"ROOM 12":
I drove up to the dusty parking lot of the old motel on the outskirts of Laredo, right near the river that marks the border. The sign flickered with half its lights out, reading "Rio View Motel" in faded red letters. I needed a room after a long day on the road, hauling supplies for my small shop back home. The place looked empty, with only a couple of trucks parked far apart.
The clerk behind the counter was an older man with a mustache, wiping his glasses when I walked in. "Evening," he said, not looking up right away. "You need a room?"
"Yes, just for one night," I replied, sliding my ID across the desk. "Quiet here, huh?"
He nodded slowly, stamping the key card. "Most folks don't stop in Laredo unless they have to. Border town's got its own rhythm. Forty bucks, cash only."
I paid and asked, "Any good places to grab a bite nearby? I'm starving."
"There's a diner down the block," he said, handing me the key to room 12. "But watch yourself out there. We've had some women go missing lately. Cops say it's nothing, but you hear things."
His words stuck with me as I headed to my room. The hallway smelled like old carpet and faint smoke. I unlocked the door and flipped on the light, revealing a bed with a thin blanket, a small TV, and a window facing the empty lot. I dropped my bag and decided to walk to that diner before it got too late.
At the diner, a few locals sat at the counter, nursing coffees. I ordered a burger and sat in a booth. A woman in her thirties, with tired eyes, slid into the seat across from me. "Mind if I join? Name's Rosa. You new around here?"
"Sure," I said, surprised. "I'm Anna. Just passing through."
She leaned in, lowering her voice. "You staying at the Rio View? Be careful. My friend Melissa hasn't been seen in over a week. She worked odd jobs, met people at places like that. Last I heard, she got in a truck with some guy in uniform."
"Uniform?" I asked, taking a bite.
"Yeah, like border patrol. They drive around a lot. Nice at first, but who knows? Claudine, another girl I know, she argued with someone like that and now she's gone too. Hospital said she got shot, but died before talking."
I felt uneasy, but tried to brush it off. "Probably just rumors. Towns like this have stories."
Rosa shook her head. "Not rumors. I saw the news. Two bodies found out on the rural roads, shot up close. And more might be out there. Stay in your room tonight, Anna."
We talked a bit more, about how the town felt forgotten, with the border traffic bringing in strangers all the time. She left after her coffee, saying, "Lock your door tight."
Back at the motel, the lot was darker, with only one streetlamp buzzing overhead. I noticed a white truck parked near my room, engine off. A man stepped out, tall, in a green uniform with patches. He looked my way and smiled politely. "Evening, ma'am. Everything alright?"
I nodded, key in hand. "Yes, just heading in."
"I'm David," he said, walking closer. "I work border patrol. Saw you walking back. This area's not the safest after dark. Want me to check your room? We get reports of break-ins sometimes."
His offer seemed kind, but something in his eyes made me pause. They were too steady, too focused. "No, thanks. I'm fine."
He shrugged. "Suit yourself. But if you hear anything, my truck's right here. I patrol these motels a lot."
Inside, I locked the door and chained it, peeking through the curtain. He stood by his truck for a minute, then drove off slowly. I tried to sleep, but every creak in the building kept me awake. The walls were thin; I could hear distant cars on the highway, and once, what sounded like a door slamming far away.
Around midnight, a knock came at my door. I sat up, listening. Another knock, softer. "Who is it?" I called.
"It's David, from earlier. I found something outside your window. You might want to see."
My mind raced. What could it be? I didn't open the door. "What is it?"
"Just open up. It's important."
I looked through the peephole. He was there, uniform neat, but holding something in his hand—a phone, maybe. "I can call the clerk," I said.
"No need," he replied, voice calm. "I talked to him already. There's been another incident nearby. A woman like you, alone. I can drive you to a safer spot if you want."
Rosa's words echoed in my head—women going missing, getting in trucks with guys like him. I backed away from the door. "I'm okay. Thanks anyway."
He knocked again, harder. "Open the door, Anna. I know you're scared, but I'm here to help."
How did he know my name? I hadn't told him. Maybe the clerk mentioned it. I grabbed my phone, dialing the front desk. No answer. The knocking stopped, and I heard footsteps fading.
I waited, sitting on the bed with the light off. Minutes passed, then an hour. Just when I thought he was gone, I heard scratching at the window. The curtain moved slightly. I held my breath, phone ready to call police.
Then, a whisper through the glass: "Anna, I saw you talking to Rosa. She talks too much. Like the others."
My blood ran cold. What others? Melissa? Claudine? I dialed 911 quietly, whispering my location and the situation. "There's a man outside my room, border patrol uniform. He knows things he shouldn't."
The operator said, "Stay put. Units are on the way."
Outside, the scratching stopped. I peeked—his truck was still there, but empty. Where was he? I heard a car door somewhere else in the lot.
Suddenly, the power flickered, and the room went dark. The motel was old; maybe a breaker. But it felt wrong. I crouched by the bed, listening.
Footsteps again, this time at the door. The handle jiggled. "I can get in if I want," his voice said, low and even. "But I'd rather you come out. We can talk in my truck. It's quiet out on the roads."
No way. I clutched a lamp as a weapon. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder. The jiggling stopped. Through the window, I saw him run to his truck, start it, and speed off.
Police arrived moments later, lights flashing. I opened the door to two officers, a man and a woman. "He was here," I told them, describing David, the uniform, the threats.
The woman officer nodded. "We've had reports. Missing women, bodies found shot on those empty highways. Sounds like the same guy. You did right not opening up."
They searched the lot, found nothing. But later that night, on the news in my room—power back on—they reported a chase. A border patrol agent named David, hiding in a hotel garage downtown, arrested after a woman escaped his truck earlier that day. He confessed to killing four women, all shot in desolate spots outside town. He hated certain types, picked them up, drove them out, and ended them.
I shook as I watched. If I had opened that door, or gotten in his truck, I might have been next. The motel clerk came by later, apologetic. "I shouldn't have told him your name. He asked, said he was checking on safety."
Rosa called me the next day—I'd given her my number at the diner. "You okay? I saw the news. That was him, wasn't it?"
"Yes," I said. "Thanks for the warning. It saved me."
She sighed. "This town... it looks empty, but danger hides in the uniforms sometimes. Drive safe, Anna."
I left Laredo at dawn, the border bridge in my rearview. But I'll always check twice before trusting a stranger in a quiet place like that.
"LOOSE END":
I checked into the dusty motel off the main road in Arivaca, a tiny spot in Arizona close to the line with Mexico. The sign out front said "Desert Rest Inn," but half the letters were missing. I was on a road trip from Phoenix, stopping for the night before heading further south. The clerk, a thin man with tired eyes, slid the key across the counter. "Room 12, end of the row," he said. "Keep your door locked. Folks come and go here."
The room was plain, with a lumpy bed and a fan that rattled. I dropped my bag and went out to stretch my legs. A few trucks sat in the lot, one with stickers about protecting the border. A woman stood by it, talking on her phone. She had short hair and wore a jacket too warm for the air. "Yeah, we'll hit it tonight," she said low. "Get the money, clean up the mess." She saw me and hung up quick, giving a fake smile. "Lost?" she asked.
"No, just walking," I replied. "You from around here?"
"Sort of. Name's Anna." She didn't offer more. Two men joined her, one big with a beard, the other skinny. They nodded at me but kept quiet. I went back inside, but their voices carried through the thin walls. "The house has drugs, cash from smuggling," the big one said. "We go in as patrol, take what we need." Anna shushed him. "Not so loud. That guy next door might hear."
I sat on the bed, wondering if I should mind my own business. Border areas had stories of smugglers and watchers. But this sounded planned, like a robbery. I peeked out the curtain. They loaded bags into the truck, things that clinked like metal. Guns? My mind raced. I called the front desk. "Hey, those people outside—seem off?" The clerk sighed. "They pay cash, stay quiet. Don't bother them."
Night came on. I tried to sleep, but footsteps paced outside. A door slammed. Their truck rumbled away. Quiet fell over the motel. Then, hours later, tires crunched gravel. Voices again, hurried. "It went bad," the skinny man whispered. "The kid saw us. Had to... you know." Anna snapped, "Shut up! Get inside." A thump, like something heavy dropped. I pressed against the wall, listening. "Blood on my shirt," the big one grumbled. "Wash it quick. And that witness? If anyone asks, we were here all night."
Witness? Did they mean me? I hadn't seen anything, but maybe they thought I had. My hands shook as I grabbed my phone. No bars—signal was weak out here. I crept to the window. The lot was dark, but light spilled from their room. Shadows moved inside. One looked like a person cleaning a long object, maybe a rifle.
A knock came at my door. Soft at first, then harder. "Hey, neighbor," Anna called. "You up? Need to borrow a phone charger." Her voice was too friendly. I stayed still, barely breathing. The knob turned, but the lock held. "Come on, open up. It's important." Footsteps circled to my window. A face pressed close, peering in. I ducked behind the bed.
They whispered outside. "He knows something," the skinny one said. "Saw us loading up." The big one grunted. "Handle it quiet. No more messes tonight." My throat tightened. I looked for a way out—bathroom window, small but maybe I could squeeze. I eased it open, screen popping loose. The drop was short to the dirt behind.
As I climbed out, their door creaked. Footsteps came around the corner. "There he is!" Anna hissed. I ran, feet pounding the dry ground toward the road. The motel was isolated, no houses close. Their truck engine roared to life, headlights sweeping. I dove into bushes, thorns scratching my arms.
The truck stopped nearby. Doors opened. "Come out, we just want to talk," the big one called. Flashlights danced over the ground. I held my breath, curled small. The skinny one poked the bushes. "He's gone. Check the road." They moved off, but I heard Anna say, "Can't leave loose ends. Like that family tonight."
Family? What had they done? I waited, then snuck back toward the motel office. The clerk was inside, watching TV. I banged on the glass. "Call the police! Those people—they're dangerous!" He frowned but picked up the phone. "What happened?"
As he dialed, sirens wailed far off. Maybe someone else had called. The truck sped away, kicking dust. Police arrived fast, lights flashing. They checked the room next to mine—bloodied clothes in the sink, a map with a house circled nearby. "Looks like a hit," one officer said. "Vigilante style, posing as border agents."
Turns out, Anna and her group had invaded a home in town, thinking it held smuggler cash. They shot a dad and his little girl, hurt the mom. All for nothing—no drugs there. The mom survived, described them. My tip helped catch them later that week, hiding in another motel up north.
I left Arivaca the next day, but the fear stuck. Motels like that hide folks with dark plans. One wrong room, and you hear things you shouldn't.
"ROOM 404":
I drove across the border into Tijuana late one afternoon, looking for a quiet spot to rest after a long road trip from up in California. The city buzzed with people and cars, but I found this old motel off a side street, away from the main crowds. It had a faded sign that said Cascadas Inn, with rooms that looked worn out from years of use. I just wanted a bed and some peace, so I checked in. The front desk guy, a short man with tired eyes, handed me a key to room 403. "Be careful out there," he said. "This area gets rough at night."
I settled into the room, which had thin walls and a small window facing the parking lot. I unpacked my bag and turned on the old TV for some noise. Local news came on, talking about a woman found dead in a hotel not far away. Strangled, they said. Police had no clues yet. I changed the channel, not wanting to think about it.
That evening, I went out for food at a nearby stand. When I came back, I saw a man pulling up in a dark car. He was average build, maybe in his thirties, with short hair and a plain shirt. He parked and went to the desk, then headed to room 404, right next to mine. I nodded as I passed him in the hall. "Good evening," I said.
He looked at me quick. "Yeah, you too," he replied, his voice flat.
Through the wall, I could hear him moving around. Later, around ten, a knock came at his door. A woman's voice: "Hey, you called? It's me, Angela."
The door opened. "Come in," he said. "I got the room ready."
She laughed a little. "Okay, but make it quick. I have other plans."
The door closed. I heard low talking, then quiet. I tried to sleep, but the walls let every sound through. After a while, things got strange. A thump, like something fell. Then a gasp. I sat up, listening. More scuffling, short and sharp. Then nothing.
I waited, but no more noise. Maybe just a fight, I thought. People argue. I lay back down.
The next morning, I woke to sirens outside. Police cars filled the lot. Officers taped off room 404. The desk guy stood there, talking to them. "She came in last night," he said. "With that guy from California. I saw them on the camera."
An officer nodded. "We found her inside. Strangled. No sign of him."
I stepped out, curious. "What happened?" I asked the desk guy.
He shook his head. "Dead woman in there. Young one. The man left early, crossed back over the border, I bet."
The news that day showed her picture. Angela Carolina Acosta Flores, they called her. Worked in the area, met clients in hotels. Police said it looked like the same way another woman died a month before, Elizabeth something. Strangled in a different motel nearby.
I decided to stay another night, fix my car tire that went flat. That afternoon, I saw the same man again. Wait, no – couldn't be. But there he was, pulling in with the same car. He glanced around, then went to the desk for another key. Room 406 this time.
"You back?" the desk guy asked him.
"Just for the night," he said. "Business."
I watched from my door. Something felt wrong. His eyes darted too much. I went inside, but kept an ear out.
Evening came. Another knock. Different woman. "You the one who texted? It's Marisol."
"Yeah, come on in," he answered. "Got cash here."
She went inside. Talking, laughing at first. Then quiet. I pressed my ear to the wall. A chair moved. Then a choke sound, cut off. Struggle noises, brief. Silence again.
I grabbed my phone, hands shaking a bit. Should I call? What if it's nothing? But the news flashed in my mind. I dialed the local police. "There's something bad in room 406," I whispered. "Hurry."
Minutes later, sirens again. But when they knocked, no answer. They broke in. The woman lay on the floor, marks on her neck. Dead. The man was gone, window open to the back lot.
Police questioned everyone. "You see him?" an officer asked me.
"Yes," I said. "Tallish, dark car. He was here last night too."
They checked cameras. "Matches the guy from the other killings," the officer muttered. "Crosses the border each time. Thinks he's safe."
I packed up fast, drove back across to San Diego. But later, news updates came. They caught him, Bryant Rivera, in California. He'd killed three women like that, all in Tijuana hotels. Strangled them after luring them in. Crossed back home after each one, like nothing happened.
Police said he confessed, called himself some nickname. But to me, he was just the quiet guy next door, with dead eyes. That motel in the border town hides dark things. People come and go, some never leave. I drive past borders careful now, wondering who's in the next room.
"THE SMILE":
I pulled up to the Desert Edge Motel just outside El Paso, tired from the long drive south. The place looked worn down, with peeling paint on the walls and a flickering sign that promised clean rooms. I was in town to visit my cousin, who lived nearby, and this spot was cheap and close to the highway. I grabbed my suitcase and went to the front desk.
The clerk, a quiet older man with glasses, handed me the key to room 8. "Quiet night," he said. "Not many guests."
I nodded and headed to my room. It had a small bed, a table, and a window facing the empty road. I unpacked a few things and called my cousin. "I'm here," I told her. "Let's meet tomorrow for lunch."
"Sounds good," she replied. "Be safe. Things are odd around here lately."
I hung up and lay down, but sleep didn't come easy. Around midnight, I heard a truck pull up outside. Doors slammed, and a man's voice carried through the thin walls. "Come on, it's not far," he said.
A woman's voice answered, soft and unsure. "Okay, but just for a bit."
I looked out the window. A tall man with long hair and tattoos stood by a beige pickup. He talked to a young woman in a short skirt. She smiled, but her eyes darted around. They walked toward a room down the way, maybe room 10.
I shook my head and went back to bed. People come and go in motels like this.
The next morning, I went out for coffee. The clerk was sweeping the walkway. "Did you see that man last night?" I asked.
He paused. "Big guy? Yeah, he stays sometimes. Name's David. Rides a motorcycle. Keeps to himself."
I drove into town and met my cousin at a little cafe. She looked worried. "A girl went missing last week," she said. "Karen, works as a dancer. Last seen at a motel like yours."
"Which motel?"
"Hawaiian Royale, but it's similar to yours. Police are asking questions."
I thought about the man and woman from the night before. "I saw a guy with a woman at my place."
My cousin leaned forward. "Describe him."
"Tall, long hair, tattoos. Beige truck."
Her face went pale. "That sounds like Skeeter. People call him that. He hangs around bars and picks up girls. Be careful."
I finished my coffee and drove back. The motel seemed even emptier. The beige truck was gone. I asked the clerk if the woman was still there.
"She left early," he said. "With him, I think."
That afternoon, I walked around the motel grounds. Dust kicked up under my feet. In the distance, the desert stretched out, flat and endless. I saw a police car drive by slowly, but it didn't stop.
Later, as evening came, the truck returned. The man got out alone. He carried a shovel to his room. Why a shovel? I wondered. Maybe for work.
I stayed inside, reading a book. Then, a knock on my door. I opened it a crack. It was him.
"Hey, neighbor," he said with a grin. "Got any cigarettes? Mine ran out."
I shook my head. "No, sorry."
He looked past me into the room. "Traveling alone?"
"Yes," I said, closing the door a bit more.
"Desert's pretty at night. Want to see?"
"No thanks. Good night."
He walked away, but I locked the door tight. Something about his eyes made me uneasy.
That night, I heard cries from far off, like from the desert. Maybe an animal. I pulled the curtains shut.
In the morning, more police cars arrived. Officers talked to the clerk. I stepped out. "What's going on?" I asked one, a woman with a notebook.
"Another missing girl," she said. "Rosa. Last seen with a man in a beige truck."
I told her about the man next door. "He had a shovel."
The officer wrote it down. "Stay here. We'll check."
They knocked on his door. No answer. The clerk opened it. Empty, but clothes scattered, and an orange blanket on the bed.
"He's gone," the man officer said. "Truck too."
I drove to my cousin's house. "Police are looking for him," I told her.
She nodded. "I heard on the news. Girls vanishing, bodies found in the desert."
"Bodies?"
"Yes. Shallow graves. Stabbed or strangled."
I felt sick. Had I seen one of those girls?
Days passed. I extended my stay to help if needed. One evening, a woman came to the motel, looking scared. "I'm Judy," she said to the clerk. "I need to talk to police."
I overheard. "He picked me up," she whispered. "Promised a ride. Took me to the desert. Tied me to his truck. Hurt me. I got away when a car came by."
The clerk called the officers. They took her statement. "Matches others," the woman officer said. "He lures them, drives out, kills."
I gave my details again. "I saw him with a woman."
That helped. Soon, news said they arrested David Leonard Wood. He denied it, but evidence piled up: fibers from his blanket on bodies, witnesses like Judy, inmates who heard him brag.
They found six bodies: Ivy, Desiree, Karen, Angelica, Rosa, Dawn. All young, taken to the desert.
I left El Paso soon after. But I think about that motel, the man with the shovel, the cries in the night. How easy it is for danger to hide in plain sight. Now, I always ask about guests, lock doors, avoid strangers offering rides.