The Hungry Room
Maybe it’s just hungry. That’s the only reason I can come up with.
The truth is I dunno, but it has to be something and I have to figure out what that something is and fix it. Because a hungry room – if that’s what it is - isn’t good for business. Not if you run a motel.
The police? They haven’t responded to my calls for the past six months ever since the mayor’s kid Larry disappeared in there. Two days later it was those two cops who investigated the room when Larry didn’t turn up anywhere else.
I actually went to high school with both of those cops, Bobby and Charles. Nobody has seen them since. Or any of the other three guests who that room has swallowed since. Weird thing is it’s not always hungry. Most times whoever stays there spends the night or two without incident, then moves on. Still, I know I should probably stop booking the room. It’s what my wife says. But my wife lost her job, and we need the money. Can’t afford to close any of the rooms, especially not that one. Not during tourist season.
Here's the thing: I’m the manager of this place, just like my dad and his dad before him were the manager. Saw the whole thing when Bobby and Charles went missing. Soon as they stepped inside the room? Door slams shut. It was a small crowd of us standing outside that morning in the rain, me and some of the more curious guests from the other rooms who saw when the police pulled up. We were maybe 20 feet or so from that door in the parking lot.
“Maybe somebody, you know, snuck in there,” said a young girl with an armful of tattoos and purple-orange hair.
A tall, dark-skinned young man with shoulder-length hair standing close by, who I assumed was probably the girl’s boyfriend, gave her a mocking look.
“Why the hell would anybody sneak into a crime scene room and then close themselves inside with the cops, Charlina?”
“It’s not a crime scene yet,” I said, letting boyfriend know he wasn’t earning any points trying to embarrass Charlina in front of everybody else. “You see any of that yellow crime scene tape?”
But then next thing we know, Bobby and Charles are banging on the door from the inside and starting to yell. We all looked at each other for a moment like what the…?
The yelling ratcheted up from nervous to terrified in a matter of seconds…
…and then there was nothing. Just nothing. I ran to the door, grabbed the handle, and shoved it down. Nothing happened the first three tries, almost like it was cemented shut. Didn’t fucking budge. I yelled for someone to come help me and was about to slam my shoulder into it when it swung open all on its own. I looked inside. Bed was perfectly made, and the only thing I noticed was a slight smell of cinnamon. But only for a moment, then that was gone too. Did I hear someone giggle…?
Room 45. The Tanqueray Motel is right off the Interstate headed east out of Ohio. Joke used to be that the Tank (that’s what the locals called it) had been around longer than dirt. Which was probably close to being true. Nobody I knew could remember a time when the Tanqueray, wasn’t here, and pretty much everybody had a funny story about something they did at the Tank, or something they heard or saw happened. Not all the stories were funny, but most of them kinda were, and usually a little raunchy. Those days when I used to let Paulie the Pimp run his girls out of the Tank made for some of the greatest stories ever. That was back during COVID, and things were real slow. The wife said I needed to get creative, so that was my creative idea for a while until things got too crazy, and the scuzzy reputation started keeping the more regular types away. So I told Paulie he and his girls had to leave, but I have to say he was quite the gentleman about it. I even gave him like a small severance. Hey, the guy saved the motel and provided us a service. I figured I owed him.
Anyway, time goes by, taking its time, and then now this. Some folks have a room with a view, we have a room with an appetite. And like I said, my wife wants to close the room. But we have bills to pay, and I’m sensing a real opportunity here. And I’m pretty good at marketing when I wanna be.
Do you want a room, or do you want an adventure? Stay alive in 45, and breakfast is on us.