The Milford MotelI’m thinking: my arms are cold, when did mist get this wet? Let’s do this already before somebody sees me and calls the cops.
Somehow, despite the free-for-all time seems to have had on the Milford Motel, the door that leads to the owner’s living quarters stands untouched, an immaculate deep green beacon, barricaded only by the remnants of a screen door. Thanks to the overcast sky, wet blacktop, and the dull white painted siding, my attention is forced to it. Somewhere in the distance, a dog is barking. It’s impossible to get to the door without first stepping onto the surrounding porch, then ducking under the drooping balcony, surrounding the ground floor like a weeping willow. Once there, the screen door, more akin to cheesecloth, peels off its hinges easily. Reaching out I grab hold of the cold, black, metal doorknob and begin to twist. It grinds in its socket as the bolt removes itself from the door jam. To my surprise the door swings open easily and with barely a sound. I stepped inside quickly, wanting to finally escape the ever-growing drizzle.
Laminate cracks under my feet as I walk a little further in and begin to orient myself. The first room that I enter is the kitchen. The grimy windows above the sink in front of me filter out most of the light, but after a minute or so my eyes adjust and I am able to take it all in. The sheer amount of stuff crammed into this room is absurd. Any type of dinnerware you could ever imagine, made out of glass or ceramic, is represented; all meticulously placed on shelves, chairs, countertops, any surface that could support them except for the floor. Almost like the floor had to be avoided at all costs. The floor itself is scattered with dust and broken bits of plaster from the walls and ceilings, gathered into neat little piles over the entire floor, like a forest of anthills.
From the side of my eye I see something wave, like cloth almost, from around a corner and disappear! I look curiously in its direction and follow slowly. This leads me into a brown-carpeted living room off of the kitchen to find more of the same debris-piles on the floor. This time however, all the usual accouterments you might find in a living room, VCRs, stereo parts, tapes, records, couch cushions, are stacked like little monuments, miniature Stonehenge, making a maze that requires all of my concentration not to bump into. Me being me, I couldn’t bare the thought of making a false move and knocking anything over. I’m doing my best to navigate the living room labyrinth. With my eyes to the floor, trying not to step on a remote control cenotaph, just out of my vision, I see it again. I’m sure of it. Only this time I can see it looks more like a shirtsleeve, and the movement seems more frantic and even impatient.
Whenever you watch a horror film and something like this happens you immediately start thinking ‘What an idiot! I would never just follow some apparition beckoning me into the dark.’ But here I am doing just that. My curiosity had been fallow for so long and the arcanum of this place had found it.
I moved slowly at first around the corner to catch another glimpse of fabric trail down the hallway. Then I picked up my pace, jumping down the ten foot tunnel, yellowing wallpaper blurring beside me until I almost gored myself on a crystal doorknob. The door in front of me, cracked and white, was slightly ajar and swaying a few millimeters on its hinges.
A splinter of gray light points out into the hallway. With my enthusiasm draining I try to push the door open. No luck. It won’t budge any farther. I take a deep breath of stale, musty air and put my shoulder to the door, shoving hard. I feel a great weight shifting, sliding over the barely visible carpet. I begin to see that a diaphanous curtain is draped over the door, blocking my view of the room inside. I put my head through the gap I had made and feel my chest being squeezed between door and frame. The curtain is unbelievably heavy on my face. The dust and mildew collected on it make it impossible to breath and I start to panic with my body stuck halfway in and halfway out of this veiled room. I frantically struggle, trying to make some kind of progress either way to free myself. I’m certain that I’m going to drown in grime! In a sudden dusty burst I’m birthed into the room.
I wipe my face, trying to clear my nose only to find the air itself was just as congested. Searching for breath, I find myself in a small eight by eight foot room sitting atop a waist deep pile of clothes, with every fashion mistake from the 70s stacked beneath me. I get lost thinking about their owner, the now dead motel keeper, when a small nudge brings me back. Still half in a trance, dizzy from the lack of oxygen, I notice an open suitcase across from me and hear an almost inaudible whisper, like polyester friction, saying “Take us with you.”
