The isolated desert motel emanated the only presence of life in its apocalyptic-like surroundings. A two-lane highway passed in front and stretched to the ends of the earth in either direction. Desert sand cascaded over the road from a lack of vehicle activity. The overall décor had been stuck in the nineteen seventies but remained clean and pristine as it had on the day it was built. For Mason Cleary, the remoteness of the motel provided just the escape he needed from his physically and mentally draining life.
The twenty past years of his forty-two-year existence had been consumed with his research in human behavior and the motel served as the perfect atmosphere to recharge his batteries. He stepped onto the long wooden porch extending from the main office to each of the seven bungalow rooms. Mason had always been impressed by how well the wooden motel had held up over the years. The desert land is well known for its extreme weather conditions capable of destroying any manufactured structure, particularly wooden ones. Making his way onto the raised wooden porch, Mason stomped his feet on the sturdy wooden planks to shake the sand from his size twelve Nike sneakers and off the cuffs of his khaki slacks. He paused briefly at the main office door and inhaled a deep breath of the warm, dry desert air. Exhaling the arid carbon dioxide from his lungs he entered the office to check in and begin a brief stay of rejuvenation.
In the twenty years he had been coming to the motel on his own, Mason revealed the fact they kept the same ambiance. As a child, Mason’s parents would take him to a similar motel every spring. It was during that time he gained an appreciation for the barren lands of the desert. The lack of remodeling on this motel seemed to keep it trapped in time, making it a perfect getaway for Mason’s weary mind. A deep red shag carpet covered the entire floor and even extended to the small room behind the counter. The faux wood paneling covering the walls matched the outdated theme of the stale carpet as did the cheap paintings scattered throughout. Mason never bothered to spend time in the trapped-in-time office as he was more focused on getting to his mental escape. Dropping his duffle bag, filled with only a few t-shirts and a pair of swimming trunks, on the clean floor, Mason gave a quick tap on the small bell atop the counter. He waited patiently thinking of the small kidney-shaped pool in the back of the motel, the primary source of his bliss.
“Be right there,” the deep raspy, four-packs-a-day voice came from the back room. An elderly man with bright white hair scattered in different directions like white flames shuffled his worn slipper feet across the shag carpet toward the counter. He was the same manager assisting Mason from the first time he came to the motel and the only employee at the remote hideaway. The manager had omnipresence about the motel, managing to take care of every aspect of the inn, from the front desk to pool cleaning. Even with the grueling task of handling every position at the motel, the manager was transcendent, managing to keep the same tired and worn look as he did the first time Mason entered the motel grounds. While the man’s exhausted appearance did not get better in the past twenty years it did not get any worse. Mason never spoke to the man other than to get his room key and pay for his visit in advance.
Subsequently, the man had never spoken to Mason either. In fact, his current response to the small counter bell was the first time Mason had heard the man’s voice. He usually gave nods or an affirmative grunt in response to any of Mason’s requests. The lack of communication or an established relationship did not bother Mason. His focus was relaxing from the everyday grind. Besides, the office manager always had a strange persona about him, unfriendly and recluse. The man also had a strange fetish for real-life crime stories, constantly watching grisly murder investigations on the small television resting on a shelf suspended by a chain in a corner of the room. Mason never paid much attention to the grisly murder scenes on the television above and did his best to block out the reporter’s grotesque descriptions. The motel was Mason’s escape from the rest of the world, and he did not want the horrors of the world to impede his relaxation.
“Room 187,” Mason said, wearily placing the cash for the room on the counter. The lack of customers allowed Mason to occupy the same room every time. It was in the perfect location, adjacent to the small kidney-shaped pool, ice machine and vending machines. Convenience to the limited amenities seemed to make the time spent at the isolated desert motel even more enjoyable.
“Keep your money. Your stay is free this time around. It is the least I could do for such a loyal customer,” the man’s cigarette-deepened voice filled the stale air as he turned to retrieve the room key off the hook. Perplexed but not wanting to question the hospitality, Mason pulled his cash back and stuffed it into his pocket. He snatched the key the moment the manager placed it on the counter. Exhausted, Mason was ready to get his vacation started. Paying little attention to the unusually concerned look on the manager’s face, Mason grabbed his bag and headed toward the door. The sun’s rays beamed through the poorly curtained windows reminding Mason of the immense heat of the desert and the bliss the cool pool provided.
“I feel for the families,” the manager’s voice again cut through the office silence. Wanting to ignore the comment and continue his path to relaxation, Mason hovered his hand around the doorknob. The manager’s strange desire to converse baffled Mason. In the twenty years, he had been coming to the motel the manager never said more than a grunt and now seemed to want to engage in conversation. Not wanting to be rude, especially after the man’s generous free stay offer, Mason lowered his hand and looked back at the man.
“I’m sorry,” he said hoping the man was merely talking aloud to himself.
“The families of the victims, I feel for them. That’s why I watch these shows.” The man answered donning the same concerned look.
“Ever wonder what goes through the mind of someone who could do such things?” the manager continued, gazing up at the television.
“I can’t imagine,” Mason responded anxiously, trying to get to his room.
“Mind giving an old man a few minutes? The desert can be a lonely place,” the manager asked, looking down from the television. Mason thought for a moment to explain to the man he was exhausted and wanted to get some sleep, but the look in the old man’s eyes made him realize a few minutes would mean the world to the forlorn manager. Living alone himself, Mason knew how the man must feel being so isolated from the rest of the world.
Placing his bag down, Mason sat down on the sun-bleached settee next to the door. Not wanting to be rude, Mason hoped sitting close to the door gave the man an idea of Mason’s wishes.
“Unfortunately, we live in a sick world,” Mason replied doing his best to get comfortable.
“I wonder if the people who commit such heinous crimes even realize how much damage they are doing.” The man asked but not really looking for an answer as he continued. “Life is challenging enough without having to worry about some maniac lurking around, waiting to rip them from the earth. A person will be going through life, worrying about bills, thinking about loved ones, even contemplating a major career move and then everything is taken from them. No matter what time in life they are taken it is a tragedy. Either early when they still have so much life to live, or when they are older when they have lived so much life and earned the right to die peacefully. The saddest thing about the whole thing is what happens to the families left behind.”
Mason gazed back at the manager intently even though his mind was outside in the hot desert heat swimming in the cool emerald water of the kidney-shaped pool. He was not sure where the manager was going with his rambling but figured living in complete isolation, he had it built up over the years. Mason began to feel there was a deeper reasoning behind the manager’s odd conversation.
“You have kids?” Mason asked. Having never seen another person around, Mason assumed the man had no significant other.
“I had one. He was murdered in his early twenties. They never caught the person or people responsible. It was a tragedy and the reason I am here,” the man replied sorrowfully. Not wanting to pursue the subject any further, Mason gave a nod in agreement and allowed the man to continue.
“I often wonder if these morbid killers are even conscious when they commit the murders,” the manager continued. The look on the manager’s face became sterner and more irritating. He made no eye contact with Mason, keeping his eyes fixated on the crime scene showing on the television.
“I cannot even imagine the mindset of a person who can look at another person in the face while stabbing them to death. And if stabbing the victim was not enough, this maniac decided to disembowel his victim.” The manager continued as the news story showed a body on a gurney being wheeled from a dilapidated city motel room. Mason was unable to make out any of the details of the crime as there was no sound on the television. Mason could tell the manager was deeply affected by the death of his son.
“For years I have tried to imagine the thought process of the individuals who killed my son. I tried to see life through their eyes. Did they even see him as another human being? Did they even care? They spent days torturing him before they finally decided to kill him. Was it all a game to them? Would the killer who took the life of another in the city motel see killing as a game?”
Mason chose not to answer the man’s questions, figuring they were more rhetorical. He let out a humming noise of “I don’t know” and gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. Mason shuffled forward on the settee trying to show the manager his desire to leave and start his vacation. The manager paid little attention to Mason’s gesture.
“These insane bastards,” the manager’s voice became irate. “They only care about themselves. They only set out to serve their own needs at the expense of others. Minds like theirs could only be ones of extreme seclusion. Insanity is a word these psychopaths do not even identify, they live it. It is a part of them. It makes them tick.”
The manager’s eyes slowly moved from the television toward Mason. A chill ran down Mason’s spine staring into the piercing glare from the old manager. He wanted to speak but could not find the words to respond to the man’s irate rant. For a brief second Mason managed to peel his eyes from the man’s glare to notice a pair of long, sharp scissors in the man’s hand. Mason was instantly alert to his dangerous position. He realized this lonely old hotel keeper was looking to get justice.
“Hey, I am just here to relax. No reason to get crazy,” Mason said standing up with his hands stretched out in a defensive position. Wanting to keep the irate man in his sights, Mason hesitated to move toward the door.
“Are you?” The elderly manager snapped, waving the sharp sheers in his wrinkled hand. “I do not think you realize the severity of the situation. I do not think you are hearing what I am saying! These bastards are sick and heartless. They do not care how their actions affect the victim’s family. The damage they do goes far beyond the victims they kill. You sit there and stare at me, but you do not realize a damn thing. Are you that damn thoughtless?”
Mason slowly backed his way toward the front door and reached down to pick up his bag. He stared back at the deranged man wondering what had set the man off. In the twenty years he had been coming to the motel the man never once spoke to him and now he seemed prepared to end Mason’s life. Figuring the isolation must have finally pushed the man to a point of no return, Mason turned the knob on the front door vowing never to return.
“I can’t let you leave just yet,” the manager said in a calmer tone.
“I do not want any problems. I just want to leave,” Mason replied, tightly grasping his bag and the doorknob. Despite the hostile situation, Mason managed to keep his heart rate calm.
“No, I can’t let you leave,” the man continued, slowly making his way toward Mason, “You are not ready yet. You’ve been coming here for years but I don’t think you are ready to check out yet.”
“You’re sick.” Mason . d shaking his head. He attempted to twist the doorknob, but it was locked. The sun’s rays blasted through the door window, causing a quick flash of blindness. Mason dropped his bag and quickly spun around blinking feverishly trying to regain his sight.
“Sorry, sir, I have no vacancy,” the desk clerk continued to speak in his low raspy voice. There was no change in his tone despite the chaotic frustration Mason was emanating.
“You said my stay could be free and now you are telling me there are no rooms available,” Mason pleaded as he rubbed his eyes to regain his sight. There was no response from the man, complete silence engulfed the room. Mason could only make out mere images of the room as a blanket of blinding white light continued to flash before his eyes. Slowly regaining his vision, Mason searched the ground for his bag, but nothing was there. Switching his focus to the ground around him, Mason was able to regain his sight but could not see his duffle bag anywhere.
Confused he looked up toward the clerk, “Where’s my…” he began but noticed his bag was not the only thing missing from the room. The man was gone. In the confusion to find his bag, Mason did not notice the clerk escaping back to the office. He had no choice but to try and reason with the clerk to return his belongings and let him leave. For the years of escaping to the desolate motel, Mason never faced an ordeal so nerve-racking.
“Sir, you mind returning my bag to me so I can leave?” Mason asked as he approached the closed office door. He flipped up the counter and gave a couple of knocks on the office door, hoping to reason with the man. “I need my bag. I do not need a room, just my bag so I can leave.” There was no answer on the other side of the door. No sound came from the other side of the door, not even a mere shuffling of feet. A feeling of loneliness began to swarm throughout Mason’s body. He no longer felt frightened of the man’s strange behavior, but disliked the empty silence now present in the archaic motel lobby. A few more raps on the door accompanied by a few pleas to return his belongings had little effect on the current isolated situation. Defeated, Mason focused his attention back on the front door, realizing he would have to leave without any of his personal effects. Bewilderment quickly replaced the feeling of loneliness as Mason could not locate the front door, it had vanished. The room began to spin, as Mason fought the lightheaded feeling of confusion. Not only had the door vanished but everything in the room had disappeared along with it.
“What the…?” Mason asked aloud, trying to make sense of his surroundings. The walls were completely bare. The furniture was gone, along with the despicable shag carpet and hideous wood-paneled walls. Nothing but blank white walls and a hard, white cement floor remained. Fear and hopelessness joined his feeling of loneliness. There was a cornucopia of emotions swirling throughout Mason’s body. Panicked, he began to pound against the office door. “Please let me go,” Mason cried.
“It’s time to face reality, Mason,” the raspy voice came through the door. Only there was a much softer tone to the man’s voice. No longer did he sound threatening or intimidating but more comforting and informative. “For years, Mason, you came to this place to escape the reality of your life. To escape the horror that surrounded your existence, the horror you created. None of this is real. The news stories you were so disgusted with were nothing more than glimpses of your past, of the people you killed.”
“No,” Mason whimpered, as he leaned into the door, resting his head against the cold wood.
“It is true Mason, none of this is real, and it is your subconscious. It’s where you go to hide when the world around you becomes too much. handle. I cannot allow you to hide anymore. I gave you an opportunity to show signs of remorse, but you have failed to see the reality of your behavior. It is time Mason. I have a room available.”
A subtle click from the office door had Mason pull his head up and gaze down at the knob. Confusion continued to race throughout his mind. “Clearly the man had drugged me,” Mason thought to himself as he debated opening the door. So much uncertainty existed beyond the office door, Mason was not sure if he should go or stay. There were no other means of leaving the office other than the door, but the clerk could be setting him up for a deadly encounter. He was trapped in a world of unescapable fear.
“Why are you doing this to me?” Mason asked hoping the childlike tone he was giving would somehow release him from his imprisoned state. Gazing back at the now empty, colorless lobby a new voice boomed throughout the room. A deeper, less raspy voice rattled into Mason’s ears.
“Mason Clear, you are guilty of nine counts of murder in the first degree, do you have anything to say for yourself?”
Mason tried to move away from the door but was frozen in place. He tried to move his feet, but they were held tightly in place. Mason tried to reach down and pull his feet from their trapped state but could not move his arms. They had reached a similar state his legs had succumbed to. Struggling to free himself from the restraints, Mason looked back toward the office door and saw several people staring back at him. They were familiar faces. The same ones he had seen on the television speaking of their lost loved ones, the same ones who talked about the monster who took the lives of their friends and family.
“Any final words, Mason Cleary?” the voice boomed through the speaker above his head.
Mason stared back at the people looking at him through the large window. Tears were streaming down their faces. He could feel their pain and anger piercing through the glass. He could not produce anything to say. His new reality was far beyond anything he could comprehend. The silence was all the people around him could take as another man approached him, placing a dark hood over his face. Loneliness and emptiness were all that Mason could feel. The darkness was a slight comfort, blanketing him from reality. He closed his eyes and did what he always did when life became unbearable.
“I would like to go to my room now,” Mason yelled through the thick dark hood. A quick flash of light sparked his vision. Electrifying pain shot quickly throughout his body.
The bright flash quickly faded as he could make out the shape of a man standing behind a large counter.
“Welcome back Mr. Cleary,” a new, unfamiliar, and unkind voice spoke. “I see you have a permanent reservation with us. That is good because we have plenty of room for someone like you.”
Tags: psychological, serial killer, twist, nightmare
