I checked in at 1:45 a.m.
The motel was two stories tall and sagging from years of rain and dust. A faded yellow sign blinked outside. The front office light buzzed above a glass counter where a man with no visible face sat behind the desk. He didn't ask for my ID or how long I was staying—just slid a key across the surface toward me.
"Four-oh-five," he said.
"Upstairs. Last one on the left."
The stairs creaked. The hallway stretched longer than it should have, like I took too many steps before reaching the door. I paused.
Room 405.
The key turned with resistance but opened.
The room was small. One bed, one lamp, a dead television in the corner. It didn't smell like mildew or smoke—it didn't smell like anything.
I dropped my bag on the bed, trying to convince myself to relax.
I'm not a superstitious person.
But when I shut the door, and the lock clicked behind me—
I turned to look again—
The door was gone.
Not closed. Not locked. Just... gone.
I stood there, frozen. My hand still hovered where the doorknob had been.