(A/N): This is an entry to a little story contest. There was a prompt, so it’s not really like my usual. Still, it may be worth a read; I’ve been wanting to write some short stories anyway. Enjoy.

Room 8

1

The sign hangs high on a post by the road, metal hinges crying out for oil as the wind blows against it. The words peer at the ground just as often as they glance at the highway, but the rectangular plate is old and rusted now. Some smart-ass teenager has used it for target practice, dotting it with buckshot holes, but the faded words are still distinguishable in the chipped paint.

Sunset Motel. Vacancy.

The ten-room block of a building sits there, forgotten, its accommodations empty, its registry void. Drivers along the highway simply disregard the decaying structure with the sunken roof, not giving it another glance as they pass along on their way toward the Mexican border. No one knows why the motel is silent and still. No one wonders.

But the locals know.

That’s the motel, they say. That’s where it happened.

The Sunset Motel is still a spot of interest for the dares of mischievous youth and for reporters aching to rehash an old story, but the truth of it is that no one has crossed into those rooms since then – especially past the rotten police tape over room 8. But the story will be told. All who will listen will know it. Coming away with a clear picture of what happened, however, is a whole other matter.

2

Five years ago, July

Stella rested languidly on the bed, watching the ceiling fan twirl above her, sweeping long blades of shadow over the room. The spinning motion was slow, seeming to mimic the motion of her eyelids as they drifted together, kissed, and parted again. Waves of warm air passed down over her clammy skin in gentle gushes, and though the stir of air was a pleasant thought, it did little to battle the heat.

It’s hot as that hell daddy was always preachin’ about, she thought, feeling small beads of sweat collect on her upper lip. She was sprawled on her back in a white tank top over red underwear, resting on the motel bed. She’d already showered off in cold water and pulled up her flaxen hair as high as it would go, but there was little relief. The shabby little room they’d set up in was only good for the one night it was paid for, because the air conditioner wouldn’t even make an annoying buzz to distract her from the Texas heat wave.

But it’ll be better soon, she told herself, and she believed herself to be right.

Stretching out her arm as far as it would go, she reached along the side of the bed, hidden from the door and window, and when her hand rested atop the cool surface of a smooth leather bag, a satisfied smile formed on her lips. The feel of the satchel was not what soothed her, however. There was something much colder and harder inside there: a hundred thousand dollars in cash. It was all there beneath her fingertips in neat little bound stacks, crisp and clean. It was unfolded and unused; Stella herself was like that in a way. This was how she had related to it, feeling she’d deserved the money.

She remembered the rush she’d felt from the theft – of taking every weighty mass in her hand and lowering it into the bag. A successful and unplanned transfer from Mr. Alder directly to her. What was that old crab going to do with it anyway? He was loaded with the stock from his chain of grocery stores, and only kept the safe in his office to hide the money from his frivolous wife. Stella wondered what the tightwad was doing now, wondered if he had yet to notice that his secret safe had been discovered and that the money was gone. If he had, would he have put the cops on her trail? His sweet, quiet secretary? Little wallflower? No, he would not suspect her. And even if he did, she would be untouchable by tomorrow.

Tonight, she and Denise were crossing the border.

Of course it was Denise who had been the one to talk her into this. Stella would never have opted to perform this reckless endeavor on her own. It was Denise who was so spontaneous – who always put these temptations in her ear. And Stella couldn’t say no to her best friend. A regular Thelma and Louise they were. That was Stella’s favorite movie.

Momma warned me: be careful who your friends are. I can’t say she didn’t warn me.

She felt nervous, but Stella made herself a promise. If they made it through this perilous venture unscathed and with the money, the next time Denise brought up some crazy scheme, she would say no. She’d look Denise in the eye and say: I’m never doing anything blindly with you again. I learned that down at the Mexican border. That’s right; learned my lesson. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice–

Stella lifted her heavy head when she heard the sound of a key rushing into the door’s lock. It struggled a bit against the loose knob, but eventually the lock was released, and it came open. For a spilt second, Stella dreaded that this was the motel owner, opening the door for the police, but that fear passed when she saw the form of a tall, red-headed woman.

Stella and Denise resembled one another in several ways that would have been appreciated by anyone who had seen them. They were both tall and lean, but it could be said that Denise carried herself with more grace and confidence. Even their faces were similar in shape, oval with high brows and blue eyes. The reigning physical difference was their hair: scarlet curls versus straight and dirty blond. Discrepancies in personality were on a you-name-it, you-got-it basis.

“I didn’t hear anything on the scanner,” Denise said as she slipped inside and secured the lock behind her. “Unfortunately, while I was talking to the manager about the air conditioner, I was able to see a bit on the news on that little TV he had on the desk. They’re showin’ your face, so you’d better stay in the room and let me do the coming and going.”

At that, Stella had enough energy to sit up on the bed. Her face was on the news? She wasn’t sure why she was surprised. It had been two days since, and she was the one in Alder’s employ who had suspiciously gone missing. Of course the old man would have suspected her. He’d be a fool not to. This troubled Stella, but Denise seemed to notice the sour look on her face.

“Don’t worry,” she said soothingly. “You know you’re like my sister, and I don’t let anything happen to family. Besides, tonight we’ll be long gone. All we have to do until then is rest up.”

Stella felt a bit of comfort in that, but wasn’t sure she didn’t hate Denise for her ability to be so calm. Had she earned that? Denise hadn’t even done anything.

“You act so damn cool,” Stella said grudgingly, letting her accent twang back from the hills of Tennessee where it had sprung up.

Her friend seemed pleased with that remark.

“Precisely, señorita,” Denise chirped. “And what fun is it being cool if you can’t also wear a sombrero? So? How about it? Tomorrow we get matching ones. Then we drink tequila until we pass out.”

The smile on the woman’s face was a bit crooked – a bit mischievous, Stella had always said – but it usually brought a smile to her own face. Those words were just like Denise. No worries; no cares – not until the money ran out.

“I’d rather focus on getting settled,” Stella insisted. “You’re the one who talked me into this. You owe me that much.”

“Why, whatever do you mean, sweet pea?” Denise asked innocently, gripping the collar of her own pink tee. “I didn’t have anything to do with it. You were the one who took the money, and the one who drove us down here in that little truck you bought. It was merely my bright idea.”

It was a joke, but a jolt of worry flushed Stella’s face. Nevertheless, she forced herself to take it lightly.

“Don’t make me–!” Stella didn’t bother finishing her sentence. She bit back on it, instead looking around her for the first thing that she could throw. Feeling the rubbery sole of her brown flip-flop against her palm, she heaved it playfully at Denise, where it only struck the faded wallpaper with a dull thud.

“Alright alright,” the other woman said through her ringing laughter. “I’m gonna go get some ice from the machine near the office – if it’s not all a puddle of water. Lay low, okay? Get some rest. Tomorrow, our troubles are over.”

Once again the door was opened, and Denise disappeared behind it. Stella was left alone.

She stared at the blackened screen of the TV in front of her, viewing her own distorted reflection. After a moment of considering, she resisted turning the box on. If she had, what would she have seen? A drawing or a picture of herself pasted on the news, Mr. Alder giving an interview about how he’d been robbed, and how he never would have thought Stella capable of something like this? Those are the things Stella may have seen, and she refused to watch the trail of her own demise.

Sitting there on the bed in a mess of twisted cloth, she rubbed her eyes with the backs of her hands, tugging at the sensitive bags across her young skin. She was tired – very tired. There hadn’t been much time to sleep since they’d left Memphis, and any small opportunity was usually stolen by her own worry. But tonight it would be over. Just a few more hours. She may as well try to sleep. The woman let herself rest back against the bed, into the dampness of her own sweat. Stella let her eyes close, and she drifted off to sleep.

3

In her dream, Stella was lost in the desert. The heat was scorching, like being in a frying pan, and her skin could feel the agitated grease. The sun’s rays reflected off the ground and radiated upward, making everything around her waver like a mirage. She couldn't say whether she was on an abandoned street of cracked pavement, or wading through an expanse of sand, but her feet carried her forward steadily. She could hear the sound of her own breathing and of her blood throbbing in her ears.

Where is my room? She wondered. I have to get to sleep.

Pausing to turn her head slightly, she could see that there was a wall running alongside her, but it was hardly there, vaporous like a cloud. She reached her hand out to touch it, but her fingers either did not reach it, or they slipped right through it.

Shuffling footsteps ahead drew her attention, and her head turned toward the sound. A monster approached her, lumbering out of the heat. She stopped in her tracks, awaiting the creature’s approach. It was a dark shadow on two legs, rippling like an illusion – but she knew it was there. It staggered, wobbling off its straight path, but it was coming for her.

Stella stood still – very still. She tried to focus on the monster, but could not manage to get a clearer image in her vision. Muffled sounds reached out to her ears from the creature’s throat, but she could not make sense of it. The growl was nothing friendly. This beast was her enemy – as of course they all were. She lingered there in the heat, waiting patiently as the monster came closer.

Stella pulled a switchblade out of her pocket and stabbed the beast in the chest.

4

Shadows began to dance in through the window as the sun lowered toward the evening. The light and darkness played across Stella’s face and eventually her swollen eyelids began to open. Quickly, she searched her mind to remember the day, as she always did. It was Tuesday; she was at the Sunset Motel near Laredo Texas. How long had she been resting? Three hours? Four? Despite how long it may have been, she didn’t feel like she’d slept at all. Her head was heavier than ever before, and it throbbed gently.

Sighing as she wiped her reddened eyes, Stella peered around the room. This was room number 8, near the end. That suited her fine. She hoped that the green pick-up parked outside would not be seen so easily from the road. The room had a very simple setup: a door and a window, covered with ratty curtains. There was a closet and a small bathroom on the far side of the room. The carpet was stained. The ceiling was marked with water damage. A short bureau near the door served as a dresser as well as a surface for an old TV with rabbit ears. There was a queen-size bed in questionable condition, on which she’d been resting. Beside the bed was a small table, and on it was a lamp and an old digital alarm clock, dusty. Inside a drawer was a standard Gideon’s. Had it been used? How many people had stayed in this very room? How many had reached to that Bible, desperate for hope?

How many people contemplated suicide in this room? Stella wondered. And exactly how much fun can I have before I go to hell?

She shook the thoughts away. This was her drowsiness talking. She needed to come back to reality.

“Denise?” she called out toward the bathroom. Surely the woman should have been back by now from her trip to get ice, and yet there was only silence all around.

I have to get up. Ignoring the protests of her body, Stella urged herself up from the bed. She staggered toward the bathroom, wondering if she might find Denise there at the mirror, dying her hair or some other helpful task to help them stay hidden. Stella hoped she had brought enough color for both of them.

She passed around the corner into the cramped, tiled space, but the bathroom was empty. There was a face looking back at her, however – her own from the cloudy mirror above the sink. Stella was alone.

But someone had been there.

The toilet was running, filling the tank back up with water. It had been flushed recently. There was condensation on the scummy walls of the shower, and the air was warm. There were used towels discarded in a wad in front of the shower, washcloths in the sink, keeping a ruddy amount of water from draining out…

Rolling her eyes at the mess, Stella reached for the rags in the sink to clear them from the drain, but her fingertips had not even skimmed the water before she halted. This water had a reddish tint, and why would it have been dye? Denise already had red hair.

What was it then? Blood? Why was there blood in the sink?

Something’s wrong…

“Denise!” Stella yelled, hearing the irritation and urgency in her own voice. She paced heatedly back into the main room, though she didn’t know why she expected to find her friend there. She hadn’t been inside before, and the space was just as empty as it had been when she’d woken up. The door was still closed, the curtains were still drawn. The bed was disheveled, just as she’d left it – but there was still something different.

“No…” Stella uttered. The word was little more than a passage of air from her lips. Yes, the bed was the same, but that smooth leather bag – the only cool thing within the room – was gone.

Stella took a step toward the bed, to the place where the bag had once sat. It seemed that there was still a shadow there on the carpet, marking the place where the ill-gotten money had been. Panic began to rise, and a sick feeling began to bubble up in her stomach.

Denise did this, she realized as her fists clenched. She skipped out on me while I was asleep!

Immediately, Stella’s head began to pound with an insatiable ache. No, no, no; this hadn’t happened! How could Denise do this to her? She’d taken the money and left. Had she called the police and told them where to find Stella, the guilty party? Were the cops on their way to this motel, to this very room, at this very moment?

I have to get out of here.

Forgetting about the heat, Stella grabbed for the clothes she’d disregarded earlier – her jeans and her boots – pulling them on swiftly. She dashed toward the closet in order to retrieve the few belongings she’d packed. Her bag was still there, right where she’d left it, but Denise’s suitcase was gone.

“I can’t believe this,” she muttered to herself. “How could she do this to me?”

Stella had let Denise get her into trouble before, but never like this. In all that they’d been through together – for all the years that they had been friends – nothing like this had ever happened, and Stella hadn’t expected it. She’d been blindsided, but she felt too much rage and fear to pity herself now.

Swinging her bag over her shoulder, she reached for the keys to the truck, surprised when her hand fell on them. Was it true that Denise hadn’t taken the truck? Why? To offer Stella a sporting chance? Stella’s shaking hand rattled the keys as she tried to sort out the proper one. It was there somewhere in the mess of jangling decoys. Feeling that she’d assembled herself well enough, she headed toward the door, wrapping shaking fingers around the knob.

She twisted. She pulled. The door would not come open.

Stella had not been prepared for this, which added another thing to her list of shocks and surprises. The door should have opened easily from the inside, but it wouldn’t budge.

She’s locked me in, the woman realized. She’s locked me in from the outside somehow.

Her bag fell from her shoulder and slipped to the floor, but she hardly seemed to notice. She put trembling hands to the sides of her head, clenching her hair and pulling it firmly. The sensation of pain made her think more clearly.

Alright, think rationally, she coached herself. Denise left me. She could be across the border already for all I know, with the money. I have nothing. The police may be after me, but I can still get away. But I don’t have a dime. I should – I should turn myself in…

Coming out of her thoughts, Stella realized that she had been staring straight at the wall. She could see the seams in the wallpaper, which was pale and slightly yellowed, accented with little clusters of pink flowers. Her eyes had come out of focus, causing the wall to slide, the shapes upon it to shift.

That flowered wallpaper… It was maddening.

“Let me out!” she screamed, reaching out for the wall. She beat her fists on it and dragged her fingernails across it as if she could dig a tunnel with her fingers.

I have to get out. I have to get out.

I need help!

What I really need are minions. Yes, most definitely. They could help me to claw my way out of here!

She felt a nail tear, and the pain made her fall back. She’d made her hand sore, and she held her wrist gingerly. As Stella looked on at what she’d been attempting, she understood that she was losing her head. The wall was not going to move for her. There was another way to get out. It may be noisy, but it was her best option.

The window…

All she needed was something weighty that she could throw through it. There would be a crash and a shattering of glass, but she would be out – free. The truck would be right outside, and she could flee. Looking around frantically, her eyes rested on the small television. It would be perfect. Luckily for her, it was not bolted down.

Not bothering to favor her sore hands, Stella ripped the cord from the wall and gripped the 10 inch TV, lifting the box into her arms. It was of an older make, heavy, and she hoped that she could fling it with enough forced to break the window.

This is it, Stella. Do it and get the hell out of here.

Spinning herself in a circle to gain momentum, she veered around and let the television fly. The mark was not hard to miss. It hit the curtain, and behind it, the glass broke in a spider-webbing pattern, but the obstruction did not burst. Once again, Stella picked up her instrument. Again she threw it, and again, until finally the box went sailing through and crashed outside. It was the sweetest sound she had heard since coming into this god-forsaken room.

Jerking up her bag swiftly, she pulled back the curtain and used her satchel to clear inhibiting shards of glass from the window frame. There were just a few steps to the truck, and then she would be gone.

Stella climbed out through the broken window – and that was when she saw the blood.

5

It was a bloody mess. Newspapers called it “The Happening at Sunset” and “The Mysterious Border Deaths”. No one could manage to use the word ‘murder’, for the circumstances surrounding it were just too confusing. Though it was a Tuesday night massacre, no one could quite explain why everyone at the obscure Sunset Motel had been found dead.

The cars in the small parking lot were all undisturbed, no suspicious vehicles adding to their number in the night. A potential lodger called the incident in after finding the first body – that of the motel manager, slumped over his counter and bleeding profusely from a neck wound. On further investigation, more corpses were discovered. The next was of a man, found on the pavement by the ice machine, his own bucket spilled across the ground with icy clumps in his blood. He’d been stabbed in the chest. A young couple was found dead in their room, all bloody sheets and static blaring on the TV. Another man was found in a pool of blood by his car in front of room number 6, perhaps while trying to make his escape.

What had happened? Was it the heat? The fear of being apprehended for a crime that had brought on madness? No one outside of that motel would ever know exactly what had happened there. The only indications were found in room 8.

A long trail of blood led from the motel office and past every door along the way, stopping at room 8. There was a green pickup parked just outside the room. The battery was dead. The lock bolt of the room door was stuck, and the window had been broken out by a TV that was smashed on the sidewalk. There were scratches and tears in the dingy, flowered wallpaper. A bag of clothes had been dropped by the door. There was a bloody switchblade in the shower, the red liquid bringing the soap scum stains to new hues. Towels had been used to clean up the extra mess, wadded on the floor. There was a red substance in the sink yet it was not blood, but hair dye.

Those things were not all. A bag containing a hundred thousand dollars was found, pushed up under the edge of the bed and out of sight. And there was another body in the room.

The body in room 8 was not like the others. Unlike them, this one had not been stabbed or cut. She had hung herself from the ceiling fan with a sweat-soaked bed sheet. An ID in the clothes bag was found to match her face. Stella Dunham, age twenty-seven, from Memphis, Tennessee. She was on the run after stealing money from her boss, but how had petty theft escalated to mass murder?

There was a brief note tucked away in the Bible by the bed. It read:

Denise did this. She killed them and ran. Killed them to keep them quiet. She double-crossed me and framed me, but I won’t take the blame. I won’t run. Not alone. Tell my momma I love her. – Stella

It was a strange find, this note. It didn’t seem to fit with anything else. Stella’s fingerprints matched those on the knife. There was blood on her that belonged to all the other victims, and she had recently dyed her hair red, perhaps to guard her identity. Room 8 had been registered to a woman named Denise Rivers. But who was Denise? No one knows. In the room, there was no evidence that another soul had been there.

Only Stella.