Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I Own A Motel And I Think I've Been Renting A Room To A Family Of VAMPIRES | Scary Stories

Episode Date: July 24, 2023

This is a lot of blood… Story from Strange_Dangerous Make sure to check out more of their work at u/strange_dangerous  Original Post: I own a motel and I may have been renting out rooms to a family of vampires... : r/nosleep   Original YouTube link: I Own A Motel And I Think I've Been Renting A Room To A Family Of VAMPIRES  For more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube  Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | Patreon Sound Effects: Freesound Zapsplat  Music: Lucas King - YouTube Myuu - YouTube  Incompetech Thank you for listening to this scary story! If you enjoyed this new creepypasta story, please check out some of my other horror stories. We'll be uploading new scary stories, new true stories, and new creepypasta stories every day!

You're always welcome. That was the sign that hung outside the motel that my family had owned for generations. A relic from the heyday of Route 66 nestled among large pines just off a two-lane mountain road. My grandfather was a smart man and very opportunistic when the cave system nearby was incorporated into the National Park Services. He capitalized on it. He built the motel and shortly after our home right next to it, As tourism expanded, so did the motel, one room at a time. Eventually, our old living room was converted into the offices and the door behind the lobby desk led directly into our kitchen.

Eventually, our home and the motel were one and the same, and this is where I grew up. My grandfather passed down the business to my father when my sister and I were born. My father had also grown up in this isolated motel, so my mother always said he was hesitant to force the same fate on us. When my grandfather died suddenly, though, it was less of a choice and more of fate forcing itself on him. I have memories of my father talking about selling it, but that seemed to fade as we settled in as a family.

Things seemed to go well for us, for a while at least. I remember this part of my childhood fondly. We lived in a place that seemed to only be described in fantasy books. My sister and I would play in the woods and wander down to the caves where we enjoyed free admission just for being cute kids and the only locals for miles around. These were the good times. Unfortunately, shortly after my older sister's ninth birthday, she began to get sick. The doctors in the city wanted to see her often, and it wasn't easy for my parents to get

down the mountain in our old truck. She was diagnosed with a rare form of leukemia a week before her 10th birthday. I don't remember her death, but I remember the weeks leading up to it when the doctors informed them that there was nothing more that could be done. My parents insisted on bringing her back up to us, to the motel. They set up some machines and other medical stuff in her room to help ease the pain. I wasn't there when she died. My parents, for whatever reason, had sent me to my mother.

my aunts. Looking back now, I understand why. When I returned, though, my sister was gone. My mother did not take her death well. My sister's room was cleared of any trays that she once lived there, and I wasn't allowed to say her name. Every day, there seemed to be less and less evidence that she'd ever even lived there. Eventually, my mother went so far as to remove any photo we had of her from the house. By the time I was a teenager, there truly was no trace left of her existence. I hate to admit it, but my memory of her face had even gone, but I remembered what she smelled like, soft lavender. I left the motel when I went to college and lived an exciting yet uneventful life far away from that small spot on the mountain. But as my parents

grew older, they needed more help, and I felt myself drawn back in to that old mountain motel. I helped them for a good part of 12 years, slowly taking on more and more of the responsibilities, until I almost ran the place by myself. They still insisted on certain tasks, odd things that they weren't ready to give up. The strangest involves what I've come to call the family. My memories of them stretched back to my earliest memories of the motel. They always stuck out because my parents seemed to treat them differently. For as long as I can remember, they'd always visited us every four years almost to the day. The family consisted of four adults, an older couple, a middle-aged couple, two teenagers, a girl and a boy, and a younger girl around the age of 11.

The seven of them were always quiet and polite and always stayed for a week every four years like clockwork. My parents had even circled the date on our calendars, always expecting them. My father made sure to have a room open, even though they never seemed to book ahead. They were almost like old friends, except for the fact that they treated us like strangers every single time. It wasn't like they didn't remember us, but more that we were in consequence. to their lives. The interactions we had with them were so brief and infrequent that if it

weren't for one odd thing, I doubt I'd have remembered them. But it was that one odd thing that hung over my head, never explained, but never acknowledged by my parents. Eventually I came to accept it as well as something as ordinary as apple pie. But it wasn't ordinary. There was nothing ordinary about the fact that this family never seemed to age. They came every four years, and they never missed a visit. There were years, though, that I miss them, especially after my sister died. My parents would send me to live with my aunt for a bit, and it always seemed to coincide with their visit.

There was over a decade where I went without seeing them until my aunt and mother had a falling out. I was never told what it was over, but I never saw my aunt again after that last visit. One time, when I was back from college, they were there, same as always, just as I remembered. They'd spend their days in their room and would leave at night, always dressed like they were going someplace special. Every evening, except for the last, I would clean the room after they left. The beds were always made, and the room was very tidy except for the ash trays.

whoever it was, the old man I expect, smoked like a chimney. Even after my parents stopped allowing smoking inside, they made an exception for the family. On the final day, though, my parents always insisted on cleaning the room. Despite their tidiness, it always took my parents hours to clean that room. One time, they took nearly two days, but they still wouldn't allow me to help. On the family's last visit while my parents were alive, I had to help my father carry carpet into the room. We had spare rolls of carpet, saved in case we ever had to fix a cigarette burn or a particularly nasty stain. We usually only needed a few inches or a foot at a time.

The family's room, however, had the carpet replaced more times than I could count. On this last time, my father was tired and struggled with the work. I could tell my mother didn't want to help, but they had no choice. They'd already pulled up the old carpet. before I was allowed in, but I still noticed it. Deep brown stains in the wood beneath the carpet just outside the bathroom. My mother was still scrubbing when I carried in the replacement roll. Is that blood? I asked, pointing at the frothy pink foam beneath my mother's brush. She shot my father a look of anger. They're hunters, he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. The dark-stained ring that always seemed to exist in the bathtub of this room suddenly started to make sense.

This is a lot of blood, I said, hoping for more answers. It was probably a big animal. My father replied, annoyed. It made no sense to slaughter an animal in a motel bathroom, but I realized that I wouldn't be getting any more answers from my father. I let it be. I figured I'd ask him again in four years. I didn't get a chance, though, as both of my parents passed within months of each other.

I'd like to say they died peacefully at home, same as my sister, but they did not. My father had a heart attack, and while he was in the hospital, my mother had a stroke. My father died shortly after, but my mother seemed to hold on for longer than anybody thought possible. She was waiting for something, but she never revealed what it was. She died in her sleep with an immense look of sadness on her face. As was expected, they left the motel to me. The lawyer explained that the will was very brief and uncomplicated.

My parents had no money saved, and the motel was their only asset, so I was given everything. They did leave me something else, though, in addition to the burden of a family business. They left three envelopes with very specific, instructions on when to open them. The first one was to be opened when I took over ownership of the motel. The second was to be opened in case of an emergency, namely a financial one. The third was to be opened by my aunt in case I passed away. The letter within the first envelope was brief and to the point. It explained that my parents had a long-standing agreement with the family, and it was best not to question it.

They mentioned the blood, but told me to ignore it, and just make sure that there was no trace left after they checked out. It was very explicit that I not ask questions, and that if anybody outside of them were to ask about the family, I was to deny everything. In something I found funny and not surprising, the family's odd trait of seemingly never aging was not mentioned in the letter. After reading it twice, I stored the letter in the cash drawer and forgot about it. Shortly after my mother passed, the family arrived. The seven of them piled out of that same old

station wagon and walked together to my office. Without my parents insisting on doing it themselves, this was the first time I'd actually checked the family in. The old man greeted me as if he knew me. He didn't ask about my parents, and in an odd way he spoke to me, as if I'd always been the one to check them in. All but the little girl seemed to watch me, without expression. The little girl, however, broke away from the group and stepped around the desk and knocked on the door leading to our kitchen. None of the family reacted in any way to her actions. Can I help you? I asked her. Is she in there? She is. asked, almost emotionless. It's just me now. My parents passed a few months back, I explained,

as I grabbed the room key. The older man took the key without acknowledgement of the fact that my parents were dead, but the little girl broke down. She began to sob and yell for her mother, but instead one of the teenagers took her by the arm and pulled her along as they left together. Her sad eyes met mine, and for a moment I felt an unspoken grief between us over my parents' absence. I realized it was the first time that anybody outside of myself had shown any reaction to their loss. It felt good. It made me feel less alone in this isolated little motel. I watched as the family dragged the little girl back to their room to unpack and settle in.

I remembered then how my mom. mother used to treat this little girl. She always seemed to dote on her when they'd visit. After my sister's death, my mother was less than affectionate, especially to children that weren't her own. Except that is, for this little girl that came around every four years. Their stay was uneventful, and after that night, even the little girl all but ignored my presence. They left at night and returned before morning, usually without notice. Their rooms again were always tidy except for the cigarettes. Before they checked out, I read the letter from the first envelope one more time. It had also mentioned that at checkout they would pay in cash and leave behind a small

paper package sealed with twine. The note instructed me to never open the parcel, but instead put it in a safe that I had no idea existed before reading the letter. The safe itself was filled with more small paper bundles tied with twine, I did as the letter instructed. Sure enough, after their final night, there was blood. It wasn't a lot of blood, but enough to cause concern. The bathtub had been filled with it and then drained, leaving behind a crimson film ring around it. The The tiled floors were sticky, and the carpet had soaked in whatever bled out of the bathroom. I replaced the carpet as my father had showed me and scrubbed the bathroom until no trace was left. Looking back, of course it seemed suspicious now, but it was always that way with the family.

I couldn't really say for sure where the blood came from, and I never wanted to ask. However, if the cop showed up one day, I'd have probably told him. Nobody ever asked, and there was never anything on the news, so I just told myself the same lie. They were nothing more than a family on a hunting trip in three-piece suits and Sunday dresses. I ran the motel without incident in the years after that, but it wasn't easy. I should mention that while the hotel is located near a tourist spot, there is little else to attract people. In fact, we're located on what some call a dead road, not a dead end. end, but a dead road, a long stretch of highway without any signs of civilization.

It's one of those highways that people seem to go missing on. Ours is just one of the many around the country. We once had a writer stay with us while my parents were still around. He told me that he was a true crime writer. He said he was working on research for a book about what he called the Ring of Fire, a connection of dead roads all across the country. A giant ring of asphalt paved death. He said that lots of famous serial killers traveled the ring.

His book was going to be about connecting the dots to unclaimed victims. He told me that I shouldn't worry about it, though, because the dead are always faceless. It was always sex workers, or indigenous folk, or just drifters who lost their way. He explained that they are considered less dead to the cops, that their deaths don't mean as much, as a politician or a pretty girl. He said that he would come back through when he was actually writing the book, but he never came back, and I never saw anything about his book coming out. The family, however, they always came back.

Four years after the last visit, they arrived three days after the date circled in red by my father long before he died. I'd actually waited for them. You see, when everything seemed to shut down last year and budgets were cut, the caves closed down for the foreseeable future. Already, tourism had waned in the last few years and it was getting difficult to keep the motel open. I was running out of options, so I opened the second envelope. Inside was another letter. It instructed me to keep the motel open no matter what, even if the guests stopped coming. It then instructed me to open one of the

brown paper parcels in the safe, if I was ever in trouble, so I did. Beneath the paper, wrapped tightly in twine, was a bundle of money. It was various bills stacked in no particular order, but one bundle alone was enough to carry me through a slow season. There were dozens of these paper bundles. Despite what the letter said, I opened them all immediately. The oldest ones held currency, I barely recognized, it was still American, but it was long out of circulation. I'd planned to stay open long enough to collect one more bundle from these familiar strangers I'd known my whole life. When they arrived three days late, I already knew something was off, though you wouldn't have

known from their usual unemotional demeanor. What I'd always remembered as a family of seven arrived as only six. One of the teenagers, the boy, was not with them. This was not acknowledged by anyone upon check-in. The little girl stayed beside the teenage girl this time, too, but her eyes were still fixed on the door to our kitchen. At this point, I'd cleaned out all the other rooms except theirs. Nobody had stayed the night in weeks anyway, so I took my time with it. When the time came for them to check out, they paid in cash and handed me the brown. paper parcel wrapped in twine. I hate to say this, but your family will officially be the last guest we host here, I explained, trying to break the news casually. The man stared at me blankly.

The little girl looked up at the teenager, but the teenage girl did not react. The man did not seem upset, nor happy about it. As always, he was emotionless. Okay. He said with a fake smile. And with that, he turned to leave. The family followed after him, but the little girl pulled away from the teenager. She stood there staring at me for a very long time. You better hurry, I said, pointing at her family, trying to break the awkwardness.

Do you not remember me? She asked. Of course I do. You never change. I replied. I could see the old man out in the parking lot as he packed up the old station wagon. I saw him notice the little girl's absence. Without any urgency, he put down the bag and came to retrieve the little girl. As he approached the office door, the little girl stepped closer to the desk. If you aren't here when we return, they'll leave me. They'll put me back in the caves and never return."

She whispered. What do you mean? I asked, my mind racing. I'm too young. I should never have been turned. Her voice was cut off by the opening of the door. The old man stood in the doorway. His gaze fixed on the little girl.

Neither of them exchanged words. The little girl left, but not before giving me one more. pleading glance. Once they left, I waited to clean the room. I counted the bundle of cash left in the paper parcel. It was enough to carry me two seasons, but more so, along with the rest, it was enough to start a new life. I opened a bottle of wine and drank half before even grabbing the cleaning supplies. I knew what kind of mess awaited me in that bathroom. At least this time, I wouldn't have to replace the carpet. When I finally made it to the old room, it was morning. I opened the door and the rising sun cast a light across the neatly made beds and overstuffed

as I walked towards the bathroom. Something on the bed caught my eye. Laid neatly on one of the seemingly unused pillows was a photograph. I put down my cleaning supplies and picked up the photo. It It was torn on one side, so it was only half of the picture. It shouldn't have been shocking, but it did catch me off guard. It was a photo of the young girl, and she was holding hands with another child. Me. It made sense, since I'm sure we known each other our whole lives. There was nothing unusual about me, except for how happy I looked.

Her, on the other hand, seemed somehow different. It took me a moment to realize what was. was off about her, but when I did, I gasped. She was younger. Not much younger than she appeared now, but younger than I'd seen her in decades. The photo itself was taken here at the motel just outside of the office. I'd recognized the background, not only because it was a familiar space, but because I'd seen this photo before somewhere, it clicked. I abandoned the cleaning. and ran back to the office with a photo in hand. Hung above the fireplace in the office, just across from the desk, was a collection of photos

my mother had curated over the years. It was mostly my parents and I, but there were also snapshots of famous guests or old regulars. I ran my fingers over the torn edge of the photo of myself and the little girl, and I remembered one specific photo that hung over the fireplace. It was small and odd-shaped, but it was my mother's favorite because of how happy my father and her looked. It was just the two of them standing outside the office, smiling.

It was taken in the same spot as the one of me and the little girl. I ripped the photo of my parents off the wall and broke the frame too impatient to be delicate. I pulled the small odd-shaped photo from the frame and confirmed my suspicion. was torn. I held the photo of my parents up with a photo of the little girl and myself. They were two halves of the same photo. And though I couldn't remember her face, I knew immediately who the little girl was. I held the photo close to my nose and breathed in deep. Soft lavender. She was my older sister. understood the deal my parents had made.

I had made the decision to close the motel long before my sister left that photograph. The plans were in motion, and it seemed as if nothing was going to stop the sale, that is, until he arrived. I hadn't bothered to clean their room after the family had left, too emotionally drained to take on the horrifying task. Instead, I retreated back into the house to surround my myself with memories and make a meal that my mother used to make for my sister, spaghetti and meatballs with garlic toast.

It was comforting. I was cleaning up after dinner when I heard the front door opened to the office. The old service bell at the front desk rang loud enough for me to hear. The vacancy sign had long been extinguished and the front door to the office had been locked after the family left. Whoever had rung the bell, they were not welcomed in. I opened the door slowly, with a kitchen knife gripped tightly in my hand. We're closed.

I warned them. The door swung open to an empty room. I'm late, said a voice from the darkest corner of the room. He looked like an animal cowering in the corner, bowled up and small. He was more of an unkempt shape than a person covered in mud and grime. When he stood up, I saw how bad he looked. The dirt reached every crevice as if he were buried in it, and only the whites of his eyes stood out from the black coat of mud. He was thin, almost emaciated, but still had a strength about him.

I'm sorry, but we're closed, I repeated. But the sign, he said, pointing up at the, you're always welcome sign, hanging just outside the window. That, uh, we don't have any clean rooms. I'm sorry. You'll have to find somewhere else. I said, feeling a sudden sense of discomfort. His white eyes met mine with a stare so intense it felt as if he were looking straight through me. But we already have a room, he said. His voice was soft yet commanding and wholly devoid of emotion. It was then that I recognized him. He was the teenage boy from the family, though thinner than I remembered.

His familiar young features were caked in filth, but I knew it was him. He knew that I knew. Have they departed? He asked. I nodded. Have they left me anything? He asked. His voice finally cracking.

I didn't know. know how to answer. I wasn't sure what he meant. Have they left any behind? He said, sounding suddenly desperate. I don't know. I said, pulling the room keys from their hook. But you're welcome to check. He took the keys from my hands, his eyes lingering on my arm. It was as if he saw something I did not. Thank you, he said, and left the office. office, trailing mud out the door. It wasn't until he was gone that I realized the trail

of mud only led outside. That night, I couldn't sleep. I watched his room from my window and waited for him to leave, but once he closed that door, it seemed as though he disappeared inside. He never even turned on the light. I only left my perch long enough to make coffee, but even then I listened for the creek of that heavy old door. I never did hear it. When day came, I decided to check on him. I knocked many times and announced my intent to enter. He didn't respond. The door opened with that familiar old creek, and the sun once again crept into that dark room. Cigarette smoke still hung heavy in the air and danced in the beams of light. The room key sat idle next to the ashtray.

Hello? I said. The room itself appeared empty, but I traced his money tracks from the door to the table, then to the bathroom. He'd smoke the old butts left by the others and left nothing behind but burnt filters. The beds, again, were untouched. I knocked gently on the bathroom door. You okay?

I asked. The carpet slid. flushed under feet, wet from the bathroom overflow. I'm coming in, I announced, already turning the knob. As the bathroom door turned inward, it pushed aside a layer of sticky wet sludge. It was a mixture of deep red and earthen brown. The putrid sweet smell of decay hit before my eyes could comprehend the horror of what lay before me. The bathtub was half filled with thick old blood and clumps of mud left behind by

the boy. His clothes were piled in a damp muddy heap just outside the bath. The floor was sticky, with blood and dirt. But still, I stepped inside. The bathroom was full enough with that gruesome sludge that something could still be hiding beneath the surface, as I'd done many times. before, I reached in and pulled the plug. My hand brushed against something inside, and I recoiled. The bubbling gurgle of rotting body fluids oozed down the drain as I waited to see what was hidden inside. Thankfully, it was not the boy.

It was the severed leg of a deer that had brushed my hand. The muck left behind in the emptied bath was a slid. slurry of torn organ meat and unrendered fat, the remnants of a slaughtered beast. In all my years cleaning, they'd never left this kind of evidence. It was always blood, massive amounts of blood and bile, but never anything that couldn't be drained. I assumed then that this was left by the boy. I did my best to shovel the decaying bits of carcass into a plastic bag, and then used old

sheets and towels to sop up the puddles of putrid death that remained. I threw all of it into the burn pit out back. I emptied an entire bucket of bleach into the bathroom just to hide the smell. Exhausted, I fell asleep on the bed. The odors of death and cigarette smoke around me. I dreamt of my sister, for the first time in as long as I could remember, I could see her face again. When I awoke, it was still the afternoon, but the boy hadn't arrived. I was hungry and covered in filth.

I showered in the hottest water I could stand, hoping to burn the odor from my skin. Afterwards, I made a sandwich and returned to my perch at the window. I'd left the door open to air out the room. I figured that if he'd returned, he would close it, but it was open. came, and I wondered if he'd just gone on ahead searching for the family. I decided that I should close the door and lock it. I'd taken his key with me after I'd cleaned, so if he wanted back in, he'd have to ask. The moment my foot stepped past the threshold of the room, I saw his white eyes shrouded in the shadows. He was standing just outside the open bathroom. He stood

there, motionless and nude, but covered in something else. It wasn't the dirt like before, but a deep red crust that cracked dry on his skin. It's not enough. It's rotted, he said from the shadows. What are you? I blurted out. He waited in eternity to answer, just staring at me from across the room. You know? He said. In a weak, hushushed. voice. I don't. Is my sister? Is she like you? I asked. He nodded in a way that seemed he was

confused that I was even asking. I stepped backwards out of the room. He stepped forward into the faint moonlight shining across the floor. His body was covered in dry blood and his hair was matted in a thick black tangle. Please don't hurt me. I stuttered. His eyes grew wide as he approached, before he stopped suddenly. His ghoulish features were suddenly awash in amber headlights. He recoiled and retreated back into the shadows of the room. I turned to see the blinding beams of an old pickup truck as it pulled into our parking lot. I glanced back at the boy, but he was gone. The door to the truck opened, and a tall sinewy man with clothes-cropped hair and thick-rimmed glasses stepped out.

He was an older gentleman, grey around the temples, but not elderly by any means. His stature was intimidating, and his voice was deep. Hello, he said, still hidden behind the bright lights of the truck. Can I help you? I asked, shielding my eyes. Sorry. He apologized. Then leaned back into the cab.

and turned off the lights. I felt myself trapped between the monster behind me and the stranger approaching from the front. Without realizing, I'd backed myself against the wall. You work here? He asked, noting my retreat and stepping back himself. No vacancies, I said, slightly louder than needed. He looked around the lot and squinted at the darkened motel sign. Right. He said, we're, uh, closed now. I'm sorry. I said, slightly softer. I'd like to stay the night if that's possible. It's been a bit of a drive and we both know there aren't any options anywhere close. We don't have any rooms available, I said, clearing my throat.

What about that one? He asked, pointing behind me to the open door. It isn't clean, I explained. I don't mind, he said, closing the door to his truck. I can pay in cash if you fancy it. I shook my head. He leaned one hand on the truck. None of the rooms are furnished. This one was, but an animal got in there and died.

I was cleaning it. It wouldn't be sanitary. He stepped forward into the lights of the motel. His face was hard and serious and altogether unsettling. I couldn't help but think back to that writer about what he said. This man could be one of them, I thought. Here I was with my back to a danger that I couldn't comprehend while in front of me stood a potential serial killer.

He must have read the discomfort on my face. Okay, then. Do you mind if I park here for the night, sleep in my truck? He asked, trying to sound disarming. I thought about it long and hard. I don't see why not, I said, against my better judgment. He smiled and opened the door to his truck. I appreciate it.

He said, disappointed. I turned back towards the room, but even with the light from the truck, I couldn't see inside. I closed the door and locked it. After that, I locked every door I walked. through until I was in my own bedroom. Still uneasy about the two threats that were sleeping only a few hundred feet away, I decided to arm myself. I don't like guns.

I've never owned one and I don't care to ever buy one, but my father taught me how to shoot. In fact, he taught me to shoot with my grandfather's old revolver, the same one that was locked in a box beneath my bed. It was my father's lockbox, and aside from the gun, I had no one. idea what I'd find. I had to use a hammer and old screwdriver to break the lock, and after only a few attempts, I was able to pop it open. As expected, the gun set atop a pile of important documents, photos, and small mementos that meant something to my father at some point in his life. Six loose bullets rattled around the steel box. They appeared to be handmade, not purchased, and somehow older than

myself. Each one tipped in shiny, polished, silver. I loaded the revolver and sat it aside. The photos hidden beneath it were not ones I'd recognized from my childhood. These were all for some reason private to him. The top photograph was of my parents years before I was born. My aunt that I hadn't seen in years stood next to my mother, smiling and holding the hand. of a man in his early thirties. The man looked eerily familiar. He reminded me, maybe too much, of the middle-aged man in the family, though the man in the photo looked too happy to be the expressionless shell I'd known my whole life. The photo beneath that one was of my grandfather standing stone-faced in front of the earliest version of the motel. Beside him were four others,

who were, without a doubt, four members of the family. None of them, my grandfather included, were smiling. To the right of my grandfather, stood the older two members of the family, than the middle-aged woman and the teenage girl. The boy and the middle-aged man were missing. The photo was old and faded, but even then it was clear they looked the same as they did only a few days ago. Beneath that, I found my sister's birth certificate, old bonds, the deed to the motel, and other uninteresting documents of worth. Below everything, though, was one more thing. A stiff card wrapped in the same paper the family's money was wrapped in, tied with the same twine. I opened it. I unwrapped it to reveal the backside of a photograph newer than the others, with

Chicago, 1974, written in a handwriting that was foreign to me. It was not my mothers or fathers. I flipped the photo and felt a cold chill run down my spine. I saw myself younger than I'd ever seen in any family photo. I was dressed in corduroy overalls and standing in front of an old building. The oddest thing, though, was that I was standing between two vaguely familiar adults holding their hands. All three of us were smiling. I wish I could say I was able to place their faces, but I could not. I had to assume they were family friends, but to my knowledge, my parents never had many friends, and those that did would be the ones to visit us. My entire life, my parents made the motel the priority. We'd never taken a family trip together outside of a holiday

weekend at my aunts. In fact, as far as I could recall, neither of them had ever mentioned visiting Chicago, and they definitely never said anything about seeing friends there. Who were these people? Where were my parents? Why wasn't my sister with me? My breath grew more rapid with each thought, and I slammed the box shut. I already, had too many questions that seemed to be impossible to answer. I wasn't ready for more. Thankfully, the exhaustion overwhelmed my mind and I eventually drifted off to sleep. The loaded guns sat safely on the nightstand next to me. I'd even pushed a chair beneath the knob of my bedroom door. With the heavy curtains pulled closed, the sun never crept in, and

I woke very late in the morning. Even before coffee, I made my way out to the the parking lot. The truck, however, was already gone. I started to feel a tinge of guilt for judging the strange man as I did. That guilt, though, would only deepen as the day progressed. I opened the door to the boys' room. The morning sun flooded in, immediately casting away any dark corners. The smell of iron hit my nose. The carpet leading to the bathroom door was soaking wet, The door was unlocked, but as I opened it, I heard the familiar slosh of coagulated blood being pushed aside. I stepped into a familiar, but no less unsettling sight, of a tiled white bathroom coated in a crimson blood. I prayed to myself that it was again that of an animal,

though even that did not sit well with my conscience. Just to be safe, I decided to clean. I needed to be sure that no trace of the teenage boy was left behind, just in case somebody else came through unexpected. That strange man now made me nervous in an entirely different way. I was so focused that I forgot to make myself coffee. Instead, I went straight to work sopping up the massive amounts of blood. It was only when I was on the floor scrubbing, that I noticed some of the blood steep through seams in the tiled floor, narrow cracks in three straight lines forming a box against the wall. I then noticed that the baseboard beneath the sink had been removed, and there were small finger-sized holes in the floor where it met the wall.

I crawled across the floor, still slick with blood and slipped my fingers in. I was able to get underneath and pull up what turned out to be a door or hatch in the wall. floor. As I pulled it open, blood seeped down into the crawl space beneath a bathroom, a crawl space that until now, I had no idea even existed. I had no choice but to investigate. It wasn't large, but deep enough to walk through without crawling. It spread maybe 10 feet in every direction. It was dark, but my phone's flashlight was bright enough to reveal even the furthest corner. Thankfully, the boy was nowhere to be seen. The floor beneath me was soft dirt, made muddy from the blood that seeped down. The walls appeared to be crafted from old red brick and

mortared in place, unlike any other foundation on the property. Words written, in an unfamiliar language, were carved into the walls. It smelled of smoke, stale breath, and iron. I moved further in to explore the hidden room. Strange crystalline rocks were scattered half buried around the floor, much like the ones you'd find in the now-closed caverns. The most unsettling aspect, though, was the heaps of soft dirt that were arranged in seven large piles throughout the room. One for each member of the family.

Immediately, the room itself felt heavy with dread. I got out as quickly as possible. I left the crawl space as I'd found it and replaced the baseboard just in case. I finished cleaning the bathroom and doused everything in bleach, careful to avoid the cracks in the floor. When I returned to the office, there was a message flashing in red on the office phone. I checked it, and it was from my lawyer, so I returned the call. He informed me that the buyer from the property was expected to stop by.

I was told he wanted to see it firsthand, but he was an odd fellow and may not announce his intentions. I could only assume it was the man from last night. He then changed the subject, and with a somber tone in his voice, he asked if I'd heard from anyone in my family. No, I told him, aside from my aunt, I had no family left. Well, then, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but she passed a few weeks ago. He said, clearly uncomfortable. What?

What happened? I asked, expecting anything at this point. From what I understand, there was a fire at her property and everything she possessed had perished in it along with her. Her estate had a little trouble getting in touch with me. He said, so the business is gone? I asked. Because she, like my parents.

owned a small hospitality business. While it wasn't a motel, it was what you'd consider a bed and breakfast. Honestly, it was less of a business and more of a hobby for her. Everything. He confirmed. There was a moment of awkward silence, and I could hear him shuffling through papers on the end of the line. Is there anything I need to do? Or are you going to take care of transfers or a state or whatever? I mean, other than the property, I don't know what I'd want of hers. Hell, even the property. I'm not sure I want to deal with. This place is enough. I chuckled in an awkward moment of levity. He didn't laugh. Instead, I just heard more shuffling. That is the strange thing. She left you nothing. He said rather

bluntly. That's fine with me. I'd rather not deal with it. Well, he said. You still may have to. You see, she left everything to your sister. How old was her will? I asked. She updated it after your parents passed. Oh. But I guess now would be the time to open the envelope they left for her. Might have some answers.

Oh, okay. I'll do that. I said, already worrying about... dealing with it all. The conversations shifted onto other aspects of the sale and what I'd need to do to prepare for it. All the while, the man from last night was in the back of my mind, in an unexpected turn of events. I was hoping he'd return. After the call, I tried to push it all out of my mind. The boy was gone, and as far as I knew, the man had left in the morning as well. I was alone again, high in the mountains in this isolated, lonely motel.

I wasn't hungry, but I fixed myself a drink and decided to take my lawyer's advice. I retrieved the third letter left by my parents from the cabinet where it had stayed since the day he dropped it off. Carefully, I tore open one end. Even folded, I could see through the thin parchment that the message was brief, But it was undeniably written in my mother's handwriting. It said, I fear they are no longer the ones we loved.

Burn it down. Burn it all down. Those words rung clear in my head, as if my mother were whispering them in my ear. Trust me, I wanted nothing more than to be done with this, the motel and the family, but there were some things I just couldn't let go. I started to worry that if I sold the motel, other secrets would be revealed.

Dark secrets. Damaging secrets. I could fill in that pit below their room, but what else was hiding on the motel grounds? I had no choice, but to wait for the sale to either go through or fail. In the meantime, I packed up what I could from our old family home. Every photograph of my parents now felt different. Less genuine. Why would they keep so much from me?

I asked out loud to a room of family artifacts and meaningless mementos. Nobody answered me. Two days passed, and I waited for either the boy or the man in the truck to return. Instead, the first car to pull into my parking lot was that of the local sheriff. My body tensed, and my mind went to the rum and the blood-soaked carpet that I had to be I never replaced. I questioned whether or not I'd actually be honest if he asked about it. Yes, of course I'd be. I had nothing to hide. I knew nothing, nothing, except for the fact that I'd rented rooms to soulless immortal creatures that somehow acquired gallons upon gallons of blood

without notice. I began to doubt my own composure. I waited at the open door to the office, while he sat in the cruiser for ten minutes or so. I wasn't sure if he saw me or not, but regardless, I held my ground. I noticed a little too late my cleaning supplies abandoned in the lobby next to gallons of bleach. The cruiser door slammed shut and snapped my attention back to him. As he approached, he scanned the surroundings, taking note of the unlit vacancy sign. He turned back and registered the curtainless windows of each emptied room. That is, of course, except for the families. Afternoon, he said with the tip of his hat. What can I do for you? I asked, as friendly as possible. He removed his shades and peeked over my shoulder into the lobby. Wondering if I could have a moment

of your time to ask some questions, he said with a smile. Regarding, well, he turned back to the mostly emptied rooms. You have any guests recently? He asked. Closed down a few weeks back, unfortunately. I said, trying to hide my anxiety. That's not what I asked, he said, smiling again, but this time with menace. Sorry?

I apologize. I don't mean to be rude or nothing, but we know Bill Henley was on his way up here a few days back. Just wondering if he made it. Sorry, I don't know him. I said, hoping to end the conversation there. You don't know the man who is fixing on buying your place, he asked, again looking back at the family's room. Oh, him.

Yeah, him, he said, prying for more. I, um, my lawyer handled it all. I didn't meet him. I lied. Not even when he stopped. here for the night, he asked, showing his cards. I swallowed hard. I wanted to tell the truth, but I wasn't ready for what came with it. Oh, did he drive a truck? I asked. He did? Then, yes, I saw it, parked it over there, I said, foolishly pointing towards the room. The sheriff turned to

the room, to the parking spot, to my secrets. He took out a note pad and began to write something down. But he didn't stay with us. We were closed, so he slept in his car, I think. I stuttered. Think, he asked, looking back to me. Well, I didn't see him leave, but yeah, he was here for a bit, if, you know, the truck belonged to him and all, I said, fumbling over my words. It did, he said, putting the notebook away. You mind if I take a look around? Of course not, I said, the words tumbling out of my mouth before my mind could stop them. I stepped aside to sort of lead him into the lobby, away from the family's room.

Immediately, he took notice of the cleaning supplies and the bleach. Is there a problem? Is he okay? I asked, regretting my words immediately. The sheriff's gaze lingered on the bleach for a very long time. He then turned his attention back to me. I could see his mind working over something, thinking. Suddenly, it felt as if the air in the room shifted.

His entire demeanor changed, and I felt an aura of warmth from him. He shrugged and cracked a smile. Well, I figured it's going to be on the news soon anyway, if it ain't. already. What? I asked. Well, nothing good, that's for sure. That truck you saw, they found it about two hundred or so miles west of here, off the 80.

All the way out there. What was he doing? I asked, feigning surprise. Well, we don't know. We don't know where he is, he said. His gaze drifting now to the knick-knacks and photographs. Oh. Well, that's not good.

I said truthfully. Well, you really ain't going to like the next part. That buyer of yours has a lot to answer for. Like what? I asked. Well, the body they found in the cab burnt to a crisp, abandoned, he said, picking up a photograph of myself and my parents. I thought you said he was missing.

You sure it wasn't him? I asked, trying to find something to do with my fidgeting hands. Too young, too small to be him. Best we can recon, it's a young man they found. No ID, though, John Doe, he said, looking hard at the photo. These your parents? I nodded. He looked back at the photo, then back at me.

Biological? He asked. I'm told that I look more like my grandson. grandparents, really, I said. He smiled and returned the photo. I believe he then looked for photos of my grandparents, but there were none. We stood there, trapped in a long, awkward silence. I motioned towards the kitchen door behind the front desk. Did you still want to look around? I asked, trying to lead him. Nah, maybe later. Just needed to confirm he was here, really, he said, making his way back outside.

I followed. Okay, well, thank you for stopping by, I said foolishly. He paused at the door, acknowledging my awkward statement. Then I saw it again, his mind working. He put his sunglasses back on. He was alone here, you said. He asked. I fought hard.

What did I tell him? Did I slip? I couldn't remember. I don't know, I said. He looked at me as if he could tell I was lying. Could have been someone else in the truck. It was dark. I can't say for sure.

I stammered out. He nodded in acceptance. Thank you for your time. He said. And with that, he was gone. But as he drove by the only remaining curtain still hanging in the motel rooms, He made a point to slow and look as he passed. I waited until he was out of sight and then ran back home as fast as I could.

As soon as I reached the bathroom, I vomited. My nerves were a tangle of anxiety and guilt. I knew that the body they found had to belong to the teenage boy, but what about the man? He was either still alive or still here. I searched the motel grounds for any sign of the man or other secret spots. I wandered past the property line into the clearing, and with the sunlight beating down on me, I had an epiphany. The teenage boy was on his way to another place like ours, a sanctuary.

He would never have let himself get caught outside like that, not on purpose. In all my years of knowing the family, I'd never seen them at any time. time close to dawn or dusk, they were experts at avoiding the sun. Wherever he was going, he couldn't have been far from his destination. I knew what I had to do. I had to find their next stop. I had to know if it was anything like the motel, and if it was, how? Why? Could there be more of these earthen rooms cluttered with crystals in soft dirt, covered in strangely written, ruins. I had to know. I packed what I could into a small car and locked up the motel. Before I left, I made sure to reload my grandfather's gun and place it in my bag, which I then placed on the passenger

seat. I wasn't sure what I was looking for, but I was fairly certain that if I found anything, I had to be ready. The drive was long, but I drove slowly. I kept an eye out for any building or structure that could hide them. Luckily, the highway was an extension of the one that the motel sat on. It was another dead road, a long stretch of nothing, so spotting anything would be easy. As I passed the 200-mile marker, I slowed to a crawl and leaned over my steering wheel. An old barn crept into view around the 220 mark, and I knew it had to be there. It was the only building within miles. I pulled into the old dark road alongside deep tire tracks left when the rain softened in mud. I stepped out of my car and pocketed the revolver. The sky overhead was gray and made for a

dark afternoon. I followed the tracks as they led into the old rotted barn. The heavy doors were in disrepair, but the hinges swung as if they were new. Inside the barn, was a little bit of the barn, was what you would expect from an antique structure. Old brittle hay and rusted equipment were left and forgotten. Everything looked as if it hadn't been touched in decades, everything except for a strange metal watering trough in the center of the barn. The sickening realization of what it was had set in before I even saw the familiar dark rings around the inside. Like the the bath in their room. This had been filled with blood. The ground surrounding the trough was stained from decades of crimson eye-core seeping into it. As I stepped close, I stomped.

The hollow echo of an empty chamber could be heard below. I kicked aside the dust and hay to reveal the trap door. There was less effort put into hiding this one, but then again the The location itself was a hiding spot. I found the finger holes and pulled open the door. That familiar scent of smoke, stale breath, and iron wafted up. I pulled the revolver from my pocket and climbed down. The room was smaller than the one at the hotel, but it was very much the same. Odd words were again carved into the walls, but wood replaced brick in this more ramshack

construction. The strange crystalline rocks were placed around the room in a pattern I hadn't noticed at the motel. There were fewer here, but enough to catch my eye. I pulled one out of the dirt and held it in my hand. Soft, dusted salt seemed to rub off with the slightest touch. It was heavy in my hand, more than you'd expect. I held it into the light from my phone. There were dark red and blue mineral veins, streaking through the otherwise milky white crystal. It was so dry, it felt as if it sucked the moisture from my fingertips. I pocketed it and continued on into the darkness. My foot sunk into an exceptionally soft patch of dirt. I realized I was standing on one of the earthen mounds, same as the seven in the motel chamber. One, however, was unlawful. Was unlawful,

Unlike the rest, the dirt was discolored and more dry than the other mounds. There was also a fleck of white protruding just beneath the gray, unfurtile soil. Hunched over, I made my way to the dying mound and uncovered a note written on a white piece of paper, a white piece of paper that just so happened to be stationary from our motel. It read, Father, if you found your way here, I'm sorry. We waited for three days, but the fire burned so hot, Master said you could not return. I begged her to wait, but the soil grew damp and we had to move on. If you've made it here, you know about the orphan.

Our oldest home is in danger. In my slumber, I still feel your presence, so I have hope you will find a us soon. Hopefully so, as we've left you a meal in the old farmhouse far from the road. I hope that it gives you the strength to find us again. Signed, Matthew. I left the note where it laid. The farmhouse in question was far from the barn, but I worried that driving up might bring unwanted attention. I walked through waste-high grass on the untilled soil of dirt farmland. This plot of land had long been forgotten. The house itself was in better condition than the farm, but not by much. It had been lived in recently, but how recent I couldn't be sure. It was far from

the highway and isolated in a way only rural homes can be. I approached from the side of the home and peered through the dust-covered windows. The decor had a timeless, untethered look, and it was unclear if it had been abandoned for years, or if the residents just had peculiar taste. Regardless, I saw no signs of movement inside. I thought about entering through the window, but caught myself and did the rational thing. I knocked on the front door. I thought I heard a brief flurry of restrained movement somewhere inside the house. My hand went immediately to the revolver. My voice was nodded and stuck in my throat. I swallowed hard and tried to call out, but my nerves wouldn't allow it. Instead, I reached out for the doorknob, and the moment my fingers made contact, the door drifted open.

I felt as if I were being invited inside. My shoes slipped slightly on an old pile of mail stacked up from years of neglect. Some were postmarked from as far back as the late 90s. My first instinct about the decor was correct. Thick layers of dust seemed to coat most things in the home, but certain spots had been wiped clean with use. A path in the hallway rug was worn down from recent footsteps. I followed them to the kitchen. There were dishes in the sink and a box of discontinued cereal on the counter next to an empty jug of milk. The power had long ago been shut off, and the contents of the fridge,

had rotted past the state of decay and no longer even smelled. The ash tray on the kitchen table, however, was packed full of fresh butts. A single unsmoked cigarette was left next to a matchbook. One thing became obvious. The meal was not left in the kitchen. Hello, I called out, adjusting my grip on the revolver. A metallic rattle and a pained moan came from somewhere in another room. I stepped carefully in the direction of the ghostly noise. I could hear a subtle rhythmic tapping coming from behind the door of a room at the end of the hallway. The distance to that door felt longer than the distance from the house to the barn. The long, drawn-out moan seemed to seep out from beneath the cracks in the door. I removed the gun from my

jacket pocket, and with my other hand, I carefully opened the door. The ghoulish noise ceased in the moments that the door opened. Replaced by the squeak of unused hinges, I stepped back and aimed. But it was just a bathroom. The soft blue and peptop-pto-pink tiles were not the horror I expected on the other side of the door. The pipes beneath the sink, let out another ghostly moan as they groaned from unused and the steady drip of a leaky faucet pattered behind the shower curtain. I understand now that it wasn't the brightest idea, but I'd driven for hours and I had no other options, none that would provide the comfort of a seat. So I placed the gun on the sink and sat down.

I only had a moment of relief before I saw the silhouette behind a side of the silhouette behind a the semi-opake shower curtain. I pushed on the curtain, thinking it was just a trick of the light, but my hand-made contact was something solid. Before I could stand, the silhouette formed into the figure of a person as it reached out towards me. I stood quickly, but a withered white hand covered in blood emerged from the shower. I tripped and tried to catch myself. I tried to catch myself. I I grabbed hold of the only thing standing between myself and the figure, the shower curtain. As I fell back, the curtain tore from the rings and fell onto me. Frantically I crawled backwards out from under the curtain and out of the room, away

from the gun. I struggled to my feet, realizing that the thing standing in front of me was not pursuing me. Instead, the emaciated figure of a dead man hung suspended above the bathtub swaying slightly from my push. The room began to spin as the horror of what was in front of me became clearer, with the sound of every wet drop of blood dripping into the bath. He was the meal. I grabbed the gun and before I knew it, I was already outside.

I considered my options. I thought about burning it down, but that would only bring attention. I knew nothing about fingerprints and fire and evidence. The safest option was to do nothing. This house had remained hidden for so long, why wouldn't it stay that way? Just to be safe, though, I took the shower curtain and wiped down any surface I remembered touching. I locked the door from the inside and closed it. The walk back to the barn was long and arduous.

I replayed the images in my mind over and over, and thought back to the bathtub I'd cleaned so many times before. If there were any doubt in my mind before, it had been erased. The family that I had known my whole life were no longer human. They truly were creatures of the night that prayed on the week, and drank their blood. It should have been obvious. And maybe it was. Maybe my parents knew all along they had to. But me, it had only coalesced in my mind after seeing the body. It became clear as day. Every four years, for a week at a time, I had been in the presence of an unearthly

evil. They were inhuman, unnatural, and otherworldly. They were vampires. We were just one stop on their tour of death. They must have other places like ours, just close enough to make it in a night's drive. My aunt lived only a few hours east of us. My memories of visiting her came flooding back. It now made sense that every time I stepped into the guest house, behind her home, the cellar door would smell of smoke, stale breath, iron, and every once in a while, soft lavender too. It seems now that my aunt did what my parents couldn't. That's probably why they left her that last letter.

They knew that she'd be capable of doing what they never could. They'd made the deal and tolerated slaughter under their roof, but part of me understood why. Even if they wanted to burn it all down, she was still their little girl, and she needed a safe place. As I stood in front of the burn pit out back behind the motel, I watched the plastic shower curtain curl and melt in the flames. A flicker of light off glass caught my eye just outside. the center of the fire. I used a stick to dig it out. Glasses. Thick-rimmed glasses. He was never coming back. Bill Henley, the man who was going to purchase my motel, was not coming back.

Like it or not, this motel was still mine. And as far as I knew, I still had four years to figure out what to do with it. Over the next few days, I was little more than a ghost haunting the motel grounds. I drifted from room to room, trying to cobble together a purpose. I'd quickly realized that I was bound to this property. And whether it was an ancient family curse or a legal contract, I was supposed to stay here and maintain the property. I felt obligated to protect my sister, even if she barely resembled the little girl I remembered. My mother, for all her faults, had done what she could to protect her daughter.

Working over the events in my mind and recounting the visits of the family, I'd come to the conclusion that my parents had made a deal to save my sister. I remember her illness. I remember her withering away before my eyes. She was going to die. It was a fact, but somehow she didn't. She continued living as an eternal child, cursed to walk in ever-evolving earth as she herself was frozen in prepubescence.

They'd changed her, and I was determined to figure out how. I looked for clues in my father's old lockbox, but found little more than unfamiliar photos and documents that no longer had any relevance. One thing that stood out, though, was an early memeno that my grandfather had kept. It was the first brochure for the cave system. If not for the scribbled red circle on the map, it may have been worth something. I spent an entire day sifting through the dirt in the space below their room, the soft earth that filled their mounds was starting to change, with the exception of what I assume was

the teenage boys. The dark earthen mounds were starting to dry and crumble. The boy's spot was still dark with a fresh dampness about it, though it grew more dry and brittle with every passing day. The salty crystalline rocks placed near each mound seemed to draw out whatever moisture was in the dirt, drying it into a dead useless dust. The crystals themselves were not unique nor rare by any means. They were the same ones that lined the ceilings and floors in the deepest chambers of the caverns.

I remembered them from my childhood visits. I felt a strange longing to return there. I needed to uncover its secrets. While they'd been closed for almost a year now, there was still a park ranger named Graham, who remained on the premises. He would sometimes stop by for some of our free lobby coffee, always overpaying. He joked that we were the only coffee shop in town, which was partially true. I hadn't seen him in a few months, but his truck would pass by regularly as he would survey the outlying grounds. I could tell he was bored, and I thought that I could manipulate that into an eagerness to help me.

I called ahead, but the line went straight through to an automated recording, an apology to potential visitors about the indefinite closure. With little else to do, I made some coffee and filled the thermos for him. I drove down to the closed lot and parked just outside the locked fence. I could see his truck parked outside, so I knew he was there. He saw me arriving on the security camera, so he was already greeting me with a wave as I crossed the closed parking lot. Afternoon, Graham? I said on approach.

What brings you down here? Research? I said, asking myself the same question. When was the last time you made it here? Years. My folks were still around. Ah, well, there's a lot to see. The remodel finished right before the shutdown. I've been dying to show somebody around, so I'm glad you're here, he said, opening the door. I gave him the coffee, and his eyes went wide.

He stopped coming by after I closed up shop. so I could tell he was grateful to have one last cup. We walked into the dimly lit lobby, potent with the smell of new carpet and fresh paint. Wait here, I'm going to go turn everything on, he said, clearly excited. I stood in the darkness for almost a minute before the lights came on with a quiet hum of electric life. The lobby was filled with media displays of the cavern's history. There were photos and stories of opening day with updates for each anniversary.

As I waited for Graham to return, I studied the older photos behind the glass case nearest to me. Suddenly, the hairs on my neck stood straight. I swore I could feel someone watching me. It was only then that I noticed his gaze staring back from one very old photograph. In it, a familiar figure stood at the center of a group of visitors looking back at me. It was the old man from the family. It was as if he were somehow staring at me through the photo. His eyes locked on the lens of the camera and in turn on me.

It was hard to discern his age and that old faded photo, but he looked very much the same as he did today. The only difference was that instead of his usual gray suit, he was wearing a park ranger uniform. Ah, you've met Jerry, said Graham with a laugh. Jerry, I asked. I mean, we don't actually know his name, but we all call him Jerry. He was one of the first rangers to work the park. Him and his colleagues were responsible for a lot of the early mapping of the cave system. This photo and a bunch of other stuff was found locked in an old utility closet.

Didn't even know it existed because that particular cave was closed off. Check it out. He said, leading me over to the illustrated map covering the entire wall. He pointed to a blank spot on the map. Found it right there, actually. I'd brought my grandfather's old brochure, so I pulled it out to compare to the current map. The black tunnel he was pointing to still existed on my grandfather's map. Yeah, they left out a few of the trickier spots on the new maps.

They didn't want to entice explorers into places they might not get out of. He said, might not get out of, I asked. Yeah, steep inclines, drop-offs, or just plain tight squeezes, you know. They left those spots off and the map you see today is just the safest. what we call vanilla trails. I showed him the red circle at the end of a pathway that they decided to omit in the modern map. Any idea why that's circled? I asked. Looks like the gulch, or at least whatever is past it.

What's past it? What's the gulch? I asked. Not much to tell. It's one of those steepest descents and it's almost impassable without gear or ladder. which is a shame, really. I hear it's the most beautiful place in the system. It's got very unique, veined stalagmites. Like this? I said, pulling the crystalline rock from my pocket. You're showing me a federal offense.

I hope you know that. He said with a chuckle. I mean, you're literally showing me plundered goods. Where'd you even get it? My grandfather's collection. I confessed. They were a little more willy-nilly with rules back then. Everybody was taking tokens and souvenirs.

Before the Tucker Boy, they kind of let people just roam, he said, pointing at a photo of well-dressed folks climbing a dangerous rock formation. What happened to the Tucker Boy? I asked. No clue. That was the problem. They looked for him for weeks. He was visiting with his wife and son and went missing. Well, right around the gulch, actually.

Which is why it's not on the maps, he said, with another educational chuckle. I thought you said he was a boy. 18, but he was married with a son. Times were different back then. Graham walked over to another glass case, away from the main display. They've talked about taking this down for the rent. I mean, it is a little dark," he said, pointing in a display of old missing persons photos spanning the decades of the park's operations.

I had no idea. I gasped. That's him right there, Mr. Tucker himself. He said, pointing at a class photo of a face I knew all too well. The teenage boy from the family stared back. younger and happier. I was transfixed, but Graham was already moving on. Listen, I got nothing on the docket today.

So if you want, I can take you close to the gulch. I just got to get some lights, he said, already on his way to get them. As I waited for his return, I made my way to the elevators that would bring us down into the caverns. The gift shop was located just across from them, so it would be the first thing visitors would see when they resurfaced. Cheesy t-shirts, postcards, and other junk were crammed into the small space. The entire shop seemed to be designed to frame a bookshelf filled entirely with copies of a history book about the caverns. Curious, I opened the book and flipped through the first few pages.

It was as if the old man were haunting me through time itself. Again, his blizzard. His blizzard. A blank stare caught my eyes immediately, looking out from a full-page photograph of a staff photo inside the largest chamber of the caverns. It was labeled as October 23rd, 1924, one year after opening day. Even in his friendly park ranger uniform, his presence was so chilling that I almost missed her. the hand of the old man was the teenage girl. She looked very much the same, but thinner and more gaunt. My attention was suddenly stolen by the cluttered plank of Graham approaching with his gear. Did he have a daughter? I asked, pointing at the photo of the old man. Graham leaned over to give

a half-involved glance. Like I said, we don't even know his real name, he said with a half-shrug. He then walked over and hit the button for the elevator. His excitement was doing nothing to soften my growing anxiety over the photographs. The ride down took longer than I remembered, and my ears popped from the pressure change as we descended deep underground. As soon as the elevator doors opened into the first chamber, Graham disappeared into the darkness. Wait here, he said, stepping out. I followed, but stopped right outside the elevator. The dim emergency lights cast haunting shadows across the cavern walls.

It was just enough light for Graham to navigate without his flashlight. I could hear nothing but his footsteps and the muffled silence of the stale cavern air. When he reached his destination, his footsteps ceased and the silence settled in. To my right, I heard a distant footstep. flutter, and what I thought was a faint screech. A loud mechanical click signaled the lights turning on and filling even the deepest corners of the cavern with comforting light. Graham returned, and with a wave he ushered me to follow him. All right, let's start this private tour, he said, heading right in the direction of the

eerie sounds I'd just heard. There's no creaky plumbing. down here, is there?" I asked, remembering the sink in the old house. Nope. All creaky sounds are natural cave occurrences. He joked. At least I hoped he was joking. I followed him anyway. The walk through the main chambers and less traveled paths was long and filled mostly

with small talk. Graham lamented on the fact that reopening wasn't guaranteed, despite the money they spent. on the remodel. He truly loved the caverns and couldn't see himself doing anything else. People would die for this gig. I realize how lucky I am to have it, he said, with a tinge of real sadness. It became obvious that we were reaching the end of the modern map, because the light started to stagger more with longer distance between each light. The fixtures themselves were older than the rest, and some were entirely out, creating breaks of darkness in the already dim cavern.

Each time we reached an old iron gate, he would search a massive key ring for the one out of dozen keys that would open it. Eventually the lights no longer lit our way, and he switched on the lamps and handed me a helmet. I probably should have given you this earlier, but these low ceilings make it a necessity now. He said with a smile. I followed behind him in a half-crowch as he pointed out interesting geological sites that had been hidden from the public for decades. I noticed that some of the cave walls were starting to display that same dark red and blue mineral veins as the crystals I'd collected from their chamber. What's that?

I asked, pointing to ruin carvings I recognized from the room below the motel. No idea what it says. Old-timey graffiti, I guess, he assured me. As the ceiling and walls seemed to close in around us with each step, the warm air seemed thicker as well. I felt as though it was getting difficult to breathe, and my back was starting to ache from the unnatural posture. Graham must have sensed my discomfort.

It opens up a little bit further ahead. We're almost there. He said, trying to comfort me. He was right, and as soon as we reached the next chamber, the air seemed to grow colder as well. The floor that had until now been paved with a gripping cement had given way to the cavern's natural floor, a slippery surface that felt very much like sandstone. I present the gulch, he said, while grabbing a hold of my jacket to prevent me from passing him. He switched on a very bright lantern and lit up the enormous room.

My breath left my lungs, as I noticed why he'd grabbed a hold of me. The steep drop-off was only a few feet ahead, and it was more of a cliff than an incline. It dropped down maybe twenty or thirty feet into a lower tunnel that led into further darkness. How do we get down? I asked, leaning forward to get a better look. We don't. Tour stops here. If we so much as sprained an ankle, we're pretty much done for. No cell service. Nobody knows we're here, and nobody will come looking for weeks. That level of irresponsibility would cost me my job, he said, finally serious. But his adherence to the rules

went out the door when we heard that haunting sound. A faint cry echoed out from the darkness past the gulch. Do bats make it down this far? I asked, my voice shaky and afraid. I watched his mind wrestle with the possibilities as he shook his head slowly. Then what's that? I asked. He turned to me. He had. He turned to me. He had. He had. He had. He had His eyes wide and afraid, he shook his head again. As my own voice echoed down the cavernous path ahead, the sound ceased as if hearing me. In those brief moments of silence, when we still shared a doubt that we'd heard anything at all, I could feel him pull my jacket to lead me back out, but then we heard it.

You've returned. Asked a voice from the distant darkness. It sounded like an echo without a voice to reflect. I could feel Graham's body tense and stiffen with the acceptance that what we heard was very real and not from our own imaginations. What if you brought me? It called out, vulnerable and afraid. Nobody should be down here.

How'd you get down here? Graham asked, as if he wanted an answer from himself and not the ghostly voice below. There was a moment where neither spoke. It was as if both of them were working out what to say next. Who's up there? Please help. It said, the voice now small and almost childlike, more vulnerable than before. I'm a park ranger.

I can help you. He said, and I realized that it was now me holding onto his jacket, trying to hold him back. Stay where you are, he called out to the childlike voice in the darkness. He turned to me with a look of defeat or unwanted heroism. We have to help. He choked out. Do we? I asked, as he moved past me to an old metal utility trunk.

just to the right of the rum. As he struggled to find the key that opened the trunk, I peered into the darkness looking for any sign of movement. For a moment, I thought I saw a small, pale form move just beyond the edge of the shadows. But my attention was soon taken by the metal groan of the trunk opening. Graham pulled out a rope ladder that attached to the side of the already secured trunk and dropped it below. The ladder unraved. The ladder unraved. along the steep incline all the way to the floor. I've been trapped. Please come down and help me.

The childlike voice said. I followed after Graham as he descended down the ladder. As my hands grazed, the coarse, granular texture of the cavern wall, it felt as if the moisture was drawn from my skin. With each labored step down, the cold, dry air stung my lungs. By the time I reached the bottom, Graham was already halfway across the gulch with the lantern held high. Somehow, the light seemed to stop at the edge of the shadowy darkness ahead. How did you get down here? he asked, walking slowly towards the darkness ahead.

I've always been down here, said the voice. It's childlike essence giving way to a frightening growl. At the edge of the darkness, Graham stopped to adjust the lamp, doing everything he could to cast more light towards the unseen voice. With his attention on the lamp, Graham didn't even see it coming. He had no time to react. A pale white figure emerged from the darkness and skittered across the cavern floor, grabbed Graham by the ankles and pulled him to the ground. The lantern shattered on impact. I stood there, frozen at the bottom of the ladder, my own light only casting a few feet in front of me.

Graham? I called out. Run. He responded in a gurgled, gasping, moan. So I climbed. I climbed faster than I thought Popper. possible, skipping rungs with each aching pull as my muscles worked on instinct and adrenaline. I could hear the cold, wet patter of naked flesh hitting the cavern floor as the figure raced towards me. When I reached the top of the ladder, I glanced back to see the figure pulling itself across the floor with an unnatural speed. As I turned to pull the ladder up, my light cast just far enough to reach the bottom of the gulch. A withered claw-like hand, covered in bright red blood, reached out, and grabbed the bottom rung. It pulled with an inhuman strength. I braced

myself and pulled back. I could hear its other hand clawing at the sandpaper-like surface of the cavern wall, struggling to gain footing. I looked to my right, into the open utility trunk, Sitting atop a coil of rope and other gear was a silver-coated pickaxe. As I felt myself teetering on the edge of falling, I let go of the rope. I grabbed the pickaxe, and in one fluid motion I swung hard, severing one side of the rope ladder. But still it climbed the shrivelled torso of a ghost white child covered in Graham's blood. It looked up from below with soulless bowels.

black eyes. There was no fear, only hunger. From its waist hung long strips of withered flesh and mangled bone what I assume were once its legs. The creature made it halfway up the ladder, before I swung again, fraying the remaining side of rope. The creature did not slow, undeterred by my pickax. My mind raced as I considered my neck swing. The rope or, or the creature, or or the creature. I wasn't sure if the next blow would cut the rope, but I was even less sure that I could kill whatever it was that was climbing. I swung. The rope snapped and the ladder fell below. The creature slid back down the incline, hitting the bottom with a sickening wet thud. I waited with bated breath as I listened for movement. I called out hopelessly and

the darkness. Graham? He is no more, said the voice from directly below. I swallowed hard and held my lantern over the edge. As the shadows crept back, they revealed the creature below. I expected a crumpled, broken mess from the fall, but instead, there it was, staring up at me, unfazed, though its resemblance to a human with. slight, I could see aspects of the family in its emotionless stare and pale, waxy skin,

beneath wet red blood. The naked figure was child-sized, but its limbs and features were distorted, odd, and long. Its bulbous, vainy head held two bulging black eyes with thin lips that barely restrained, sharp, jagged teeth. It looked as though it may have been human at one time, but its form now was nothing more than a legless, emaciated ghoul with dry and withered skin. Its few remaining strands of hair were matted down with wet blood. Will you please help me out?

It asked. Why are you down here? I cried. They took my legs and left me to rot. It said, with its shark-like eyes locked on mine. Who? I asked, already knowing the answer. I gave her the gift, but she turned on me.

I can give you the gift too if you help me up. How? I asked. I will drink from you and you will drink from me and when you slumber beneath this. salted earth, it will leach out the very essence of death from your being. We can live here together, forever. But each night you will follow me here, and we will die beneath the crystalline earth only to wake at night, revived by the salted soils. It said, digging its claws into a patch of loose, gravelly sand. My fingers tightened around the pickup.

What's stopping you from killing me once I help you? I asked. Solitude. Eternity is meaningless if you're alone. What about Graham? I asked, pointing into the darkness. Can you bring him back? He is not worthy of the gift.

You must choose it. He is nothing more than a meal. Sustinance after a famine. But you, I can smell the gift on you. You know of my children. You know what it means. If they are your children, why are you here? I asked.

She accepted the gift and we lived for years, praying on the week that wandered into our realm. And then he arrived and stole her attention from me. When she gave him the gift, he convinced her to leave our home. When I refused to let her go, he took my legs, and they left me down here to starve. But as I said, death does not come easy down here. Not for us. If I help you, you can make me like you? I asked, my voice shaky and unsure.

Yes. It smiled. I looked down at the silver axe in my hands. I fought back to the silver-tipped bullets in my grandfather's box. He must have known. The pickax was here for a reason, coated in shimmering silver. I knew what I had to do. I tied off the coiled rope in the box and dropped it down.

The creature quickly grabbed hold and pulled itself. up, one clawed hand over the other. It climbed as its mangled lower half dangled below. I stepped back and readied myself. As the creature crested the incline and pulled itself onto my level, I raised the pickaxe high over my head. Quickly, I brought it down on the creature's skull with a sickening crunch. I let go, and the blood-covered ghoul fell forward on the creature's skull. fell forward onto the ground in front of me. Slowly, it turned its head and the black expressionless eyes locked on mine.

Silly, silver slows, but cannot kill us. It smiled, bearing its rows of sharp teeth. As it wrapped its sickeningly long fingers around the handle of the axe, I reached into my pocket. pulled at the handle, trying to free the pickaxe from its head, too focused on what was in my hand. I lurched forward with the only weapon I had left, the sharp crystalline rock. But the creature was fast and swiped at my feet with an incredible quickness, just as it did with Graham. I fell backwards hard and hit my head on the rocks, but the helmet saved me from an almost certain concussion, or worse. I was still woozy.

when the creature climbed on top of me, the pickaxe still embedded in its skull. With one arm, I fought it back, holding it by the neck. With the other, I gripped crystalline rock. With its face only inches from mine, I closed my eyes and plunged it into the creature's chest. Almost immediately. The skin around the puncture withered and cracked as the rock leached the life from the creature. I pushed it off of me and crawled backwards.

The creature's blank stare gave way to true horror as it looked down at the fatal piercing blow. Confused, its hands weakly clawed at the embedded stone. I stood up and removed the axe from its skull. Again, I raised it high and then brought it down hard. This time, the skull collapsed beneath the black. Its flesh crumbled in decay until nothing but dust and blood sat before me, soaking into a sludgy mess. Confident that I'd ended this ancient evil, I pushed curdled blood and mudded flesh

into the gulch below. I then used the rope to climb back down into the gulch, unwilling to take the creature's word that Graham was gone. As I stepped into the darkness, the ground squished. beneath me. I directed the light to my feet and the massive amounts of blood that surrounded them. I found Graham only a few feet into the darkness. His body was cold, but I could have sworn I still felt a pulse. Blood oozed from large gashes in his throat, stomach and arms. Still, I had to try. He was heavy, but I managed to drag him all the way back to the rope. It was only then.

that I had the realization that there was no way I could get him out, not on my own. By the time I could find help, he would surely be dead, and if he were dead, I would have to explain why. The creature that inflicted his wounds was nothing more than blood-soaked dust, which made for a poor explanation. They would ask how I found him, what happened, and how we could have lost so much blood without a jagged rock in sight. watching his blood slowly ooze out into the grainy sand beneath, mixing with the discolored sludge of the creature that had killed him. I made peace with my only viable option.

I would leave him here, and hope that by the time they found him, it would look like he fell climbing down. I didn't want my friend to stay here forever, but just long enough to not incriminate me with defensive wounds. I knew that he'd understand. We both witnessed an unnatural evil, and there was no way anybody else would believe it, not without evidence. I pulled my crystalline stone from the bloody muck and stuffed it back into my pocket.

After I said my goodbyes to Graham, it took me hours to find my way back out of the caverns. Back in the gift shop, I cleaned myself up and did my best to remove any evidence I'd visited. I even returned the helmet to the rack after wiping away any trace of blood. I was tired and weak by the time I stumbled outside into the night. I drove home in a daze and barely remembered crawling into bed. The days that followed were heavy with guilt and sorrow. Graham lost his life because of my foolish actions, and even though it meant the evil down there was finally gone, I couldn't help but wish it was me instead of Graham down there,

rotting, waiting to be found. On the third day after the events in the cavern, I was awoken mid-afternoon by a knocking at the office door. I expected to open it to a weary traveler, but instead I found myself face to face with the sheriff. He lowered his sunglasses and cut right to the point. Mind if I come inside. I got questions, and I got a feeling you might know something. Sure, I said, breathless and already worried. I let him inside the office, and he made his way over to the check-in desk. He pulled out a tablet from under his jacket and set it down.

You're familiar with Ranger Graham Nillis, he asked, his brow furrowed. I glanced at the coffee counter in the lobby. and nodded. You were with him on Thursday, correct? He asked, as if I'd already admitted to it. I, uh, with him? I stumbled. The sheriff turned on the tablet, and as he navigated it, he said,

We have CCTV footage showing you at the cavern's visitor center. Before I could even answer, the video was already playing. I watched myself walking across the, parking lot and waving to a smiling, still living, Graham. Yes, I brought him coffee. He used to come in often, but it had been a while, so I stopped by. Is he okay? I asked, regretting my last question.

The sheriff cocked his head to the side, questioning me. Just coffee? He asked. My brain seemed to shut down, overloaded with the possibilities of what he knew. why he was there and why he hadn't arrested me yet. Well, he showed me around the renovations, I offered. He nodded, accepting my answer. Gotcha, he said, already navigating to another video. Is there a problem? Did he get in trouble? I asked, feigning ignorance. Well, there is a problem, not, not that you did anything wrong. He said,

in an almost apologetic manner. He could sense my discomfort and cleared his throat. Before he hit play on the video, he explained, did he mention anything strange when he met? Did he seem afraid of anybody? Anything? No. I lied. So, after you left, he missed his rounds. We believe he slipped in the center that evening, which isn't illegal. He has late nights. in early days. I get it. But when he did emerge later that night, well, he said, hitting play. I watched the grainy video fast forward until the door to the center opened. The sheriff then slowed the video, and I watched as Graham staggered out of the visitor's center, still alive. I bit my tongue to hide my surprise. Notice that he's pomp.

possibly impaired," he said, pointing to Graham as he stumbled across the parking lot. We think he may have hit his head while, well, I don't know, he added. Is he okay? I asked, with genuine hope. Without answering my question, he asked another, Do you recognize this car? I watched as the familiar old station wagon pulled into the parking lot. I was too shocked to answer.

The family had returned almost four years too early. I watched as they pounced on Graham, but they didn't hurt him. Instead, they dragged him to the bed of his own truck and tied him down at the ankles and wrists. His arms and legs were splayed out to each corner of the bed. The two men holding each arm, while the middle-aged woman and older woman held his legs, the teenage girl just stood there watching him. And even though the footage was grainy, I swear I could see somebody else watching from the car window. My sister. Hold on,

you don't need to see this, he stumbled, trying to end the video, but instead fast-forwarding it. I watched, as the family got back in their car and left, leaving Graham exposed in his truck. I watched as the sun crept across the parking lot as it rose above the trees. I watched his body ignite the moment the sunrise reached his foot. I watched it burn him slowly from his feet all the way to his head until there was nothing more than a charred corpse. I watched my friend die a second time. I'm so sorry.

You shouldn't have seen that." He stuttered, finally just powering down the tablet. There was a moment of silence as he let me process the horrific murder I'd just witnessed. We believe they doused him in an unknown accelerant. We're not sure how, but they burned him alive. We just want to know why. Do you recognize them? He asked. I shook my head in disbelief. We don't know who they are, but we feel they may be responsible for both deaths. He trailed off. I felt my head spin and asked to sit down. Realizing that I just witnessed my friend's death, the sheriff eased up on the questions

and tried to soften the situation. He offered me his card and told me to call him if I remembered anything. He left me there on the couch in the lobby, reeling from the realization that I no longer had four years to figure it out, they were already here, and that means they would be checking in sooner than later. I couldn't help but feel that somehow they knew what I'd done. I needed to come up with a plan to keep myself safe and somehow free my sister from their grasp, but instead, all I could do is replay the last words the sheriff said, before I completely shut down. He'd pointed again to the frozen frame of the old man, the old

woman, the middle-aged couple, and the teenage girl, and asked, Have you ever rented a room to this family? I lied and told him, no. The family was coming, and there was no way I could escape, Not without my sister. Unwilling to die in my band, I decided to wait for them in the office, just as I always had. The revolver rested neatly on my lap, and the coffee pot brewed in the corner. I considered collecting the crystalline rocks beneath the room to fashion some sort of weapon, but I feared they would notice their absence and act before I could. I still had the one that ended that ravenous fiend in the cavernous fiend in the cavern. But there was no way I could dispatch all of them in the same manner.

Not like that. They were never alone. So I sat in the office, plotting their demise and fighting the overwhelming urge to sleep. It was sometime after midnight when they arrived. Despite the unlit vacancy sign and the empty parking lot, they pulled in as they always did, parking right outside their room. The middle-aged man was the first to exit from the car, rushing to the door with a restrained urgency.

The middle-aged woman followed behind. When they found it locked, both stood at the door. In unison, they turned towards the old man as he stepped out of the car. There he was. The park ranger from the photos with the same haunting stare. The three exchanged knowing glances, then turned back. their attention to the office. To me, I gripped the revolver tight and watched as the old man opened the back door of the station wagon. When he stepped inside, a dark figure emerged.

For a moment, it appeared as a walking shadow devoid of light, but the truth was more horrifying than that. The teenage girl covered head to toe in fresh blood, stepped into the parking lot, of my motel. On the other side of the car, the old woman emerged. The teenage girl stood facing my direction for what seemed like in eternity, waiting for something. I realized all of them were looking directly at me. The teenage girl moved first. She turned back to the car and reached inside. When she turned back to me, she was holding my sister. It was the way that she held her in her blood-soaked arms that I could tell this was a threat. The old man broke from the group and walked towards the office.

Behind them, they all stared. I took a deep breath and readied myself for what I had to do. As he approached, he glanced up at the old sign that hung above. You're always welcome. He grabbed the knob and turned it, and when he opened the door, he smiled. It was the same fake smile I'd seen a hundred times. He then removed his hat and entered, Hello, we'd like to rent a room, please.

He said, I sat there in disarmed shock. I was unsure of what to do next, but my instincts took over for me. Okay, I said, surprising even myself. I turned to grab the key hanging behind my desk and once again got a glimpse of the teenage girl. Her eyes were still locked on me, and my sister was still gripped tightly in her arms. Here you go, I said, swallowing the lump in my throat. He took the key with a polite nod and walked casually out of the office.

I watched him join the family and head directly to the room. With an unnerving sense of normalcy, he opened the door and entered. The rest followed in a straight line, except for the teenage girl. She put down my sister, who then ran into the unlit room behind the others. The teenage girl remained. She watched me through the window with an unnerving gaze. I only looked away for a moment, but it was long enough for her to disappear. Immediately, I reached for the phone.

I had lied for too long and brought pain and despair to everyone around me. I pulled the sheriff's card from my pocket and dialed. He picked up after one ring. Sheriff, I whispered. Ah, you again. Did you happen to remember? They're here, I said, cutting him off. There was a moment of silence.

The motel? He asked. Yes, same room. There. The line went dead. I dialed again. No answer. I gathered my thoughts and tried to work out a plan.

I had to figure out a way to separate them from my sister. I needed to get her alone so that we could escape together. Monster or not. She was still my only family. I'd only gotten as far in my plan as I need to get her alone. When I heard the car approach, the red and blue lights flashed in the distance as the cruiser approached at a very high speed. However, the moment he hit the parking lot, he killed the lights and slowed to a crawl.

I watched him park too close to the family station wagon. Then again, he was the only other vehicle in the parking lot. was nowhere to hide. I went to the door, revolver in hand, and peered out through the window next to it. With one hand on the knob, I waited for him. Again, he stayed in his car for an uncomfortably long time. His sense of urgency seemingly lost. I then realized he was probably calling in support, but I thought wrong. Instead, he opened the door and with a casual saunter, he made his way into the family's room. No, I said in a hoarse whisper.

I opened the door to warn him, but before I could get out a word, he knocked. He waited, then opened the door himself, and went inside. Terrified. I wanted nothing more than to go back inside the office, but it was foolish to think anywhere was safe. I stepped outside with the gun in my hand and crept towards the room. I lingered back by the cars, listening for any sign of a struggle. That sign came in the form of six gunshots.

They were followed by silence. I ran, but not in the direction I expected. I ran towards the room. Six shots for six members of the family. Foolishly, I'd hoped he'd missed the last one. Stay where you are, he said from inside the room. I pushed open the door and stumbled inside. What I found was not the heroic scene of a small town lawman standing over slain demons,

but instead he was lying in the corner of the room, bleeding profusely from the gut. As I stepped into the room, the family gently pushed me aside as they walked calmly out of the room. They paid no notice to the revolver dangling at my side. The old man tipped his hat and flashed that fake smile as he passed, as if this were nothing out of the ordinary. Where are you going? You can't leave now. The sheriff shouted through the blood pooling in his mouth. He fired the gun again straight into his own stomach. Now, You have to turn me. You have to turn me now, he shouted, and with each word the exertion pushed oozing blood from his wounds. The older woman ignored him as she collected her earrings from the

side table and walked out the door, followed by the teenage girl, now cleaned of blood and changed into a modest dress, neither acknowledging the dying man in the corner. I covered up everything for you. You owe me this. He whimpered. And with that, the door shut behind them, leaving me standing in the cursed room with this dying man. Did you, did you shoot yourself? I asked. Frustrated, he waved the gun wild. as blood seeped from his nose, mouth, and multiple bullet holes. It seemed like a good idea at the time, he joked, laughing through the pain. I know they need me, but I guess I miscalculated how much.

I looked down at this dying man, and I couldn't help but feel vindicated in my mistrust. Call an ambulance, will you? He said, the color drain. from his face. I pulled out my phone. A look of momentary relief flashed across his face. I started to dial, but then stopped. What do you mean they need you? I asked, my finger hovering over the send button. Frantic worry set in as he realized why I hesitated. Oh, cut the shit. We both know what they are. You don't know. You don't have to lie anymore. You helped me find him. We both want the same thing, you and I?"

He sputtered. I don't think so. What did you do for them? I asked. He laughed in disbelief. Really? Did you ever wonder what happened to the bodies once they were done with him, the ones they didn't leave on the side of the road for me to handle? I shook my head. It's your property. It's big. But not that big. He said, realizing that I didn't know. Where?

I asked, thinking about all the off-limits places my father had restricted us from, dangerous sinkholes, the old septic tank, the open caves. My parents would never, I said, knowing it was a lie. Your parents, maybe, but the old couple that ran this place did every damn thing they were asked. And look what it caught him. I shook my head, tears welling in my eyes. It got them their little girl back, he said weakly. I stood over the dying man, my whole world coming down around me.

I knew the answers, but I still wasn't ready for the truth. I looked out in the direction of where the bodies were hidden, as if looking through the wall itself, searching for them. The septic, he said, as if he could read my mind. But you don't want to see that. I realized how close to death he was and hit send on the phone. Don't bother, he said, even if you drove, I'd only make it the Gillis Road. one, what's your emergency?" said the voice on the other line.

I tried to answer, but the words wouldn't come, stuck in my mouth with uncertainty. The sheriff shook his head. Sorry, mistyle, my apologies. Have a nice night. I said and hung up. Do what you will with my body, but without me, they're going to come looking. And when they do, those monsters, will be long gone, and you'll be left to clean up and take the blame. You should probably have a plan for that. But I didn't do anything. It was all them, I said, choking on my words.

It's your property, sort of, he said, pausing as a thought slowly came to him. They don't care if you fear them. They're smarter than that. They only care that you fear death. I watched as the life slowly drained from his body. I wanted to hold his hand to comfort him, but my own repulsion of what he'd done overrode my empathy. As he faded away, he looked me in the eyes and muttered one last thing.

I remember your parents. What a shame. You should never have been left here with them. His voice trailed as his eyes glazed over and his heart finally stopped. I rolled him into an old sheet and dragged his body to the cruiser outside. With great effort, I was able to heave his corpse into the back seat. I drove it around to the back of the motel and then returned to clean up the trail of street. streaked blood that led from the room to the parking lot. I used buckets of warm water from the

shower and scrubbed it clean with an old push broom. It was a poor job, but I didn't have time for perfection. I drove the cruiser along the strange path I'd avoided my entire life. My father had told me as a child that this place was unsafe, and as an adult he further emphasized the danger of it. This is where he took old, rusted, propane tanks that had sat for so long the sulfur smell had faded into a deadly absence. This is where he disposed of waste that was unfit for the burn pit. This is where he said that if I ever wandered into, it would cause everlasting harm. At least he was telling the truth about that.

When I reached the unrecognizable location that I'd avoided for years, I stopped the car. I retrieved the large flashlight from the trunk and continued on, looking for any sign of, well, death. I saw the rusted white paint of old propane tanks buried halfway beneath a layer of dirt and fallen leaves and walked in that direction. The smell hit first, the putrid stench of decay that was so thick you could taste it. The ground beneath me seemed to see. soften as I neared the trench where an old septic tank once was. It was never used and removed some

time after I was born. It was the remnants of the dream home my father always promised to build for my mother. Instead, they settled into their macabre routine and lived out their lives in the small cottage attached to the motel. I always thought that my sister's death was the reason the dream was abandoned, But, it turns out, they just found other uses for the plot. As my view crested over the ditch, my mind struggled to comprehend the amount of death that was discarded, just a few feet in front of me. Bodies in various states of decay, most of them were years or decades old, stacked without regard to their humanity.

Rodded bodies sat atop sun-bleached, Bones resting on a thick layer of decayed flesh, and on top of it all, was poor Bill Henley. His body was almost unrecognizable, no longer the strong, imposing man that stood outside his truck. Now he was nothing more than a withered white corpse drained of everything that gave him life. Small incisions covered his legs, arms, belly, and neck. was drained of blood and wiped clean. His eyes were now nothing more than deep black sockets. I felt guilt for not warning him, but I realized I had a chance to make it right. I pulled the

sheriff from the backseat and dragged his body to the pit and rolled him down. He landed next to bill. I collected the bloody sheet and carried them over to the nearby burn pit, the one my father rarely used. I lit a match and tossed it onto the sheets. As I watched the flames consume and burn the bloody sheets, I laughed at the futility of burning evidence when I had a pit of dead bodies only a few feet away. What was I trying to hide? In the wake of that epiphany, I formulated a plan. I stomped out the burning sheets and smothered the fire. I would need those later. I returned to the cruiser and siphoned most of the gas from the trunk, spilling it into a bucket I found nearby. I soaked the sheets and any dry wood I could find, which wasn't much. I then maneuvered the

cruiser to the edge of the grave, so the headlights would illuminate the rotting mound of death. As I walked across the corpses, searching for fat-soaked clothing or anything that would burn, I could feel the old bones snap and crunch beneath my weight. I listened to the nauseating sound of rotted organs rupturing below. By the time I climbed out, the smell of death and gasoline were indistinguishable. It didn't matter, though. I knew exactly how I was going to dispatch these horrible, soulless creatures. I knew exactly how I was going to kill them.

these vampires that had haunted me my entire life, these beings that cursed my family's very existence. I was going to bring justice to these people. I was going to murder every last one of the family, except, of course, my sister. Red blood seeped into the clean white towels, sitting where the sheriff took his final breath. smelled of rusted iron and musty linen. It was an odd feeling to stand in that empty motel room where decades of untold carnage had taken place so close to where I spent my life. Somehow, though, it still felt like home. In all my years of emptying the ashtray and replacing their

unused sheets, I never lingered for longer than I had to. In the back of my mind, I believe I'd always sensed the evil beneath the floorboards. But now I had all the time in the world to linger. I was waiting for their return. It was only an hour or so before sunrise, when I heard the familiar rattling shake of their old station wagon pulling into the parking lot. I gathered up the towels, stuffed them into my cleaning cart, and did my best to remain small and invisible when the door opened. The old man was the first to enter. He greeted me with that eerie, fake smile. The others followed in after. I pushed my things aside and waited for my chance to exit. The teenage girl entered last, holding the hand of my sister. They continued about their business as if I weren't even there.

Most of them headed straight to the bathroom, where I heard the trap door open to their layer below. The old man stayed behind and lit up a cigarette and then offered one to the old woman. She turned back from the bathroom and joined him at the table. My sister, on the other hand, immediately turned on the old television. She stood in the center of the room and watched as an old black and white western movie began with a shot of the sunrise. With the old couple paying no attention to me, I leaned in and whispered to my sister. I think you left this.

I said, pulling the photo of her and I from my pocket. She broke her gaze from the cowboy on the screen and glanced at the photo. She took it from my hand. I have the other half if you want it, with Mama and Papa in it. I said, looking over at the old woman who only spared me a passing glance. I lowered my voice even more. I can bring it to you in a few hours. hours, but you'll have to wake up early."

She glanced at the curtains covering the window and the world outside. I tapped at the backside of the photo. She turned it over. I had written the words, If you are alone, I'll protect you. In red ink, she nodded. I left and returned to my room. I did my best to sleep for the next few hours, but I was constantly awoken by the next few hours. I was constantly awoken by horribly vivid nightmares that reflected my current maddening reality.

When the alarm went off, I'd already been awake for an hour. I crawled out of bed and forced myself to eat something. With such a heavy sense of impending doom, I found it difficult to focus on the menial tasks like brushing my teeth. Too anxious to think about anything else. I checked the family's room, cracking the door, slightly and peeking in. It was empty, except for some lingering smoke that danced with the dust in the sunbeams. My sister was still asleep beneath the floorboards. I used this time

to walk back out to the septic tank where I lit the gasoline sheets and fat-soaked clothing in the burn pit. The flames reached high, and I prayed this would burn for at least a few hours, long enough to be noticed when the time came. At the edge of the pit, I looked down at the legacy of horror that my family would forever be aligned with, if it were ever discovered. This quaint motel in the mountains would not survive, and my grandfather's legacy would no longer end with its demolition, but live on as macabre folklore. As the corpse-fat-fueled flames danced in the burn pit nearby, It became clear that I was on the precipice of insanity. My plan was little more than a half-baked assumption that I could somehow defeat beings

that had lived over three of my lifetimes, but it felt as if I had no other choice. So I collected every single tank of propane that would fit into the cruiser. I stacked them floor to ceiling in the backseat with a few more on the passenger's side seat and floor. There was just enough gas left in the tank to make it back to the parking lot. Even sputtering on fumes, I was able to coast into a spot near the family station wagon. The sun was low in the sky, and daylight was waning. I checked the room again, knocking lightly as I entered. I slipped inside without opening the door wide and found my sister sitting on the bed, shrouded in the darkness of the heavy blackout curtains.

I produced the photograph of my parents from my back pocket, and I handed it to her. Do you still want to leave? She asked. Yes, but I'll make sure you're safe. They won't trap you in those caves. I promise. They think you changed your mind. Master said you're too afraid to leave this place, that you're weak.

and insignificant. Master said that you are nothing to fear. Master's wrong, I said, pulling the comforter from the bed. The light was low, but it was enough harm for her pale, fragile skin. I'd seen how quickly it engulfed Graham. I knew how little it took to kill them. I had my sister lay on the bed and wrapped her in the comforters. I tucked in every last, corner and picked her up, holding the seams close to my body. I carried her to the office as fast as I could. Once inside, I took her behind the desk and I told her to hide. The window shades were already drawn, but she remained covered, hunkered down behind the check-in

counter. Do not move until I return. Do you understand? I asked. She nodded. I sprinted back to the room as fast as my legs would take me. The sun was now setting, and I only had a short time before the family would wake. I remade the bed with the comforters from next door and smoothed them out, as if they would even notice.

With everything back in place, I returned to the cruiser and dragged each tank into the room one by one. I took the heaviest ones first and opened the valves wide. Some hissed violently, while others were a low, breathy whistle. The faded odor of sulfur was faint with age, and I barely noticed the scent. With the last tank open, I sealed the door shut and shoved wet towels at the base. I set a timer for sundown and hurried back to my sister. I found her huddled beneath the comforter, with both photos and hand, holding them together as one. She looked up at me with sad eyes. I wish I never had to leave. I miss being a child.

She whimpered. The statement itself sounded so odd coming from such a little girl. Do you remember why you left? I asked. She nodded. Mother said it was the only way. She promised to always be waiting, though. She lied. She did her best. But people can't wait forever, I said, brushing her hair back. We can, she said, looking up at me with eyes that I only now realized were marbled with deep black veins. Why do you visit when you do? Every four years, I asked.

The road is long, and the further we go from caverns, the more we must feed. The more we feed, the more dangerous it gets. Why don't you stay here where it's safe? I asked. We can only stay for as long as the earth allows us. If we stay too long, the soil becomes impure and poisoned, so we must always move. Only in the caverns can we sleep forever. Then why not stay in the caverns? I asked.

Would you choose a life? of eternal darkness and constant hunger," she replied, with the slightest hint of indignance. No, I admitted. Before now, we'd never stopped and we'd never turned around. So why now? I asked, already knowing the answer. We had to return so Master could destroy the betrayer, she said. My watch alarm beeped in warning.

Dusk was coming. Graham? I asked. She leaned in with the intensity of a zealot. When Uncle Matthew felt his father burn, he begged the master to come back and seek vengeance, but she refused. She felt he was responsible for his own demise, until she felt her make her die. You see, we can feel the pain of the ones that made us.

It keeps us connected. It keeps us safe. It makes us family. When we found that the betrayer had stolen the gift and killed our others, he deserved a painful death. My watch beeped again. I needed to return to the room, but my sister sensed this and grabbed me by the wrist. He was my friend.

He didn't kill them, I said, taken aback by her reveling in his murder. But he did. And she let him burn in the sun so that his agony would last. Only she decides who lives forever. That's why mother's sister was mad. She was refused the gift despite what Uncle Matthew promised. So she lit herself on fire and tried to take us with her. Michael Matthew begged Master to wait for his father, but the boy was buried and the son was coming

soon. So we left him. Master said, we do not have room for the week. She said, her eyes ablaze with righteousness. I pulled my arm from her grasp and stood. That all changes tonight, I said, stepping away from her. I remember the day you arrived. That was the day that everything changed, she replied.

You were a child when I was born, I said dismissively. Yes, but I remember the day you arrived here. Mother found you hiding beneath the bed, too small to consume, and too young to be worthy of notice. They left you orphaned, and mother took you in. She said, with a wicked smile, as if you were you, if she could taste my pain. My mind immediately went back to the photo of myself with those strangers.

I thought back to the coldness my mother had for me, while her warmth for other children was always evident. I don't remember any of that, I said, my hand on the doorknob. Why would you? She said with an evil smirk. I didn't want to believe her. The alarm beeped a final alert, and I realized I was out of time. I sprinted to the family's room and pulled back the wet towel.

I held it to my mouth and entered. I smelled nothing, but I swear I could sense a haziness to the air. I tied the towel around my mouth and grabbed the first two tanks. They were lighter than before, which means they were emptied. I hurried as fast as I could, throwing them into the parking lot. I just needed them to be out of the room. It was impossible to do quietly, but I did my best to muffle any bump while keeping the door closed as I entered and exited.

While it took me a half hour to fill the room, it only took me minutes to empty it of the tanks. My hands bled from cuts on the rusted metal handles. On the way out with a final tank, I heard the floor and the bathroom creak as the hatch opened. I locked the door and returned the towel to the crack beneath it. I moved a few of the tanks around the corner, but abandoned the task when I heard movement inside. I sprinted back to the office and found my sister already standing in the center of the room. What are you doing? She asked.

Keeping you safe, I replied. I am safe. She knows you won't hurt me. You can't hurt any of you. us. She said, standing in the doorway to the office, with my sister staring through me with those deep black eyes, I began to realize that she was not the little girl I thought I knew. It was her reveling in the pain of others that made me realize she was more them than me. In more ways than one, she wasn't my sister anymore.

It was then that I heard an unholy scream come from inside the family's room. The teenage girl, the master, had noticed my sister was gone. I thought for a moment that my plan was unraveling, but the old man was stuck in his habits. The door was thrown open and the teenage girl emerged beastlike in her anger. But the old man, the park ranger, was the door. not concerned. Instead, he did as he always did. He lit a cigarette. The explosion shook the very foundation of the motel. Pictures were thrown from the walls and glass shattered. When I looked out at the parking lot, my ears still ringing. I saw the master lying motionless on the asphalt.

I stepped outside with my sister rushing past me, letting out a primal scream as she raised. to the master. Behind them, the motel room was a flame in hellish fire. I could hear a loud, ghoulish moan, even above the crackle of embers. The old man stumbled out, howling in pain. It was the first time in my life that I'd ever seen any sign of emotion from him. His flesh dripped from the bone as the heat melted his skin. His white skull was slowly revealed behind blackened flesh as it sloughed off his face. With each step, he left behind charred chunks of melted skin in a smoldering trail of burning gore.

He made it only a few more feet, before collapsing in a heap of scorched agony. He struggled to crawl away from the flames, but as he tried, his muscles separated from his body like what I can only describe as, pulled pork. The building collapsed in on itself, trapping the others inside. I could hear their screams as they begged for the master to save them. She awoke suddenly and leaped up. Her eyes seemed to darken into black orbs set deep in her skull. She let out another primal scream and she ran

towards me. I reached into the back of my pants and pulled out the revolver, aimed. and fired. The first shot struck in her shoulder, and it seemed to surprise her, the pain from the silver-tipped bullet. She slowed for a moment, feeling the sting. I watched as my sister felt it, too. The master bared her sharp teeth and continued on, but I waited to fire. I waited until I knew I wouldn't miss. I waited until she was close enough to see my own reflection. in her black eyes. I waited until it was almost too late. And then I fired. All six rounds struck her, with the last catching her right between those dead, soulless eyes. She dropped to the ground. But I remembered silver cannot kill. It only slows. I pulled out the crystalline rock that

killed the very creature that started this nightmare and approached the master with caution. I could hear her rapid short breaths as her body worked to push out the silver-tipped bullets. I rolled her over and raised the crystalline rock above my head, ready to plunge it into her heart when I was blindsided. My sister tackled me to the ground. You can't kill us! She screamed. Her eyes now full, black orbs. She is the killer. She is evil. I'm your family. I said back. She showed her teeth and leaned in so close I could feel her cold breath on my neck. You! She hissed. And then she opened wide and bit down. I could feel her sharp, jagged teeth as they pierced my skin, tearing at my flesh.

I had no choice. I had to fight back. I only meant to hurt her when I plunged the crystalline rock into her side. She howled in pain and rolled off of me. I saw the strange, salted rock do its work as the skin around her wound started to shrivel and dry. I went to pull it out, but she pushed me away and grabbed hold of it herself. She yanked at the deadly stake piercing into her side, trying to remove the crystalline rock. But it broke. The larger part fell to the ground with a dull end. The rest remained inside her, eating away at her innards. She looked me in the eyes one more time, and for a moment, just a moment, I could see the face of the little girl I once knew. She collapsed to the ground as her rib cage collapsed.

in on itself. She was gone. I looked back to the master, but the place where she fell was now just a spot of wet blood on the asphalt. I looked frantically for her, the orange flames of the fire illuminating everything. She was still alive, and I was defenseless. I picked up the dull crystalline rock and ran towards the cruiser. I could feel the moisture leech out of my hands as I gripped the rock.

as tight as I could. The explosion shattered the front window of the cruiser, so I had to work fast. From the front seat, I retrieved the items I'd taken from the sheriff's body, handcuffs, keys, and a service pistol. When I stood up and turned around, she was already there, a silhouette among the backdrop of flames. I fired again. The bullet struck her chest, but she didn't even flinch. Instead, she flashed a ghoulish smile.

There was nowhere to hide, and I knew that it was impossible to outrun her, so I chose the only safe place I could think of. I threw open the back door to the cruiser and crawled in, though I was careful not to pull it shut just yet. The master leapt out of the hood of the car and sneered at me through the metal gate separating the front and back seats. Slowly. She crossed over to the opposite side of the car. Her gaze locked on me like the predator she was. I was backed against the door, ready to push it open behind me, but even then I knew

I couldn't outrun her. She opened the rear door across from me. Her long clawed nails gripped the metal grate over the windows as she pushed the door wide open. I know she was sure that she had me trapped, so she toyed with her prey. She moved slow and deliberate as she crawled into the backseat with me, her pitch-black eyes swirling with reflections of the fire outside. She smiled, and her jagged, toothy grin was revealed, dripping with foul-smelling slime. Again, I waited until she was close enough to kill, and then I taunted her. This is what I used to kill your maker, I sent, holding up the broken crystalline rock. Her emotionless eyes remained fixed on mine.

Her expression was unchanging. With an inhuman quickness, she grabbed hold of my wrist, tight enough to break a bone, I held the rock as long as I could. I watched her eyes and waited. The moment she broke away to glance at the dull broken rock that killed her creator, I acted. With my free hand, I slammed the handcuffed link onto her wrist. She squeezed tight with retribution, and I could hear the bones snap. I dropped the rock and kicked backwards. I tumbled out of the cruise. and into the parking lot, hitting the asphalt with a sickening thud. She then leapt at me, but fell short, unable to break free from the handcuff that I'd secured

to the metal dividing grate inside. I kicked the door shut and then ran around the vehicle as she yanked at the handcuffs. I slammed the other door shut. With her free hand, she tried to open the door, but found it locked from the outside. Slowly. I stepped away, watching the violent flurry of movement as she struggled to break free from the restraints. She kicked at the metal-graded windows, managing only to dent them. From a distance, I watched the fire burn in the darkness, hidden by the night sky, and I waited for her to die.

I was waiting for sunrise to come and purged this world of her evil. From the back seat of the cruiser, she screamed and threw herself against the windows. I watched her fight for hours, locked in the back seat. Eventually she even resorted to gnawing off her own hand. Thick, black blood spurred it from her wound, spraying the glass and obstructing my view inside. As the sun crept over the trees, she stopped fighting. I wasn't sure if she accepted her death or just expended the last of her murderous will to live. I expected her to scream as the sun took her body, but she did not.

I watched as the flames inside the vehicle licked at the blood-spattered windows, and I knew that she was dead. Just as Graham's body became a charred black husk, So did that of my sister and the old man. The master, though, she burned so hot, nothing but dust remained in the backseat of the cruiser. As I stood over the corpse of what I now knew was never my sister. I realized that I was no longer linked to this hellish place. I was free of the tether of this bloodline that kept me here, burdened by

by a sense of loyalty, to a family, there was never mine. I emptied the safe of the blood money that was meant to maintain this motel forever. There was no longer anything that held meaning for me here, so I watched as the flames leapt from room to room, and eventually the office and the cottage itself. The smoke from the septic tank burn pit still billowed thick black smoke, and I hoped that whoever came it would draw their attention there. I hoped that finding those bodies would bring closure to the families who lost their loved ones to the dead roads. I hoped that those bodies would be the last. I hoped that I had actually ended it tonight.

I hope that after hearing my story, you'll understand. I hope that if you'll understand, I hope that if you ever meet a family that seemingly never ages, you will know what they are and know that whatever they promise, you will never be a part of their family. I left in their old station wagon with nothing but a duffel bag of old bills, no longer bound to the motel by a legacy of blood. As I passed the fire engines on the way down the mountain, I thought to myself, the family may have been able to live forever. But until now, I had never been able to live at all.