I’m a night auditor at a cheap motel in Northern California. To put it mildly, it’s not the nicest place, but we still do a booming business, catering to hookers and drug dealers. Lots of interesting characters walk through its doors, but the one I remember most vividly was a gentleman named John Smith.
He walked in around 10 on a Friday night, carrying no luggage, dressed in a gray business suit and matching gray tie. At first, I thought he was a detective—those were the only people who came to the motel in suits—but he flashed no badge as he walked stiffly, robotically almost, to the front desk. His face and hands were pale, almost pure white. I thought he might be an albino, but his eyes were dark black.
“How can I help you, sir?” I asked.
“I would like room 201, madame” he said, his voice completely flat.
“For how many nights?” I asked. I had no idea why he requested room 201. It was the exact same layout as all the other rooms.
“One night will be sufficient, madame.”
“May I see some ID?”
He handed me an Oregon license. Name on it was John Smith. In the photo he wore the same suit he had on now. Had a feeling it was fake, but if I scrutinized all the guests who came in, we’d be out of business.
“That will be $72.13, plus a $200 deposit.”
He paid in cash.
***
The girl who was supposed to cover the morning shift called in sick, so I was working a double shift. Mr. Smith hadn’t checked out by eleven, so I went up to check on him.
I knocked, no answer. I let myself in. He was lying on the bed, his eyes closed, still dressed in his suit. He hadn’t even taken off his shoes. I called out to him, but he didn’t stir. I approached him and felt his neck. Icy cold, no pulse. He was clearly dead. He wasn’t the first and I doubted he’d be the last.
As I was returning to the front desk to call the cops, I felt something tug on my blouse. I turned and saw John Smith sitting up in bed, his face expressionless, his right hand grasping my shirt. My blouse tore as I ran out of the room, down the stairs, out the emergency exit, and into my car. I locked it and called 911. As I was waiting for them to arrive, I saw John Smith march out the motel’s front door, walking stiffly, like a wooden soldier, heading for the forest behind the parking lot.
The cops arrived ten minutes later. We reviewed the security tapes together. It seemed to be working fine, but whenever John Smith entered the frame, the footage turned to static. Tracking dogs were brought in, but couldn’t pick up any scent. There were hundreds of John Smiths in Oregon, but none of their photos matched that of the mysterious man. Who he was, and what he wanted in Room 201, will likely always remain a mystery