The night shift at the motel was never quiet, but that night the receptionist, a man named Eric, had the feeling that something didn't fit. There were three occupied rooms: 1, 2, and 3. Room 3 had been closed for months. The latch was rusty, the mattress covered in plastic, and the "out of order" sign had been hanging crooked for years.
At 2:47 in the morning, the reception phone rang. Eric picked up.
- Front desk - he said.
On the other end, he heard wet, uneven breathing, as if someone were drowning in their own saliva. Then, a woman's voice, very low, whispered:
- There's someone in my room.
Eric looked at the panel. The call was coming from room 3.
He hung up. He stood still for a moment, listening to the hum of the fluorescent light. Then he grabbed the master key ring and stepped out into the hallway. The air smelled of damp and something sweet, like wilted flowers in stagnant water. The door to room 3 was almost open. The bathroom light was on.
He went in. The mattress was still covered in plastic, but now there was a wrinkled sheet and a pillow with the shape of a head. In the bathroom, the faucet was dripping. The mirror was fogged up. And on the sink, written in red lipstick, was a message:
"Don't look under the bed."
Eric felt his stomach clench. But he was a man of the world, and he wasn't going to let a tasteless joke scare him. He crouched down, pulled back the bedspread, and looked under the bed frame.
What he saw had no name. It was a woman, yes, but she was folded over herself like a broken doll, her spine arched backward and her feet touching the back of her neck. Her eyes were open, white, without pupils. And she was smiling.
- Thank you for coming - she said, in the exact same voice as on the phone -. No one has come in a long time.
Eric wanted to back away, but his body didn't respond. The woman slowly unrolled herself, like an animal stretching its legs after sleeping. She stood up. She was tall, too tall for the room's ceiling, and she had to tilt her head so as not to brush against it.
- Do you know why room 3 was closed? - she asked, as she approached-. Because the last person who slept here didn't leave. He stayed. And now he's in the mattress. In the plastic. In the pillow.
Eric looked at the mattress. The plastic was moving. Something was writhing underneath, as if there were a body trapped between the layers.
- Don't worry - she said, caressing his face with a cold, damp hand -. It won't hurt. You just have to stop breathing for a moment. And then you stay with me. Forever.
Next morning, the day shift found the front desk empty. The door to room 3 was locked. On the panel, the phone was still off the hook. And on the bathroom mirror, beneath the lipstick message, someone had added in blood:
"Now you're under the bed too."
Hive inflation still funds 6-figure cartel salaries every day.
Power down. Sell some. Take profit.
Liquidity is actual freedom.
You never lose by cashing gains.
Thx me later 😈
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