I’ve always been fascinated by the odd and inexplicable. As a freelance journalist, I’ve chased stories that took me into the heart of haunted asylums, the belly of abandoned mines, and once, into a town where everyone inexplicably spoke backwards for a day. But these adventures, as unsettling as they were, seemed like child’s play compared to the night I spent in the motel that existed as though it had been forgotten by time itself.
The motel was an isolated relic, a lone building standing defiantly against the encroaching wilderness. It was placed so strategically at the end of the road that it seemed like it marked the boundary of reality itself, as if beyond it lay a world unknown to mankind. The only indication of life was a neon sign, its erratic flicker battling the darkness, spelling out “Motel” in eerie, electric blue. The rest of the sign was obscured, consumed by rust and time. Its disrepair was a testament to years of neglect, but it was more than that - it was a warning that went unheeded.
The motel was devoid of any proper name, the anonymity that cloaked it in an even deeper mystery. It was as if it was intentionally forgotten, stripped of its identity, and left to exist in obscurity. It was an oddity that would normally pique my curiosity, but on that night, it was my only refuge.
The building itself seemed to groan under the weight of the years, its faded paint peeling off in large chunks, revealing the rot beneath. Its windows stared blankly at the world, like the vacant eyes of a corpse, while the wind whistled through the cracks, humming a mournful tune.
It was an unwelcoming sight, a place that seemed less a refuge for weary travelers and more a lair for the things that lurked in the darkness. But with the last rays of the sun disappearing behind the horizon and my car rendered useless, it was my only option. So, ignoring the knot of dread in my stomach, I stepped into the motel that existed at the end of the road and the beginning of nowhere.In my wanderlust, I embarked on a cross-country road trip, leaving behind the familiarity of the east coast to venture into the untamed wilds of the west. I was alone, armed with nothing but a worn-out map, a half-functioning GPS, and a thirst for stories that lay off the beaten path. My trusty old car, a battered beast that had seen better days, was my sole companion on this solitary journey.
The day was fading into a painted twilight, and I found myself traversing an empty stretch of road that cut through an expansive desert. The landscape was barren, like a scar on the earth, with only sporadic clusters of tenacious vegetation dotting the otherwise desolate panorama. It was an alien world, devoid of human touch, a vast land where civilization seemed like a distant memory.
My car, as old and stubborn as it was, decided that this was the perfect time and place to surrender to its mechanical frailties. With a final groan and a plume of smoke, it shuddered to a halt, leaving me stranded amidst the desolation. I tried everything I could to coax it back to life, but there was no luck.
The sun was rapidly sinking towards the horizon, its dying light casting long, monstrous shadows that seemed to dance and sway with a life of their own. My mobile phone, usually a lifeline in such situations, was nothing more than a useless brick, unable to find any semblance of a signal in this forgotten corner of the world.
I felt a surge of anxiety, a sense of isolation settling in as the world grew darker around me. Just when I was on the brink of despair, I spotted the flickering neon sign in the distance, its ghostly glow a beacon in the encroaching darkness. The eerie motel, standing solemnly at the edge of the known world, was my only hope for shelter.
Despite the unease that gnawed at me, I gathered my courage and my overnight bag, leaving the safety of my now silent car. But with no other choice available, I steeled myself and headed towards the ‘Motel’.The moment I pushed open the door, a heavy silence fell upon me like a shroud. The lobby was surprisingly well-kept, considering the motel’s dilapidated exterior, but it was devoid of the typical bustle one would expect. There were no guests milling about, no chatter or laughter filling the air, just an eerie stillness that seemed to hum in my ears.
The only sound that broke the silence was the creaking of the wooden floors under my boots, a loud protest that echoed around the space, making my entrance feel more intrusive than it was. Each step seemed to stir the dust that had settled in the corners of the room, a testament to the years of neglect that hung heavily in the air.
At the far end of the room was the front desk, a worn-out counter that had seen better days. Behind it sat an old woman, her form hunched over as if weighed down by the passage of time. Her face was partially hidden in the shadows, the sparse light illuminating just enough to reveal a pair of sharp eyes that stared intently at me. Her gaze was piercing, almost predatory, like an owl sizing up its prey in the dead of night.
Her skin was a network of wrinkles, each line a testament to a life lived long and hard. Her hair was a wild crown of silver, glinting ominously under the faint light. Despite her frailty, there was a certain strength to her, an unnerving presence that seemed to dominate the room.
She didn’t speak, just watched as I approached, her eyes never leaving mine. They bore into me, cold and unflinching, as if trying to decipher the secrets I carried within. It was a silent exchange, filled with unspoken words and veiled threats, setting the tone for the ominous night that lay ahead in this nameless motel at the end of the world.
The old woman’s voice was the first I’d heard since my car radio had died hours ago. It rasped through the silence like sandpaper, a dry whisper that seemed to echo in the still air of the lobby. “One night?” she asked, her voice carrying an undertone of something I couldn’t quite place - was it curiosity? Suspicion? I merely nodded, pulling out a wad of cash from my pocket and placing it on the counter.
Her gnarled hand snaked out to take the money, the bones protruding sharply under the thin veil of her skin. She slid a rusty key across the counter in return, a small metal tag attached to it bore the number ‘6’. As I took it, our fingers brushed briefly. Her skin was cold, almost deathly so, sending a shiver up my spine.
The room was, unsurprisingly, as nondescript as the motel itself. The wallpaper was peeling off in places, revealing patches of damp plaster beneath. A single, dim bulb hung from the ceiling, casting long, eerie shadows across the room. The air smelled musty, the unmistakable scent of mildew lingering like an uninvited guest.
The room’s furnishings were sparse and worn. A creaky double bed occupied one side, its sheets looking as though they hadn’t been changed in weeks. An old wooden table stood against the wall, accompanied by a rickety chair. The bathroom was a cramped space with rust-streaked fixtures.
It was far from the comforts of home, or even a standard motel room, but it was shelter. A refuge from the unknown terrors of the desolate night outside. As I settled into the uncomfortable bed, a sound caught my attention.
From the other side of the paper-thin walls, a dull murmur of voices seeped into my room. It was a rhythmic drone, a chorus of voices engaged in what sounded like a chant. The words were muffled, but as I pressed my ear against the cool wall, I could discern a phrase repeated over and over again, “In darkness, light,”
The chant, repeated in haunting unison, filled the room, the ominous words vibrating through the silence, a chilling soundtrack to my first night in the motel.The chill that swept over me felt like a spectral hand running down my spine, a ghostly warning that made my heart skip a beat. I looked around the room, the eerie silence amplifying the foreboding feeling. The wind whistled through the cracks in the window, a mournful tune that seemed to carry whispers of untold stories. I tried to convince myself that it was just the wind causing the chill, a logical explanation to quell the rising dread.
Despite the unease, I decided to sleep, hoping the morning light would banish the night’s unsettling atmosphere. I crawled under the musty blanket, shutting my eyes tight as if that could block out the disconcerting reality.
But sleep was as elusive as a mirage in the desert. The chanting from the neighboring room persisted, the strange phrase “In darkness, light” seeping into my consciousness, growing louder and more fervent with each passing hour. It was as if the chant was a living entity, growing stronger as the night deepened.
Frustrated and unnerved, I decided to investigate. Part of me hoped to find a group of enthusiastic Latin scholars or eccentric historians, something, anything that could explain the bizarre chant.
Stepping out of the room, the motel was a completely different entity under the shroud of darkness. The previously deserted building was now alive, shadows danced behind drawn curtains, suggesting movement and life. Hushed figures cloaked in darkness were moving in a procession toward the back of the property, their faces hidden from view.
A morbid curiosity gripped me. The journalist in me saw a story waiting to be unravelled, even as the rational part screamed to get back in the car and leave. But I couldn’t. I was drawn to the unfolding mystery, like a moth to a flame. So, with bated breath and a rapidly beating heart, I followed the procession, maintaining a safe distance, stepping further into the unknown.A barn-like structure, tucked away at the back of the property, was an unassuming edifice that bore the marks of time and neglect. It was bathed in a soft, eerie light that spilled out from the open doors, casting an uncanny glow on the surrounding area. I edged closer, my curiosity pushing me forward, urging me to unveil the secrets that lay within.
I took cover behind a stack of old crates, their wood splintered and worn, a fitting hiding spot in this forgotten corner of the world. As I cautiously peered around the edge, the sight before me sent a wave of icy fear crashing through me, freezing the blood in my veins.
The motel guests, previously unseen and unheard, were now assembled in a macabre tableau. They stood in a circle, their bodies cloaked in dark robes that swallowed the faint light, their faces hidden behind hoods, rendering them faceless spectres. They were silent, save for the low drone of the chant that still echoed around the barn, a haunting hymn that now sounded even more ominous.
At the heart of the circle stood the old woman from the front desk. She was transformed from the frail figure behind the counter to a commanding presence. Dressed in a crimson robe that starkly contrasted the muted colors of the others, she was a figure of authority, of reverence. Her eyes, previously cold and unflinching, were now ablaze, a fanatic glow lighting them from within.
In her hands, she held a large knife, its blade reflecting the light, an ornate handle that hinted at a history as old and enigmatic as the woman herself. Her voice, dry and rasping, echoed through the barn as she led the chant, “In darkness, light” each syllable cutting through the silence like her knife through the air.But it was what stood before her that froze the blood in my veins. A small figure, barely reaching her waist, stood nervously at the center of the circle. It was a girl, no more than ten, her face pale and terrified. She was trembling visibly, her wide eyes darted around the room, reflecting the dim light with a sheen of tears.
The realization struck me like a blow - this wasn’t just a gathering, this was a ritual. And the girl, innocent and terrified, was their intended sacrifice. The sight was horrifying, a tableau of pure evil, and it was unfolding right before my eyes. The chanting took on a more ominous tone, the words a dark promise of what was to come. The old woman’s grip on the knife tightened, the blade now a deadly glint in the half-light.
A cold dread settled in my stomach as the magnitude of the situation sunk in. This wasn’t just a cult; it was a gathering of dangerous fanatics, and I had stumbled upon their most sacred, and terrifying, ritual. The girl’s terrified eyes haunted me, a silent plea for help in a room full of her tormentors.
The fear was paralysing, a vice-like grip around my heart. But amidst the terror, I knew I had stumbled upon a story that was as horrifying as it was intriguing. As the chant swelled around me, I forced myself to stay still, to observe, to understand. I was a stranger in the heart of darkness, and escape was not an option - not yet.Just as my mind began to race, attempting to process the grotesque spectacle before me, a cold hand suddenly clamped over my mouth. The world around me narrowed to the stinging scent of unwashed skin and the tightening grip that held me captive. I was yanked back, my body colliding with a solid figure as I was dragged into the void.
A scream bubbled up in my throat, but it was muffled by the hand that held me in a vice-like grip. Panic surged through my veins, my heart pounded against my ribcage like a wild animal trying to escape its cage.
A cold voice, a chilling whisper slithered into my ear, “You shouldn’t be here.” The voice was as dark as the night around us, a warning and a threat rolled into one.
The following moments were a chaotic whirl. I remember the adrenaline-fueled struggle, my desperate attempts to break free, the cold terror that gnawed at my insides. I remember the sharp pain that bloomed at the back of my head, blinding me, and then - nothing. The world around me faded into a terrifying oblivion, the chanting voices the last thing I heard before the darkness claimed me.
When I came to, I found myself back in my car. The morning sun was a bright lance through the windshield, painting the interior with a harsh light that made my head throb. My body ached, each bruise and bump a painful reminder of the night’s ordeal.
On the passenger seat, a note lay innocuously, a stark contrast to the violent message it carried. It was scrawled hastily, the handwriting jagged, as if written in a rush. “Leave now and never return,” it read. The words were a chilling warning, a clear message that I had overstayed my welcome.My hands trembled as I turned the ignition key, the fear still lingering, coursing through my veins like a potent drug. To my relief and surprise, the car roared to life instantly, the engine purring like it hadn’t been silent for hours the previous day. It felt like the universe was giving me a clear sign, a desperate push to get as far away from the motel as possible.
I threw a glance at the rearview mirror, and my heart clenched at what I saw. The old woman was standing in the motel doorway, her form silhouetted against the morning light. She didn’t wave or smile, she didn’t call out or try to stop me. She just stood there, watching, as I sped away from the motel, away from the cult, away from the nightmare that had unfolded in the middle of nowhere.
As I sped away from the motel, the adrenaline slowly began to retreat, replaced by an overwhelming exhaustion. I was desperate to put as much distance between myself and the motel as possible. But a sudden, nauseating stench pervaded the car, an odour so foul it made my stomach churn. It was a smell of decay, a scent that spoke of something sinister.
Confused and alarmed, I pulled over to the side of the lonely road. The smell seemed to grow stronger, now accompanied by a sense of dread that gnawed at me. With a sinking feeling in my gut, I popped open the boot.
A scream tore itself from my throat as I saw the source of the smell. The small girl from the barn, the intended sacrifice, was there, her lifeless body bundled haphazardly. Her wide, terrified eyes stared at nothing, a haunting testament to the horrors she had faced. The sight was horrifying, a brutal reminder of the cult’s sinister activities.
The realisation hit me hard - the cult hadn’t just warned me to leave, they’d given me a grisly token to ensure their message was clear. By placing the body in my car, the cult was not only warning me to leave and never return, but they were also asserting their power and control. They were showing me that they could reach me, even in a place I considered safe. The act was meant to evoke fear and terror, to ensure I would not attempt to expose them or return to the motel.