urder

Olson put his key in the lock and opened the door of the cheap motel room. He recoiled from a sour smell that emanated from within, somewhere on the bad smell spectrum between spoiled meat and an adolescent boy’s bedroom. He flapped the flimsy door a few times to air the place out before stepping inside.

Tired and sweaty from a long day on the road, he wanted nothing more than a hot shower and to order up a movie. But first, a long piss was in order, to empty his bladder of the dozen or so cups of tea he’d endured that day. The things you do for money, he thought. What he did was collect money from little old ladies for home repairs that would never be done. Today’s take alone was close to five grand.

After turning on the lights, he walked past a small bathroom on the right and down a short hallway to the bedroom. It was about what he expected, and nothing he hadn’t seen before: an off-brown carpet with stains of unknown origin; a scratched and worn dresser with an ancient 27-inch TV on top; a mysteriously bulging double bed. All along the far wall, dingy floor-to-ceiling curtains were drawn tightly shut.

After throwing his suitcase on the stand, he reached over and turned on the television. A moment later, a blue screen with white letters appeared:

“Welcome to The Repose Motel! Press “Order” for movies, other buttons for other services.”

Smiling, he glanced around the room and thought he wouldn’t be ordering any “services” from this place. Opening his suitcase, he grabbed his toothbrush and some clean briefs before heading to the bathroom.

 

 

Stepping out of the shower, he wrapped himself in a towel and went back to the room. Before lying down, he pulled the no doubt cum-stained coverlet off the bed and dropped it to the floor. While reaching to his nightstand for the remote, he paused halfway to remember something he’d learned only recently from TV: the remote control was easily the filthiest item in any hotel room. He pondered that a moment before grabbing the thing by its sides. Bringing it in for closer inspection, he saw this one did not disappoint.

Brown crusty stuff was embedded along and in-between the top rows of buttons. Remnants of a hardened gray matter he only hoped was snot ran along the sides. A clear sticky substance was visible along the bottom.

Putting that out of his mind, he stared at it a while looking for the “Order” button. Most of the letters were too schmutzed or worn down to read, and it didn’t help that he’d left his glasses in the car. He did notice a (once) white button set off by itself near the bottom. After reading the letters beneath, he blinked twice, rubbed his eyes, and read it again. It said:

urder.

After thinking about it, he realized that likely the O was simply worn down, leaving what looked like a lowercase U. But what did give him pause was the gray splotch just to the left of those letters. It was shaped like an M.

Smiling at his own silliness, he put those thoughts out of his mind and figured it had to be the right button. He pressed it and waited. When nothing happened, he pressed it again. More nothing. Frustrated, he threw the useless remote to the side and got up to figure it out manually.

Halfway across the room, he heard something coming down the hallway outside. It was a high-pitched thrumming of some sort. Stopping, he listened more closely before smiling and shaking his head. Whatever it was, he knew it wasn’t coming for him.

Nobody knew he was here. He had checked in using one of his dozens of false identities. Mostly, he was a good fifty miles from the nearest town he’d worked that day and was good at covering his tracks. Still, in his line of work, you never could be sure.

The sound got louder before seeming to stop directly outside his door. Moments later came a heavy thud and then a knock. Olson glanced down the narrow hallway toward the door. “Who is it?” he asked.

There was a pause before a voice answered. “I have your order sir.”

There was something strange about that voice, Olson thought. It had an electronic quality, like something computer generated. More chillingly, it was strangely familiar.

“I didn’t order anything,” he said. He watched whatever it was on the other side of the door try the handle a few times before it answered.

“I’m afraid you did, sir.”

Where had he heard that voice?

“Go away,” he said gruffly, hoping they’d take the hint.

Childish giggles came from the other side, sending shivers up Olson’s spine.

Whoever it was got control of itself long enough to say, “It will only take a moment sir.”

Hearing the voice a third time made Olson remember suddenly where he’d heard it before. But no. It couldn’t be. It was madness.

“Go away,” he said, weaker than he wanted. He tried covering it by adding, “I have a gun.”

The thing giggled again. Olson watched it try the door one more time before suddenly realizing he had to run, or hide. He glanced frantically around the room, dismissing the closet immediately, knowing it was always the first place they looked.

Turning, he lunged for the drapes and the safety of the windows beyond. Pulling them open, on the other side he found only a blank wall, with more of the same drab wallpaper that covered the rest of the room. Those bits of wallpaper he could see, that is.

Because most of the wallpaper behind the curtain was covered with splotches of that same brown crusty matter he had seen earlier on the remote. Chunks of the gray matter were here too, clinging here and there like a bizarre climbing wall. Rorschach patterns of the unidentified clear liquid dribbled down the bottom third.

With nowhere else to go, he pressed himself against the gore.

“Go away!” he shouted. “It was a mistake!”

The voice outside the door was unmoved. “You pressed twice, sir,” it said. “Once is a mistake. Not twice.”

Olson heard the chainsaw start, like he knew he would, then watched the door came crashing down. When he saw the thing behind it, his knees buckled.

It wore its fedora at a jaunty angle. On the leathery face beneath its bald head was a hockey mask, with red circles like targets painted on either side. In its gloved left hand, whose fingers were sharpened steel, Olson knew, was a chainsaw. In its other was a machete. Around its neck was a wide striped tie, too short, atop an apron that could only have come from a slaughterhouse.

Olson heard the chainsaw rev. The thing moved closer.

He realized only then that the … thing … wasn’t who he thought it was, but an amalgamation of every creature from every nightmare movie that had ever been ordered from that crusty, hellish remote. Moments later, he almost laughed when he wondered where the music was. That oh so familiar music.

Ch ch ch ch … Ha ha ha ha … Ch ch ch ch … Ha ha ha ha …

Seconds later, he wet himself, and understood immediately the origin of the mysterious clear liquid.

Yet, even as the chainsaw revved and the machete waved and thing moved closer, Olson found himself strangely resigned to his fate. After all, he’d seen it happen a hundred times before. A thousand times. He couldn’t really blame it. It was just doing what it did. It was bringing him what he ordered.

urder.