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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/BlairDaniels on 2024-10-19 01:37:42+00:00.
If you're ever driving down Route 106 in Michigan, and you see a sign for the Greenbriar Motel, you better just keep on driving. Because there is something terribly wrong here, and the last thing I would want is for more people to die.
I started working at the Greenbriar Motel a week ago. It wasn’t a dream job by any standards: night shift at the front desk, checking people in and out, doing some inventory in the back. I liked the peace and quiet, though: as a little rundown motel on a stretch of isolated highway in Michigan, it gave me a lot of time to read and play computer games on the clock. It also helped that the owner, Frank, didn’t seem to care I was a high school dropout with a rap sheet.
But on the very first day, I felt that something was terribly off.
For one, there was the smell. When the wind shifted, the entire parking lot smelled like rotting meat. I ran to close the windows, but even then I could still smell it, seeping in through the HVAC system. The motel is surrounded by deep woods, so I figured maybe we were near the kill grounds of some animal. Or maybe it was just the endless roadkill of deer and possums on the highway.
Either way, it was unsettling. And definitely not enjoyable.
The other thing that struck me as odd were the guests’ rooms. Some of them didn’t have windows—and it seemed like that was intentional. I could see the lines in the paint, the seams outlining where windows had once been. When I asked Frank, he told me that some of the guests asked for windowless rooms. That they were in high demand. He didn’t elaborate, and honestly, I was a little scared to press him on it.
Things went from strange to downright creepy, however, as soon as Frank left. As I got set up at my desk, a woman walked into the room.
She was in her 40s, maybe, with black hair and very pale skin. As soon as she stepped inside, she locked the door behind her. “Frank left, right?” she asked me.
“Yeah,” I replied. “Uh… who are you?”
She introduced herself as Matilda. She’d been working here for a decade, cleaning the motel rooms after the guests checked out. After a few minutes of small talk, she suddenly came up to the counter and lowered her voice.
“I want to make sure you’re safe around here,” she said, glancing back towards the door nervously. “So I need you to listen to me. Okay?”
My heart dropped. “Uh… okay?”
“Whatever you do, don’t ask questions. Just check people in, check them out, and mind your own business. And then, you’ll be fine.”
My stomach did a little flip. Okay, so it was that kind of motel. Illegal business of multiple kinds, probably, all being conducted under our dilapidated roof. “What… what if the police come? Will I be arrested, too?”
She gave me a blank stare. “The police?”
“Say they find… evidence of illegal activity in one of the rooms. Will that get me in trouble? I already have shoplifting on my record and can’t—”
She shook her head. “Don’t worry about the police. Just don’t ask questions. And don’t make eye contact, or look at their faces for too long.”
I swallowed. They don’t want witnesses. They don’t want me to be able to pick them out of a lineup, I thought.“Okay. I won’t ask questions, and I won’t look at them for too long. Got it.”
She smiled at me. “You have nothing to worry about.”
As it turned out, though, I had quite a lot to worry about.
That night, I checked in three people. They were almost like caricatures: a big, strong guy in sunglasses that looked like he’d stepped right out of The Godfather. A woman dressed to the 9s, wearing a more makeup than a clown. A skinny young guy in a hoodie that smelled of something chemical and strange.
But I listened to Matilda. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t even ask the questions I should’ve been asking—like when Hoodie Guy gave me an ID that was clearly fake. Don’t ask questions and you’ll be fine. I kept repeating that to myself. And I kept my eyes glued to the computer screen, never even glancing up at them.
When it hit midnight, I assumed the rest of the night would be smooth sailing. On this lonely stretch of highway, it was unlikely anyone else would check in. I pulled up Minesweeper and played some music on my phone.
My peace and quiet, however, was interrupted by the door swinging open. At 2 AM.
I glanced up to see the guy in sunglasses—the guy who looked like he’d stepped out of The Godfather.
Oh, no. I should’ve locked the door… I swallowed and kept my eyes glued to the computer screen as he approached. “Can I help you?” I asked, watching him in my peripheral vision.
“Do you have any razors for purchase?”
I froze. Razors? At 2 AM? I instantly got a mental image of him slashing someone up in his room. Blood all over the sheets, soaking into the carpet. “Uh, no, we don’t have any razors,” I said, keeping my eyes on the computer screen.
“Can you just check in the back, please?”
I swallowed. I really, really didn’t want to go check. As soon as I turned around, he could do anything. Pull out a gun. Tackle me. Force me into a chokehold and keep me hostage.
But refusing him was just as bad, if not worse. It might make him mad. Really mad.
I sat there, staring at Minesweeper on the screen, weighing my options. Paying close attention to him out of the corner of my eye.
And that’s when I saw it.
There was something… off… about this guy. His sunglasses looked like they were slightly too low on his face. Like the eyes they were covering weren’t in quite the right place. And not only that, but I couldn’t see his eyebrows poking above the frames, or the contours of his brow ridge. Everything above the glasses was perfectly flat and smooth. Like he had no eye sockets at all.
“Can you check in the back, please?” he asked again, his voice taking on an annoyed tone.
“Y-yes. Sure.”
I sprung out of the seat and ducked into the back storage area. I quickly glanced over my shoulder to make sure he wasn’t following me—but he wasn’t. I had half a mind to just stay there, hiding out in the back storage room, until I heard his voice calling me.
“Did you find them?”
He sounded angry. Approaching furious.
Thankfully, I did find a few packaged razors next to some spare toothbrushes and soap we kept. I grabbed them and handed them over, keeping my eyes trained on the floor. “Thank you,” he said, sounding pleased.
And that was it. He turned around and left.
As soon as the door shut, I ran over and locked it. I closed the blinds and sat back down at the front desk, my heart hammering in my chest. All I could picture were the strange contours of his face.
And as I sat there, I realized something. All three guests that I’d checked in since the start of my shift—the Godfather guy, the Makeup woman, the Hoodie guy—had something covering their face or head. I mean, I wasn’t exaggerating about the woman having enough makeup for a clown. She was wearing foundation so thick that it cracked around the corners of her eyes and lips, and wore false eyelashes so long they gave the appearance of spider legs. And Hoodie Guy had kept his hood pulled so tightly over his head that his ears and hair weren’t visible.
It was like they all had something to hide.
Morning couldn’t come soon enough. As soon as the day shift workers arrived, I got the hell out of there. I floored it back to my house and slept for a long time, my sleep plagued with nightmares of faceless people and spidery eyelashes.
Then it was time to go back to the motel for night #2.
Thankfully, it was a quieter night. Although the VACANCY sign glowed brightly in the darkness, no one checked in during my shift. They must’ve all come earlier, during the day shift. I locked the door, sat down with a cup of coffee, and enjoyed getting some reading done in the quiet.
Unfortunately, the quiet didn’t last long. Around midnight, I heard a loud slam from outside.
I threw my book down and ran over to the window.
The door to room 16 was wide open.
I looked around. Nobody appeared to be outside; the parking lot, and the sidewalk, were empty. The room itself was dark—none of the lights were on.
I walked over to the computer and looked up the room. To my surprise, no one had booked it for tonight.
Should I go out and close the door?
I hesitated. It was late. There was no one around, except for the occasional passing car. If someone had broken into that room… and then attacked me… there would be no one to hear me scream.
So I kept the door locked tight and accessed the security camera feed instead. As I rewound it, I saw what happened: the door had opened, and then a woman had walked out of it. I couldn’t see her face—just her long dark hair.
She then disappeared into room 22.
I checked room 22 on the computer, and saw it was booked to a woman named Cassandra Johnson.
I frowned. Looked like Cassandra might be going into our vacant rooms and possibly stealing stuff. Matilda must’ve forgotten to lock up the room after she cleaned it. I sighed, opened the door, and began walking towards the open room.
I thought of knocking on room 22, but then thought better of it. Keep your nose out of other people’s business. I’d just lock up room 16 and go back to the lobby, like a good little employee.
I walked towards to the open room. But as soon as I got close, a horrible smell wafted out of the room. Like something rotting, decaying. My stomach turned. What did Cassandra do in there? Throw up? Stash all her garbage in th...
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