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If It Sounds Too Good To Be True....

Timothy N. Stelly Sr.

    I figured Terri meant for me to make a left instead of a right. I remembered her words before I pulled out of the driveway: Don’t worry, Tom. I went over the map again this morning. Everything’s fine. When she uttered the words, there was a funny simper on her face, but at the time I thought nothing of it. Now if this was her idea of a practical joke, I didn’t find it funny and would tell her as much when I saw her. Then again, she was from the area, so I figured she knew her way around.
    Though 200 miles seemed a long way to go for an interview as a hotel clerk, the job offered not only a $65,000-a-year salary, but medical, dental and eye care benefits, plus a paid-for two-bedroom apartment.
    I admit, however, that I was frustrated not only because I’d fallen behind schedule and was growing sleepy, but at Terri’s supposed inattentiveness. The crudely drawn map she made for me led to this desolate area where nary a car passed in the other direction. For an hour I traveled east non-stop, until the sky was but a vast indigo blanket. I drove along a two-lane road lit only by the headlights of my station wagon. It was unfamiliar territory and after midnight, so it was doubtful that there would be a business open where I might stop and ask for directions.
    All I knew about this barren area was that it was called Trout Creek, and the freeway was some forty miles behind me, somewhere among the twisting, unlighted road. My eyes grew heavy as I peered at line after line of seemingly endless asphalt. The only thing keeping me awake was the occasional sighting of the animal carcasses that littered the roadside, bones bleached white by months spent in the merciless desert sun.
    After another five minutes of traveling, I considered pulling over on the shoulder of the road and catching a few winks; but that darkness – that endless sheet of ebony mystery – wouldn’t allow it. Perhaps viewing too many horror films like The Hills Have Eyes had pushed my fear to extreme levels. No, stopping was definitely out of the question.
    That’s when I saw the sign, It appeared like a desert mirage, out of nowhere, a tattered sign with a hand-painted message

    DANGER! Go Back!

    Go Back where? I wondered.
    I had the most absurd thoughts roll through my mind, for the sign reminded of those old episodes of Scooby Doo...Where Are You? I chuckled, equal parts of amusement and nervousness. I convinced myself that the sign was probably someone’s idea of a clever sight gag.
    I turned on the radio, to no avail. I could only get one station, which was broadcasting a commercial.
    “Hello. My name is Reverend Earl Daniels, Clerk at the Vagabond Motel in Trout Creek. If you’re in our neck of the woods, why not drop in and rest a spell? We guarantee you a good night’s rest in our clean, quiet rooms. Stay with us for an unforgettable night of sleep. We also offer a continental breakfast, and if you don’t enjoy your stay, then it’s free. That’s right friend. Free.”
    The commercial ended and the signal went dead.
    The commercial ended and the signal went dead. I was surprised by the coincidence, for that’s the place I was looking for.
    After I shut off the radio is when I spotted it, about twenty yards off the road. It was a two-story, cracker box building with peeling paint and a neon sign that looked surreal. Maybe it was because there were no street lights to speak of – in fact, no telephone poles, period. Neither was there illumination from the moon; the area was pitch-black, but there sat that Vagabond Motel, its VACANCY sign aglow in neon red, the windows lighted a pale yellow, and the building itself looking like a large, hollowed out pumpkin. There was another sign, faded white lettering against a light blue backdrop that read Stay With Us For An Unforgettable Night Of Sleep. Even more eerie was the fact that there wasn’t a single car parked outside, yet, the rooms appeared to be filled, for I could see the silhouettes of the inhabitants scurrying about.
    As I pulled my station wagon across a gravel parking lot, headlights revealed a large, worn tire that was once attached to a semi-trailer. Standing nearby, like a sentry asleep on duty, was a 1950’s era Coke machine. I could hear the hum of the contraption even before I shut off my car’s engine.
    I parked in front of the door of what I thought was the office, a screen door through which a low wattage bulb cast light on the warped planks of the porch. I took a deep breath, shoved my pistol into my waistband and stepped from my car into the dry air. I saw a vending machine that had but two bags of chips inside. Upon closer inspection, I discovered that they were covered with dust and several large roaches.
    “Shit!”
    Zydeco music flowed from inside. There was a HELP WANTED sign on the door, I chuckled and shook my head. That was when the screen door swung upon, but no breeze had pushed it open and there was no one in sight. It was like someone, something, knew I was there and was inviting me in. I stepped inside, where I was greeted by a stench that reminded me of my Uncle Lou’s unwashed feet; a pungent odor like stale corn chips, only stronger.
    A man with a pasty face – and I mean pasty, sickly looking, like a sheet – sprang from behind the door, wielding a machete. The only reason I knew he was there was that I’d seen his shadow on the wall before me. I ducked, spun, backpedaled and drew my gun all in one motion. As the man raised his weapon he cried out, “Can’t you read? The sign said go back!”
    I fired two shots into his chest and the machete fell to the floor, followed by the thud of the man wielding it. I looked around, to make sure no one else was coming. I heard footsteps on the stairwell to my right. I heard the voice of a child behind me. I whirled to find an ashen girl of no more than eight. Her eyes were black jewels—onyx, and they were wide, but not with innocence. Her eyes held a vacant and haunting quality. She was carrying a Raggedy Ann doll under her arm.
    “You just shot Reverend Daniels,” she said quietly. “You shouldn’t have done that, mister.”
    “Just tell me how to get out of here,” I snapped.
    “There is no way out. When you check in, that’s it.”
    “Huh?”
    The girl pointed toward the door, or at least where the door once was, for now it was a solid wall. I blinked and stared again – no door. I worked my eyes around the room. No exit, not even one where the little girl had come from. Meanwhile the footsteps on the stairwell were getting closer. The girl smiled, revealing a row of blood stained teeth, and the next time she spoke, it was in a bass baritone.
    “Since you ignored the sign telling you to go back, let me welcome to the Vagabond Motel. Hope you enjoy your stay.”
    She dropped the doll and leapt toward me, tearing at my face. I managed to squeeze off two shots, both of which struck her in the abdomen, and knocked her against the wall. She rose, narrowed her eyes and again came forward. The people on the stairs—a half-dozen or so, looked on, smiling and bleeding from the mouth. From the corner of my eye, I saw the fingers of the Reverend Doolittle... Duncan, whatever the hell his name was, twitch.
    I fired off two more shots at the growling girl. The growl came from deep within her and was guttural like that of a wolf, poised to strike. The bullets...hell, I guess I missed or they passed through her or something. Then I felt the Rev’s hand wrap around my free hand. I fired two more shots into the Reverend, which slowed him a bit, but by that time, the child had sunk her teeth deep into my flesh and was pulling skin, sinew and bone fragments from my shin.
    I let out a scream as I saw the blood leak from her mouth onto the floor, and as the people on the stairs moved forward, spurred by the sight of the red goo spurting from my leg. I felt the so-called Reverend bite deep into the flesh of my thigh, through my trousers. I realized there was no way out. Panic swept deep intro my bosom and caused my heart to hammer erratically. Rather than endure the death of ravenous mouths tearing at the remnants of my flesh, I fired the last bullet into my head...

***

    Joe Sturgis mopped sweat from his brow and avoided the laser-like glare of his wife, seated next to him. Their eight-year-old daughter sat in the back seat, her feelings somewhere between boredom and disgust. The air conditioner in their SUV was blowing warm air and the temperature outside was near ninety degrees, even though it was after ten o’clock at night.
    “Maybe we should just turn back and try and locate the freeway,” Glenda suggested.
    “No, I’m guessing there’s a shortcut somewhere nearby. There’s no way this lonely stretch of road can go on much further.”
    “You said that fifteen miles ago!”
    Before Joe could respond to his wife, his daughter added her two cents. “You wouldn’t have to guess if you’d done like I told you and brought a map when we were at that gas station.”
    “If you tell me that one more time, Caitlin, I will pull this car over and—” Joe shook his head, cut his threat short and took a deep breath. He turned to his wife. “Glenda, see if you can find something on the radio, would you?”
    She tinkered with the tuner, and couldn’t locate a single channel until she got hear the end of the FM band. The station was playing a commercial.
    “Hello. My name is Tom. I am the new clerk at the Vagabond Motel in Trout Creek. If you’re in our neck of the woods, why not drop in and rest a spell? We guarantee you a good night’s rest in our clean, quiet rooms. Stay with us for an unforgettable night of sleep. We also offer a continental breakfast, and if you don’t enjoy your stay, then it’s free. That’s right friend. Free.”

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