I’m halfway across the country, headed nowhere in particular, when the storm rolls in.
It’s the kind of weather that turns the sky into a bruise — purple, swollen clouds churning low over the highway. The rain starts so hard and sudden that my wipers can’t keep up. My headlights catch the warped shape of a roadside sign: “Vacancy”, the letters flashing unevenly in a faded neon pink.
It’s nailed to a crooked wooden post. The only building in sight is a long, low strip of yellow paint and dark windows. A motel from some other decade.
I pull in. The parking lot is mostly gravel and puddles, the storm flattening the air so hard I can barely breathe.
The office smells like bleach and cigarettes. Behind the counter sits a man in a plaid shirt, pale skin almost waxy in the fluorescent light. His head doesn’t turn when I enter. His eyes stay fixed on the door behind me, like there’s someone else standing there.
There isn’t.
His voice is low when he speaks.
“One night?”
I nod, hand him cash. He slides me a tarnished key attached to a heavy metal tag: 4. The number is stamped crookedly into the brass.
Room four is toward the middle of the building. The brass number is upside down and missing one screw, so it dangles slightly. I unlock the door and push it open. The air is stale, damp, faintly sweet in a way that reminds me of overripe fruit.
The bedspread is a faded floral pattern, worn thin in places. The carpet is flat and frayed. Everything is exactly what I’d expect for thirty bucks a night — except for the wall behind the bed.
Just above the headboard is a perfectly round hole, smaller than a pencil, drilled straight through the plaster. There’s no tape over it, no attempt to patch it. It’s not even disguised.
I tell myself it’s nothing. An old cable line, maybe. I move the bed forward a few inches so it’s not pressed right against it.
By the time I’ve changed clothes and dried my hair, the storm outside is tearing at the walls. The wind whistles under the door in sharp, uneven breaths. The rain hammers the window like a fist.
The TV’s on, but every channel is static. I mute it, and that’s when I hear it.
A slow, steady sound, so faint I almost mistake it for the wind.
It’s breathing.
Coming from that hole in the wall.
It’s too deliberate to be the pipes. Too human. There’s a faint shift in the rhythm, like whoever’s on the other side is adjusting their position.
I hold my breath and lean closer. Warm air brushes my cheek.
I knock on the wall.
The breathing stops.
Seconds pass. Then — three slow knocks echo back.
A sick, electric feeling crawls through me. My bag’s still on the chair by the door. I grab it. I don’t care about the rain, I’ll sleep in the car if I have to.
I open the door and freeze.
The parking lot is gone.
It’s just black. Not nighttime black, not shadows — pure, depthless black. No sky, no ground, no sound except for my own heartbeat in my ears. And under that, faint but certain, the breathing again. This time it’s behind me.
I spin around.
The door to my room is gone. The hallway stretches in both directions, lined with closed doors. The air smells like dust and wet carpet.
I start walking. My footsteps sound muffled, swallowed up too quickly. Every few seconds, I pass another door with a brass number — always upside down, always dangling by one screw.
From behind each one, I hear breathing. Slow. Measured. Patient.
I stop at one door — number 7 — and press my ear to it. The breathing on the other side pauses, like whoever’s in there is listening back.
I take a step away. The floor under my shoe creaks.
From behind the door, I hear someone whisper my name.
I start walking faster. I try counting the doors, but I keep losing track. They all look the same. The smell is stronger now — like damp fabric sealed away for years. My bag feels heavier in my hand.
Somewhere far ahead, a single door stands open. Warm yellow light spills into the hallway. I move toward it. My pulse is so loud it feels like my skull might crack.
Inside, the room is almost identical to mine — same bedspread, same carpet, same tiny hole in the wall above the headboard. The only difference is the bed.
Someone is lying in it.
At first I think it’s a man, but the body is wrong — the arms too long, the head tilted at an impossible angle. The skin is pale, almost gray.
Its eyes are open, staring right at me.
There’s a round hole in its forehead, smaller than a pencil.
I stagger back, nearly dropping my bag. My shoulder slams against the wall — and from behind me, through the plaster, I hear breathing. Not slow anymore. Fast. Excited.
I run.
Edit:
I don’t know how long I’ve been walking. My legs ache. The hallway curves sometimes, though I can never remember turning.
I’m writing this sitting on the floor outside another door. The brass number is upside down, dangling by one screw. I can hear breathing inside.
A moment ago, something whispered my name from the other side. It wasn’t my voice, but it knew exactly how to say it.
And now I think I understand.
The hole in the wall isn’t for watching. It’s for learning.