Night Clerk
ONE
In my 20s, I traveled the country, picking up odd jobs to cover my expenses. I’ve been to most states, seen plenty of weird shit, and escaped more than a few deadly situations, but every once in a while, I’d have this dream where I was back in Motel 808. And every time, I’d wake up drenched in sweat.
808 was a roadside lodge on the outskirts of Sterling, a highway town with a population of a couple hundred. The majority of the motel’s guests were truckers and folks traveling from one place to another. Locals occasionally paid a visit, but most of the time, they pretended it wasn’t there.
I was hitchhiking at the time. An idiot with no ambition, no money, and plenty of courage. I had two twenty-dollar bills in my pockets when my ride dropped me off at the gas station next to 808, so I figured I’d try to get some work at the motel in exchange for a room.
The owner, Mr. Z, was a friendly middle-aged man with a receding hairline. He wasn’t particularly talkative, but he listened to my sob story from start to finish.
By nightfall, our conversation had shifted from small talk to business. He admitted the night clerk position was open, but after what the last clerk had done, he wasn’t eager to fill it.
I pushed him to tell me what had happened, and he got a bit upset. It turned out the last clerk, Caleb, had robbed the place and vanished mid-shift with a week’s earnings. Since then, Mr. Z had developed trust issues—especially with anyone looking for a quick buck.
I reassured him that the same wouldn’t happen with me. I’d been picking up shifts like this my whole life. If things worked out between us, I wouldn’t mind staying here long-term. Still, he seemed doubtful, so I gave him phone numbers from my former employers as references and let them speak for me.
At last, he agreed to give me a chance.
We’d start with a trial run. I could stay at the motel and eat with the staff. On top of that, I’d get a hundred dollars a night for overtime and shit.
That night, at 8:00 p.m. sharp, I showed up with a bag full of energy drinks and snacks, ready for work. Mr. Z cleared the money from the register and handed me the keys, and 808 was officially mine.
I’d done graveyard shifts like this before. Long night. Little work. Stay awake. Keep my head down. I had music blasting in my ears and chocolate raisins to keep me occupied.
The first few hours passed without incident.
Around 2:00 a.m., I noticed a glitch on the computer screen. The screen flickered again a few minutes later. I brushed it off, figured it was just a technical error.
Somewhere around the fifth time, I caught movement on the security feed for the second floor. I zoomed in and squinted.
It seemed that the door of Room 207 would open a slit shortly after every glitch—not wide enough for a person to pass through, but wide enough for the camera to pick up.
I watched it happen a few more times, then grabbed the keys Mr. Z had given me and got out of my chair. Is this some kind of joke? Someone had better not be messing with the camera.
I pressed the elevator button going up and waited for the doors to open. I was confident that whatever was going on, I’d get it under control once I got to it.
In retrospect, I should’ve taken the key for Room 207. Because if I had, I would’ve noticed there was never a slot for 207 in the first place.
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