Page 19 of Cruel Cravings

They were still in so much shock that I scurried past them and made myself disappear. It was never anything malicious. I needed a place to stay and theirs was empty, the windows not even locked. I tried to clean up after myself and I left them a beautiful cactus plant they should be grateful for…

“Room seven,” says the motel manager, jerking me back to the present. He slides a brass key attached to a fob across the counter. “You’ll be on the first floor next to the vending and ice machines. The laundry room is free to use any time of day. We offer a complimentary breakfast from six to ten a.m. No smoking anywhere on the premises. If you have any questions, you can pick up the phone in your room and dial 0. It’ll take you straight to my phone here. I’ll be here all night.”

I snatch the key off the counter, muttering thanks, and turn to go.

Outside, the wind has picked up. It blows through sight unseen but cold on the skin. I shudder and press on, carrying my things down the exterior hallway. The light above flickers as if threatening to go out. I focus on the numbers.

Room one, two, three…

Four’s number tacked to the door is crooked.

All the windows are dark. The curtains still.

I pause and glance behind me, then look out at the near empty parking lot.

No sign of life anywhere.

It feels like I’m the last one alive on earth. But that’s not true at all—the motel manager is in the front office licking his thumb and turning the pages in his book.

And the light in room six is on. I can tell because the curtains are backlit by a golden glow. Is that who the station wagon belongs to? Or is it one of the truckers?

My stomach pits as I move toward door seven and realize we’re neighbors.

“Strength in numbers,” I mutter under my breath, sticking the brass key into the lock.

Unless this neighbor is the last one I’d want to be stuck around…

I shove the door open and step into the room, the stale air smacking into me like a wall. It reeks of mildew and lingering cigarette smoke, the kind that clings to your clothes and skin.

So much for no smoking anywhere on the premises.

The carpet is the same kind of mottled vomit green as the front office. I’d guess it hasn’t been cleaned in at least a decade. I slide my backpack off my arm, setting it down with my duffle bag on the faded floral bedspread.

The room is anything but comfortable. Cracked walls. Mold in the bathroom. A TV that’s permanently fuzzy and distorted.

But it’s the best I can manage for now. All I can afford.

I check the locks on the doors. Once. Twice. More than three times.

I’m so paranoid about it that once I twist the lock to make sure it’s in place, I stand and admire it for several seconds to come.

Making sure it’s staying put. It’s not going to undo itself the moment I turn around.

Safe for now.

No one will find me here. I’ve been discreet. I just have to figure out what to do next. Will I continue looking for my sister? Is this what she’s felt like running away and letting everyone believe she was dead?

Is she hiding from someone?

These thoughts fill up my head. They should be enough to distract me, but they’re not enough to keep my mind off the second presence in the room. The other person that’s here just out of sight.

My breath catches. My hand trembles as I slide the door chain into place yet again and tell myself he’s not here. It’s my imagination like Dr. Wolford said.

“It’s crucial you recognize it’s your mind playing tricks on you. These are symptoms of your condition, not reality. The shadow man, as you’ve called him, isn’t real.”

“He isn’t real,” I mutter to myself, scanning the room. Yet my pulse pounds in my ears. The closet door stands slightly ajar, a dark wedge of emptiness. I cross the room in quick, jerky steps and yank it all the way open.

Nothing. There’s nothing inside.

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