, telling myself it was just one night. I’d be fine.
Then I heard it—a soft thump from above. Like a footstep, slow and heavy. I froze, my breath catching. The ceiling was low, covered in cracked plaster. Another thump, this time closer, moving toward the corner of the room. My pulse quickened. It’s an old building, I thought. Probably just pipes or something settling. But the sound came again, deliberate, like someone pacing. I stood, staring up, my neck prickling.
I scanned the room, my eyes landing on a vent high on the wall, near the ceiling. It was small, rectangular, its slats caked with dust. Something glinted inside, a tiny flash of light. My stomach twisted. I dragged the dresser over, its legs scraping the carpet, leaving faint trails in the dirt. The wood was heavy, and my arms shook as I positioned it under the vent. I climbed up, balancing on the edge, my fingers gripping the wall. Peering into the vent, I saw it—a small glass lens, barely visible, with a faint red light blinking. A camera.
My heart stopped. Someone was watching me. My hands trembled as I climbed down, nearly slipping. I grabbed my bag, my mind screaming to get out. I yanked the door handle, but it wouldn’t move. The bolt was still open, but the door was stuck, like something held it from the outside. I twisted harder, panic rising in my chest. “Hey!” I shouted, banging on the door. “Is anyone there? Open the door!” My voice echoed in the small room, but no one answered.
The footsteps above started again, faster now, moving toward the back of the room. I spun around, my eyes darting to the vent. The red light blinked steadily, like an unblinking eye. My breath came in short gasps. I checked the window—small, bolted shut, the glass too thick to break without a tool. My phone was useless, no signal, no way to call for help. The footsteps stopped, and the silence was worse, heavy and suffocating.
I had to get out. The vent was my only chance. I climbed back onto the dresser, my legs wobbly, and pried at the vent cover with my nails. It was loose, held by rusted screws. I yanked it off, and it fell to the floor with a loud clang. I winced, listening for any response. Nothing. The opening was tight, but I could fit. I pulled myself up, my shoulders scraping the edges, and crawled into a dusty, narrow space. Cobwebs clung to my face, sticking to my lips. I gagged, wiping them away, my hands shaking. The air was thick, smelling of mold and decay. Splinters pricked my palms as I crawled forward, my elbows banging against the wood.
The crawl space stretched on, dark except for a faint glow ahead. I moved toward it, my heart pounding so loud I was sure it would give me away. The glow came from a crack in the floor, light spilling up. I inched closer, lying flat, and peered down. My blood ran cold. Below was a small room, lit by the flickering glow of screens. The clerk sat in a chair, his back to me, staring at a wall of monitors. Each showed a different motel room—empty beds, scattered bags, people sleeping. One screen showed Room 12, my bag still on the floor, the rag peeking out from under the bed. He was watching, his head tilted slightly, like he was studying every detail.
I bit my lip to keep from gasping, my hands trembling against the wood. I had to keep moving. The crawl space led to a corner where a rickety ladder descended into darkness. I crawled toward it, every creak of the floorboards making my heart leap. My sleeve caught on a nail, ripping loudly. I froze, holding my breath, waiting for the clerk to turn. He didn’t move, his eyes fixed on the screens.
I reached the ladder and climbed down, my hands slipping on the dusty rungs. It led to a back room in the office, cluttered with cardboard boxes, a tipped-over chair, and stacks of old papers. The air was stale, heavy with the smell of mildew. A door to the outside stood slightly ajar, a thin sliver of light cutting through the darkness. I crept toward it, my shoes silent on the concrete floor. My hand grazed a box, and it shifted, revealing a pile of tiny cameras, wires tangled like snakes. My stomach lurched.
I reached the door, easing it open, wincing at the faint creak. I slipped outside, the air cool against my sweaty skin. My car was still there, untouched. I glanced back, and my heart stopped. The clerk stood at the office window, staring at me. His face was blank, but a slow, crooked smile spread across his lips, his eyes locked on mine. I ran, my keys slipping in my shaking hands. I fumbled them into the ignition, the engine roaring to life. Tires screeched as I sped out of the lot, the motel shrinking in my rearview mirror.
I didn’t stop until I reached a gas station miles away, my hands still trembling as I gripped the wheel. My phone finally showed a signal, and I called the police, my voice breaking as I told them everything—the camera, the locked door, the screens, the clerk’s smile. They listened, asked questions, and promised to check it out.
The next day, they called back. They’d gone to the motel, but it was empty. The clerk was gone, the screens dark, the crawl space abandoned. They found the cameras, wires cut, and a few grainy photos in the office, faces blurred. No trace of the man. I still see that smile in my head, every time I close my eyes. I don’t drive alone anymore, and I’ll never stop at a motel again.
"Becca’s Last Entry":
I pulled into the Super 8 Motel off Interstate 40 in Albuquerque, my eyes burning from hours on the road. The neon sign flickered, casting jagged shadows across the cracked asphalt of the parking lot. The building was old, its beige paint peeling in long strips, and the hum of overworked air conditioners filled the air. My car’s engine ticked as it cooled, and I grabbed my duffel bag, slinging it over my shoulder. The front desk was through a glass door smudged with fingerprints, and the lobby smelled of stale coffee, cheap air freshener, and something sour I couldn’t place. The carpet, a faded red, clung to my sneakers with every step, sticky like it hadn’t been cleaned in years.
The clerk, a wiry man with dark circles under his eyes, sat behind the counter, his head propped on one hand. His nametag read “Jerry,” but he didn’t introduce himself. He barely glanced up from his phone as he slid a key across the scratched counter. “Room 12,” he muttered, his voice flat, like he’d said it a thousand times. “Second floor, end of the hall.”
I nodded, too tired to make small talk, and headed up the creaky stairs. The hallway was narrow, lit by a single flickering bulb that buzzed like a trapped insect. Room 12 was the last door on the left, next to another marked 12A. I noticed 12A’s door was ajar, just a sliver, enough to see a strip of darkness inside. My stomach twisted, a faint warning I brushed off as exhaustion. I turned the key in my lock and stepped into Room 12.
The room was small, suffocating, with a heavy musty smell that clung to everything. The bed sagged in the middle, its faded green bedspread dotted with cigarette burns. Thin curtains hung limply over a window that faced the parking lot, letting in slivers of light from the neon sign outside. A dark, uneven stain on the carpet near the bed caught my eye—too large to be coffee, too irregular to be anything innocent. I tried to ignore it, dropping my bag on a wobbly chair. Then I noticed the door on the far wall, connecting to 12A. Its handle was loose, and when I tested it, it swung open with a soft creak.
Room 12A was a mirror of mine but felt wrong, like stepping into a memory someone wanted forgotten. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of stale cigarettes and something metallic, like old blood. A suitcase sat in the corner, unzipped, with women’s clothes spilling out—a floral blouse, white denim jeans, a pair of scuffed sneakers. My heart started pounding. Why was this here? Who left it? I stepped closer, my shoes sinking into the carpet, and saw a small notebook tucked under the clothes. Its cover was worn leather, the edges frayed, with “1991” scratched in faint ink.
I hesitated, my fingers hovering over it. Something told me to leave it alone, but curiosity won. I opened it, and the pages crinkled, brittle with age. The handwriting was shaky, almost frantic. “June 1, 1991. I can’t stay here long. George knows I’m in Albuquerque. He’s dangerous, more than I realized. He’s selling drugs, and I have proof—names, dates, places. I hid it in my bag. I don’t know who to trust.” The signature at the bottom read “Becca.” My breath caught. I’d heard about a woman found dead in this motel in 1991, her case unsolved, her name unknown for years. Was this her?
I flipped to the next entry. “June 3. He’s closer. I saw his truck outside last night, black with a dented fender. I hear footsteps outside my door when it’s dark. I’m scared he’ll find me before I can get to the police.” The final entry, dated June 4, was shorter: “I’m going to the station tomorrow. If anything happens to me, it’s George. He won’t let me ruin him.” That was it. The rest of the pages were blank.
My hands shook as I closed the notebook. The room felt colder, the air pressing against my skin. I grabbed my phone to call the police, but the screen showed no signal. I tried the room’s phone, a clunky beige thing on the nightstand, but the line was dead, just a faint crackle. My pulse raced. I crossed to the window and peeked through the curtains. In the parking lot below, a man stood under the neon sign, staring up at my room. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a shaved head and a tattoo on his forearm. I couldn’t read it, but my gut screamed it was him—George.
I locked the connecting door, my fingers fumbling with the bolt, and dragged the dresser across the floor to block it. The wood scraped, loud in the silence. I sat on the bed, clutching the notebook, my ears straining for any sound. A faint creak came from the hallway, then another, like slow footsteps. I held my breath, waiting, but they stopped. The silence was worse, heavy with possibility. I couldn’t stay here.
I grabbed my bag and the notebook, determined to find the clerk. The hallway was empty, the bulb still buzzing. Downstairs, Jerry was at the counter, flipping through a magazine, his hands unsteady. “Hey,” I said, my voice sharper than I meant. “I found something in 12A. A diary from 1991. It talks about a woman who died here, someone named Becca. She was scared of a guy named George.”
His face went white, and the magazine slipped from his hands, hitting the counter with a soft thud. “That’s not possible,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Room 12A’s been sealed since… since it happened. Nobody’s been in there. You’re mistaken.”
“I’m not,” I said, holding up the notebook. “It was with a suitcase, clothes, everything. It mentions a drug dealer. You know something, don’t you?”
He leaned closer, his eyes darting to the door. “Listen,” he whispered. “You need to leave this alone. That case… it’s dangerous. People around here don’t talk about it. Get out of this motel. Now.” His urgency sent a chill through me.
I backed away, my heart hammering. “I’m calling the police,” I said, more to myself than to him. I ran back to my room, barricaded the door with the chair, and tried my phone again. This time, I got a signal. I dialed 911, my voice shaking as I told the operator about the diary, the suitcase, the man outside. They told me to stay put, that an officer was on the way.
While I waited, I heard it—a soft thump from 12A, like something heavy hitting the floor. Then another, followed by a dragging sound, slow and deliberate. My mouth went dry. I stared at the connecting door, the dresser still pressed against it. The handle rattled, just once, sharp and intentional. I froze, my breath shallow, praying it wouldn’t move again. Minutes dragged on, each one stretching into forever, until I heard sirens outside.
The police arrived, led by a Detective Ramirez, a stocky man with a calm voice that didn’t match the tension in his eyes. I handed him the notebook, explaining everything—the open door, the clothes, Becca’s words. He flipped through the pages, his brow furrowing. “This is big,” he said. “We never recovered her personal effects. This could help us identify her.” He looked at me, his tone serious. “You’re lucky you called when you did. This motel’s got a dark history.”
They searched 12A, pulling out the suitcase, a few pieces of jewelry, and a crumpled bus ticket from Los Angeles to Albuquerque, dated May 1991. Ramirez told me the woman was Rebecca Smith, found dead in 12A on June 5, 1991. The official report said drug overdose, but suspicion had always pointed to foul play. A man named George Martinez, a known drug dealer, had rented the room. They’d never had enough to pin it on him—until now.
I couldn’t stay at the Super 8. I checked into a Holiday Inn across town, the clean lobby and bright lights a stark contrast to the nightmare I’d left. But that night, as I unpacked, my phone rang—a blocked number. I answered, and a low, gravelly voice said, “You should’ve left it alone. You think you’re safe now?” My blood turned to ice. I ran to the window and saw him—the man from the parking lot, standing under a streetlight, his tattoo clear in the glow: “George.” In his hand was a gun, its metal glinting.
I dropped the phone and yanked the curtains shut, my hands shaking so hard I could barely dial 911. I told them everything, my voice breaking. Within minutes, police cars flooded the lot, their lights flashing. I watched from the window as they tackled George, pinning him to the ground. He didn’t resist, but his eyes locked on my window, unblinking, until they shoved him into a cruiser.
Detective Ramirez called me later. They’d matched the diary’s details to new evidence—a hidden compartment in the suitcase with names and dates of drug deals, enough to tie George to Rebecca’s death. He’d been watching the motel, maybe waiting for someone else to find her things, to silence them too. The case was reopened, and they hoped it would bring closure to Rebecca’s family.
I left Albuquerque the next morning, the notebook’s words burned into my mind. Becca’s fear, her courage, her last moments—they haunted me. I kept checking my rearview mirror, half-expecting to see a black truck with a dented fender. I’d uncovered the truth, but at what cost? Every creak of a floorboard, every shadow in a parking lot, makes me wonder if I’ll ever feel safe again.
"Dead Man’s Check-In":
I’m a true crime writer, always drawn to stories that dig into the darkest corners of human nature. When I heard about Room 107 at the Desert Inn Motel, a rundown place on the edge of a small Arizona town, I knew I had to stay there. In 1983, a man was found hanging in that room, his identity a mystery. The police called it a suicide, but locals whispered about murder, about secrets buried with him. I booked a night, my pulse quickening with a mix of excitement and dread, eager to walk where a cold case lingered.
The motel was a relic, its neon sign flickering, half the letters burned out. The lobby smelled of stale coffee and old carpet. The clerk, a wiry man with gray stubble and tired eyes, slid the key across the counter. “Room 107, huh?” he said, his voice low. “You sure about this?” I nodded, trying to seem casual. “Just be careful,” he warned, leaning closer. “Some people say that room’s cursed. Guests hear things—scratching, whispers. One guy swore he saw a shadow move.” I forced a laugh, brushing it off as small-town gossip, but his stare didn’t waver. “I’m serious,” he said. “Something’s not right in there.”
Room 107 was at the end of a dim hallway, the carpet stained, the walls peeling. The door creaked as I pushed it open. Inside, the air felt heavy, thick with a musty smell that clung to my throat. The room was small: a sagging bed with a faded green bedspread, a chipped nightstand, a single lamp that buzzed when I flicked it on. The mirror above the dresser was smudged, and the bathroom tiles were cracked, stained with rust. I dropped my bag on the floor, the thud echoing too loudly. My skin prickled, like the room was watching me.
I couldn’t sleep that night. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the hum of the lamp and the occasional creak of the building settling. Around 1 a.m., I started searching the room, driven by a restless need to find something, anything, tied to the 1983 case. I checked under the bed, finding only dust and a stray sock. I ran my fingers along the walls, tapped the mirror for hidden compartments. Nothing. Then I moved to the nightstand. It was heavy, bolted to the floor. I crouched down, shining my phone’s flashlight behind it. There, taped to the back, was a small, yellowed envelope.
My heart raced as I peeled it free. The tape was brittle, crumbling under my fingers. Inside was a photograph, its edges worn, showing a man and a woman smiling in front of a car. The man had short hair and a sharp jaw; the woman looked younger, her eyes bright. Tucked with the photo was a note, written in shaky handwriting: “Meet me at the old warehouse on Main Street at midnight. Come alone.” The ink was faded, the paper creased, like it had been handled too many times. It felt like a relic from the 80s, maybe even from the year the man died. My hands shook. Was this connected to him?
The next morning, I walked to the diner across the street, a greasy spoon with checkered floors and chipped mugs. The waitress, an older woman with deep wrinkles and a name tag reading “Doris,” poured my coffee. I slid the photo across the counter. “Do you know anything about this?” I asked. Her eyes widened, and she set the coffee pot down hard. “Where’d you get that?” she whispered, glancing around like someone might hear. I told her about the envelope, about Room 107. She leaned in, her voice barely audible. “That man… he’s the one they found in 107. Police were here for days, asking questions. He had no ID, just some cash and a fake address. They said he killed himself, but folks around here didn’t buy it.” She paused, wiping her hands on her apron. “A woman came looking for him, maybe a year later. Said he was her brother. Cops didn’t believe her. She was frantic, crying, but she left town after that. Never saw her again.”
My stomach twisted. “What did she look like?” I asked. Doris squinted at the photo. “Like her, but older. Same eyes.” I thanked her, my mind racing. The note’s mention of the warehouse gnawed at me. It was a lead, but it felt dangerous. I spent the day researching the case on my laptop, finding old newspaper clippings online. The man was a John Doe, described as tall, with a European accent. A metal band and a yellow thread were found near his body, but the police dismissed them as meaningless. No suspects, no motive, no closure.
That night, I couldn’t resist. I drove to the old warehouse on Main Street, a crumbling brick building with broken windows and graffiti. My flashlight cut through the darkness as I stepped inside, the air thick with dust and the faint smell of oil. “Hello?” I called, my voice echoing off the walls. My heart pounded so loud I thought it would give me away. A shadow moved in the corner, and I nearly dropped the flashlight. A woman stepped forward, her hair gray, her face etched with lines. It was the woman from the photo, aged by decades. “You found the envelope,” she said, her voice trembling. “I left it there years ago, hoping someone would find it.”
“Who are you?” I asked, my throat dry. She clutched a worn purse, her eyes darting to the shadows. “My name’s Clara. That man, Karl, was my brother. He was smuggling diamonds for some dangerous people. I told him to stop, but he wouldn’t listen. I think his partners found him in that room and killed him. Made it look like a suicide.” Her voice broke. “I left the note, hoping someone would dig deeper.” She grabbed my arm, her grip cold. “They’re still out there. They watch that room. You’re not safe.”
I drove back to the motel, her words ringing in my ears. The clerk was gone, the lobby empty. In Room 107, I double-checked the lock, but sleep wouldn’t come. Around 3 a.m., my phone rang. No caller ID. I answered, and a low, raspy voice whispered, “Stop digging, or you’ll end up like him.” My blood ran cold. I hung up, but it rang again. Just heavy breathing this time, then a faint chuckle. I unplugged the phone, my hands shaking.
The next day, I returned from the diner to find my room trashed. My notebook was torn, pages scattered across the floor. My clothes were pulled from my bag, and the envelope was gone. My chest tightened, panic rising. Someone had been here, watching me. I went to the clerk, my voice shaking. “Someone broke into my room,” I said. He frowned, checking the log. “Nobody’s got a key but me and you,” he said, but his eyes avoided mine. “Maybe you left the door open.” I knew I hadn’t.
That evening, a package arrived at the front desk, wrapped in plain brown paper. My name was scrawled on it in black marker. Inside was the stolen envelope, the photo and note untouched, but a new slip of paper was tucked inside: “This is your only warning.” My knees buckled. I wanted to leave, to drive far away, but Karl’s story pulled me back. He deserved justice. I had to be smarter than whoever was watching.
I decided to set a trap. I wrote a new note, slipping it into the envelope: “I gave copies of the photo to the police. They know everything.” It was a lie, but I hoped it would scare them. I taped the envelope back behind the nightstand and hid in the closet, the door cracked just enough to see the room. My heart pounded so loud I was sure they’d hear it. I waited, clutching my phone, ready to call for help.
Around 2 a.m., the door clicked open. A man in a dark hoodie slipped inside, his flashlight beam sweeping the room. He moved to the nightstand, muttering to himself, “Stupid writer, poking around.” He found the envelope, tearing it open. I held my breath, my body trembling. Then I stepped out, my voice shaking. “Who are you?” He spun around, eyes wide with shock, and lunged at me, his hand grabbing for my throat. I screamed, stumbling back into the wall. The clerk and another guest burst in, drawn by the noise. The man shoved past them, sprinting into the night, but something fell from his pocket—a wallet. I grabbed it, hands shaking, and found an ID inside. The name matched a known figure in a 1980s diamond smuggling ring.
I called the police, my voice barely steady. They took the wallet and the envelope, and within days, they arrested three men tied to the old smuggling case. They confessed to killing Karl, staging it as a suicide to cover their tracks. The case was finally closed. I checked out the next morning, my bags packed in a frenzy. As I drove away, the Desert Inn Motel faded in my rearview mirror, its neon sign flickering like a dying pulse. I was safe, but the whispers from that phone call still haunted me: “You’ll end up like him.” I wondered if Karl had left that envelope himself, a final plea for someone to find the truth. I haven’t stayed in a motel since, and I don’t think I ever will.
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