Nervous and wondering what I might find, I hustled back to the front of the building and went into the rental office to officially check-in. A bell dinged as the door closed behind me, and a tall, gaunt man, who looked like he’d been here since the motel first opened, came out from the back.
“What can I do for you today, young lady?” he asked in a thin, shaky voice.
“Um, I’d like to rent a room, please.”
His milky eyes traveled over me, and then he glanced to my car parked outside the window. “For one or two?” He smiled slowly, revealing a mostly toothless grin.
I grimaced. “One, please.”
“We rent by the night, or by the hour. Which would you prefer?”
By the hour? Eww, gross, I thought. But to the crypt keeper-looking dude, I said in my most breezy tone, “Just an hour should be fine.”
That got me another leering look, and then he said, “That’ll be ten dollars. We only accept cash.”
I handed over the money, and the clerk turned to a corkboard covered with keys. He reached for the key to room number four, but I hurriedly stopped him, “May I have room number eleven, please?”
Crypt keeper shot me a look over his shoulder like I was some kind of a freak.
“It’s sort of sentimental,” I added.
He shook his head. “Number eleven it is,” he muttered as he slid the key off a little metal hook.
He placed the key on the counter—gold, #11 etched on the head. I reached for it, but the clerk moved it aside before I could grab it. He slid a leather ledger book in front of me. “Got to sign in, ma’am, before I can give you the key.”
“Of course,” I muttered as he handed me a pen. I signed in as J. Doe.
The old guy snickered to himself when he saw my entry, but he didn’t give me any trouble. He just added the date in his shaky scrawl and closed the ledger. As he returned the book to its spot under the counter, I noticed there were dozens more just like it lining the bookcases on the back wall. Guess a computerized system isn’t a high priority here at Fowler’s.
With the key to room number eleven in hand, I headed to the back of the building and walked down to the room at the other end. The key shook in my hand as I placed it in the lock. I was terrified to discover what significance this room might hold. Why had Ami led me here? How did a room in the back of a seedy motel tie into Adam?
Once inside I flipped on the light switch, the room smelled musty and unused. There was no overhead lighting; the switch turned on two lamps. One was on a nightstand next to a full-sized bed, and the other sat atop a circular table that was positioned below a small window, thick curtains tightly drawn. The walls were drab beige in need of a touch-up, and the carpet was a faded wine color, a few shades lighter than the curtains. The TV appeared to be broken. Everything looked old and worn—the carpeting, the curtains, the wine and green paisley bedspread. Cigarette burns marred the bedding and some spots on the floor. The room had been tidied, but I wouldn’t have called it clean by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, before I sat down on the bed, I pulled back the spread. God only knew how many lewd acts had occurred on that thing. Disgusting.
What was I supposed to be searching for in this motel room? Scanning the area, I had no clue. There really wasn’t much to explore, but I started searching nonetheless.
I yanked on the nightstand drawer. A Bible, the only contents, slid to the front, pinching my fingers. I picked it up and paged through it. The book hadn’t been cracked open in ages, and I sneezed a few times from all the dust. I supposed the guests at Fowler’s weren’t much inclined to peruse the word of God during their stays. The book of the Lord contained nothing but scripture, so I placed it back in the drawer.
Hmm, what next…
I looked under the lamps, behind the busted TV. I tried to get the TV working, just for some background sound, but nothing occurred. So I continued my search in silence.
I checked under the lamp shades, and turned the lamps themselves over to see if anything had been stuffed into the bases. Not a thing. Lowering down to my knees, I flipped up the hem of the bedspread and checked under the bed. Besides an impressive collection of dust bunnies, and somebody’s orange hair tie, there was nothing there either. I felt under the circular table and found nothing but several disgusting gobs of dried-up gum. Gross.
I went into the tiny bath area to wash my hands. Once I was finished, I pulled back the moldy shower curtain, half expecting Janet Leigh, or—God forbid—Norman Bates to be on the other side. But, thankfully, there was only an empty bottle of bath wash someone had left behind. My imagination-fueled racing heart quieted.
There was a mirror above the sink, but it was securely attached to the wall. I gave up on the bath area, flipped the light off.
Back to the main room…
I stood and stared at a cheap painting above the bed, eyeing it curiously. The scene on the canvas was of a big ship casting about on turbulent waters, but that interested me none. However, I’d seen enough movies to know something could be hidden behind the painting.
Without further ado, I hopped up on the bed and carefully removed casting ship on turbulent waters from the wall. I half expected to find a peephole or something just as sinister behind the painting, but there was just more wall. The back of the painting was open, nothing hidden, after all. Out of ideas, I hung the
