ONE
It was only a room at the time. There was nothing about it that Peter found out of place.
Eerie.
Wrong.
It was only a room in a motel in a city he never planned on coming back to. A fleeting memory, if one at all. But Peter Greenwell had the unfortunate honor of being the first.
When the phone rang, Peter was in the shower. He stood beneath the hot water, hoping it would calm his quick heartbeat. He had been waiting for this call.
Dreading it.
Either way, it was inevitable, and so he shut off the water and readied himself to face what he could no longer avoid. But as his foot found the cold tile and his hand reached for the towel with Wildwood Motel embroidered near the edge, Peter slipped. He scrambled for a moment, trying to find something to grab on to. But the towel slid away from the hook, and his other hand grasped only air. It all happened quicker than he thought it would. There was no time to reflect or slow down. No time for one uneventful life to flash through Peter Greenwell’s mind.
His head made contact with the porcelain sink and he sank to the floor, the blood and water like tendrils delicately painting the life that seeped out of him. It was 1978, only two years after the motel had first opened its dozen rooms.
Twelve years later, Lola Moreno was next. She was only looking for some quiet, a day or two away, when she realized too late that she might be able to escape her life but not her mind. Next came Eugene McDaniel, nine years after that, a retired teacher on his way to visit two grandchildren who had all but forgotten him, and on and on it went. All the way to a Noah Davis, only four months prior, who knew of every death that had come before and the part he had played in many of them.
Room 9’s history was dark and rotten and had a way of sinking into its guests. Their deaths within it were unfortunate in the same way. They all came too close to the flame, and when that happens, the fire takes care of the rest.
Tonight is no different.
TWO
Layla
We were supposed to drive straight to Chicago, but it was pouring, the windshield an indecipherable picture of the road ahead. The rain had started ten minutes ago in one of those torrential downpours that appear out of nowhere. Mira slowed down, her shoulders scrunched over the steering wheel as she tried to make sense of where the lane was. It didn’t help that we had taken the wrong exit a while back and my phone was refusing to cooperate. Five bars, my ass. The map app refused to load no matter how many times I restarted it.
“I think we need to pull over and wait this out, Mira. I’m pretty sure it’s only getting worse.”
Mira squinted at the windshield. Her brow furrowed, and then her eyes went wide. A small gasp escaped her lips before she quickly twisted the steering wheel to the right. I couldn’t see what Mira swerved to avoid, but by then, it didn’t matter. The tires skidded across the road, farther than she had planned.
It happened faster than either of us expected. My seat belt yanked me back, firm and sharp against my collarbone, as the car spun. It made a full turn before it slipped past the pavement and landed in a ditch, the front bumper resting against the wet dirt at an angle. On impact, the opening of the airbag compartment snapped against the windshield and shattered the glass. A thousand cracks branching out at once. Seconds later, I could feel my raw skin burn with the sudden friction of the seat belt.
The sound of rain pounding against the roof filled the small space as the smell of burnt rubber and smoke wafted in.
“Layla? Layla, are you okay?” Mira said.
There was a quiet hum, low and steady, but I couldn’t tell if it was the car or in my head. I nodded, wanting to say more but managing only that. I looked back at her, relieved that she seemed fine. There was a trail of blood down her temple, dark against her skin.
“You’re bleeding,” I said, reaching toward her. She looked up at the rearview mirror between us and wiped it with the back of her hand.
“I’m fine. I feel fine, I promise.” She smiled at me, small and reassuring, and got out to inspect the damage. The rain was loud and heavy on the windshield, but I could make out the shape of her against the car headlights. She crouched to get a better look. Even if she did have a handle on things, I felt bad watching her get drenched. It was only fair that I join her. I stepped out of the car and my flats immediately sank into the mud. This night clearly wasn’t done with me yet. I trudged over to Mira, wondering how she managed to look so graceful.
“I thought I saw someone, but”—she paused, squinting through the rain—“there’s nothing here.”
I bent down to study the car. This looked bad. Like stranded-in-the-middle-of-nowhere bad. The right headlight was cracked, though the main bulb still shone through. The windshield had shattered, a spiderweb at the bottom spreading outward. And a flat front right tire surrounded a bent rim. There was no way Keira was drivable. We barely knew how to change a tire, if knowing in theory even counted, and this was beyond us. We were going to die out here, weren’t we? Some serial killer was going to spot us on his nightly stroll, and that would be the end of us. I hoped it would be quick.
“You don’t have to say it. We’re screwed,” Mira said.
The storm was letting up, but she looked at the sky and let the rain continue to drench her long brown curls. Her leather jacket was open, and the visible part of her gray top was soaked through, the edges of her bra outlined against the thin T-shirt.
“This is fine. We’re totally fine. Just fine.” My pitch rose with every word. She raised an eyebrow and smiled at my rising panic, squinting through the thinning rain.
“I’m going to go call a tow truck or something,” she said.
She went back inside the car, the rain now a mist. Gone as quickly as it had come.
I sat down at the edge of the road where the grass met the pavement and lay back, letting my dress soak through. What was the point of anything? We were nearing the end of our College Tour Spring Break Best Friend Road Trip, which had been one perfectly memorable and adventure-filled week. No parents. No school. No younger sisters constantly breathing down my neck. Just Mira and me and the open road.
But we’d crashed the car in the middle of nowhere, would miss tonight’s hotel reservation, and had little chance of making it to tomorrow’s Undergraduate Portfolio Day at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, what would have been the highlight of the trip, only second to spending it with Mira, of course. The ten-years-older version of me that’s photographing magazine covers and working on editorial shoots was fading with each passing second. I thought of my portfolio, carefully tucked away in my bag. They’d never see it now. My best shot at getting off their waitlist, gone. I might as well take it out and let the rain soak through the thick paper. Let the ink run together until the photographs were an unintelligible mess.
Mira slammed the car door and made her way over. Our height difference felt even more exaggerated as she stood over me. Droplets fell from her sharp jaw and landed near my mud-soaked shoes. She handed me my camera bag and stretched out next to me, letting the wet grass soak through her jeans.
“Thought you might be worried about your baby. Sturdy little thing,” she said. I hugged the bag to my chest and took out the camera to inspect. Thank you, past me, for actually putting it away after our last shoot in Nashville. I stood up and took a test shot just in case, framing the wrecked car in the center and letting the beams flare against the lens. I sighed in relief. Everything seemed to be working. The edge of the light took on an odd shape, but it must have been the bright headlights playing against the lens. At least one thing wasn’t entirely and irrevocably ruined.
“Keira looks like a goner,” I said, studying the tilt of Mira’s car against the mud.
“Nah, she’s sturdy too. She’ll pull through.” She took a deep breath and let the mist dampen her skin. She had her hazel eyes closed, her head tilted back, the edge of a smile on her lips. I snapped a quick photo of her bathed in the car headlights and turned off the camera. Mira deserved this trip more than anyone. After the shit year she’d had, home was anything but. Things were different since Khalil, her brother, died. She was different. The Mira who laughed too quickly and loved too hard was gone. In her place was an impulsive, more anxious Mira. One who was quieter than before. At least with me. I saw how she put on a face for others. Like she was squeezing into something too small, trying to shove down parts of herself she didn’t want others to see. I couldn’t fix any of it, and I didn’t know how to make her feel better. All I did was worry. Aside from Khalil, I didn’t know anyone who had died. I couldn’t know what she was feeling, could only guess at that sort of grief, but I hoped this trip would at least serve as a temporary distraction. It was part of the reason I pushed so hard for us to be here. But here, wherever here was, wasn’t exactly the plan.
“Tow truck will be here soon,” she said when she heard me sit back down.
“Thanks for making the call.”
She squeezed my hand in response, and my heart fluttered, just the tiniest bit. I was a little in love with Mira Hamdi. Not that Mira—or anyone, for that matter—knew. I was a little in love with the way she always took control of the situation. Whenever I thought of myself as the calm, cool-under-pressure one, she swooped in and saved the day. Like when I twisted my ankle in gym last semester or when I forgot my film camera in her car over one hot summer weekend. Both times, Mira quickly quelled the tide of panic that threatened to flood over. I was a little in love with the way she laughed at the punch line of every joke I made before I made it because she knew exactly what I was thinking. God, I loved her laugh. I loved making her laugh. What a fleeting high it was to hear it.
I was a little in love with how her soft skin felt beneath mine right now. But Mira didn’t know any of that, so I pulled away and sat up, looking for a tow truck heading toward us.
THREE
Mira
“The motel’s just down this little gravel road. Can’t miss it,” the driver said as the tow truck slowed to a stop.
“Can you drive us the rest of the way though?” Layla asked. She looked confused in the dim overhead light.
“I would rather not” was all the man said. “Good luck.”
“Thanks,” I said, though it came out as more of a question. I pulled open the door handle and jumped outside. When I offered a hand to Layla, she jumped down on her own, holding the hem of her wet pale-green dress as she leapt. We took our bags from the cab of his truck. A red backpack and brown leather duffel for me, a camera bag and a small yellow rolling suitcase for her.
“It’s a small town,” the tow truck driver leaned forward to say. “Most of it within walking distance. Come by the garage tomorrow and Bill, the mechanic, will let you know the damage. Good night, ladies.” He smiled reassuringly and drove off.
“Ready?”
Layla nodded, and we headed down the road. She seemed quiet, a little lost in thought as we fell out of step. Which felt odd, considering Layla always had something to say. Her long dark hair fell in soft waves, covering her face. She tucked one side behind her ear, still damp from the rain. I could see she was concentrating, focused on pulling her rolling suitcase along. She was only shorter than me by a few inches, but I wanted to wrap her in a bear hug and tell her that the car would be fine tomorrow morning, that we would make it to the portfolio day in Chicago in time, that the admissions department would love her photos and admit her on the spot, standard procedure be damned. But we both knew we weren’t going to make it in time, so there was no use lying to her.
Finally, we saw the motel. A long one-level building that had seen better days. An orange neon sign that read WILDWOOD MOTEL hummed above the center, which was a story higher than the rest. Beneath it, two signs that read OFFICE and VACANCY flickered. I led us toward the signs but slowed down to let Layla catch up. Her suitcase really wasn’t built for gravel.
“Almost. There,” she said through gritted teeth. She paused and took a deep breath. “You know what? Go on without me. I’ll catch up in a minute.”
“You sure?”
She sat down on top of her suitcase and nodded, stretching both legs out in front of her. Nothing would move Layla now.
I stepped inside and pushed the door open with my back, heaving my duffel bag toward the foot of the front desk with both hands.
Copyright © 2023 by Meriam Metoui
