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Only recently, I learned sus was short for suspicious. Maybe I was getting old because I didn’t understand the fascination with this particular slang word. “Yep. Rumored to be as haunted as the hotel, too.”
“You said clowns not haunted,” he muttered, eyeing the wooden crosses and scorching desert sands outside the window with a wary tilt of his head.
“Why not both?” I asked innocently, opening my door and exiting the car. Zane followed with a huff, and I suppressed a giggle. My son was a typical teenage boy, and there was often a dramatic reaction to my words.
Once the trunk was open, I picked up my bag and headed toward the stairs to find room 214. As I trudged up to the second floor, an eerie sensation tickled the back of my neck. Invisible fingers ghosted across my skin as goosebumps popped up all over my arms. Spooked, I shrugged the feeling off and located number 214 to my right.
The bright yellow door greeted us with a cheery, wooden clown that hung below the numbers. Before my son could catch up, I used the key I was given when I checked in. Zane roused from his nap several minutes later as I parked next to a giant, wooden clown named Jolly. That was when he noticed the cemetery.
Zane caught up as the door to our room opened wide, swinging on a rusty hinge. Chipped paint glared from the sides of the door, but the room was spectacular. Exactly what I hoped when I booked it a few days ago.
We weren’t able to stay in the infamous room 108, where a giant mural of the horror clown It was painted, waiting to pounce on unsuspecting guests. Bummer. I would have enjoyed putting Zane in the bed closest to the freaky thing. He loved the book by Stephen King and both movies. The kid loved horror, especially anything paranormal.
Our room was another of the themed rooms in the motel: Friday the 13th. The floor-length mural pictured a decent rendition of Jason wearing his hockey mask, complete with a machete. Red and black plaid bedspreads covered both of the queen-sized mattresses. Random clown paintings scattered along the walls in uneven spots. A creepy reminder that this motel was known for its excess of anything clown-related.
“Woah,” Zane called out as he entered, dropping a duffle bag on the dresser. “Super spooky.”
“Right? How fun is this?”
“Radical, mom.” He flopped onto the bed closest to the mural and shrugged off his backpack. “I mean, that is what your generation used to say, right?”
“Smartass,” I mumbled under my breath, flashing a smirk.
“Hey, it’s in the genes,” he joked, zipping open the main compartment of his pack and pulling out his Xbox. The controller, headset, and charger followed. “When do you have to leave again?”
My son was a gamer like most kids his age. I tried not to be offended that he wanted to hop on right away. Didn’t have anything to do with me but more with the fact that he missed his friends.
“Soon. I’ll grab some snacks and drinks from the vending machine before I go. Any requests?”
“Snickers, BBQ chips, red licorice, and sour candy. Oh,” he added, “and Cherry Coke.”
Rolling my eyes, I shook my head. “I’ll see what they’ve got. Going to pick up trail mix if they’ve got it, water, and the soda. Be right back.”
Zane waved a hand, already focused on hooking up his equipment and setting up Wi-Fi. Grabbing my purse, I headed outside and walked around the upper floor, then took the stairs to the bottom—no sign of the vending machine anywhere.
There was only one place left to look, and I felt silly as I entered the office, spotting the machine on one wall surrounded by numerous shelves where row after row of clowns stared back with creepy grins. Old, new, small, life-sized, thin, fat, bright, dull, happy, sad. Every type of clown that you could imagine lined the entire office.
The owner was busy checking in another guest, so I promptly purchased the snacks and drinks, tucking some items into my bag as I juggled the rest. The bell above the door jingled merrily as I slipped outside and headed back toward the stairs. A few steps from the top, the strangest feeling prickled the skin on the back of my neck again. This time I could swear I felt someone watching me. Clown eyes from every direction seemed to follow my movements as I swallowed hard. This motel was undoubtedly all that the website boasted.
America’s scariest? Yeah, I was starting to believe it.
Back in the room, I placed the snacks on the table and then stowed the drinks in the mini-fridge.
“I shouldn’t be gone more than a few hours,” I announced, stooping to place a kiss on top of Zane’s head. He might be nearly sixteen, but he wasn’t too old for me to show affection. No matter how old he was, he would always be my baby. Never understood my mother’s point of view growing up. She used to say the same thing. A mother’s love was unconditional and eternal.
Zane was already shooting zombies, calling out directions and strategies to someone on the mic. “Later, mom. Love you.”
My heart nearly melted. If he could say that in front of his friends at this age and mean it, I had a good son.
“Love you too. Call me if you need anything.”
I shut the door with a click, a wistful smile plastered on my face. Some things in life were so special they held only value in your heart, soul, and that deep place inside that few could touch.
“HI, I’M TAWNI BAKER,” I greeted with a smile, introducing myself to the officer who faced the nursery inside the medical facility. We agreed to meet today after I finalized all the documents for the placement. Through the glass window, I glimpsed several newborns. Nurses were feeding two while another received a bath. The sight warmed my heart until I noticed the infant alone in his crib swaddled as he blinked up at the lights. Poor thing. He was the reason I was here. “The social worker on the Resnikov custody case.”
“Ah, yes. Hello, Ms. Baker. We spoke on the phone. I’m Sheriff Tucker.”
“I wish we were meeting under better circumstances.”
