The Mistwood Motor Lodge was the kind of place that had given up on charm around the same time neon signs went out of fashion. It was a long, two-story structure painted a grim, sun-bleached beige, with doors the color of dried blood and a flickering vacancy sign that buzzed like an angry insect. It was, in Ethan's professional opinion as a part-time horror protagonist, a perfect seven out of ten on the "Soon-To-Be-A-Crime-Scene" scale.
"Home sweet murder shack," Ethan muttered, heaving his duffel bag higher on his shoulder as Professor Nolan droned on about curfews and buddy systems.
The room assignments were posted on the lobby's corkboard, already yellowed with age. As fate—or a sadistic narrative force—would have it, Ethan was paired with Ray and two other guys from their class: Leo, a lanky film major who was already framing shots with his fingers, and Ben, a quiet, perpetually nervous bio-chem student who looked like he was calculating the statistical probability of bedbugs.
Their room, 217, smelled overwhelmingly of pine-scented disinfectant trying and failing to mask the ghost of ten thousand cigarettes. Two double beds with suspiciously floral-patterned quilts dominated the space. Ray immediately claimed a bed, dropping his bag with a grunt.
"Alright, dibs on this one. I don't trust the springs on the other."
Leo, ever the director, pointed at the other bed. "Ben, you're with me. Ethan, Ray, you two lovebirds can share."
"It's not sharing if we're both on different sides of the bed, you philistine," Ray retorted, already unpacking a truly impressive stash of energy drinks onto the nightstand.
For a few hours, it was… normal. Uncomfortably, bizarrely normal. They ordered a greasy pizza, argued over what to stream on the motel's shaky Wi-Fi, and the conversation inevitably, as it always did, circled back to the elephant—or rather, the lethally graceful ninja—not in the room.
"Seriously, though, man," Ray said around a mouthful of pepperoni, "you've been holding out on us. Living with a girl who looks like she stepped out of a spy thriller? How did that even happen? Did you win a contest you didn't tell us about?"
Ben pushed his glasses up, looking genuinely curious. "The odds of someone with your… lifestyle… cohabitating platonically with an individual of that perceived social caliber are astronomically low. The data suggests a pre-existing relationship or a mutually beneficial agreement we haven't yet identified."
"See? Science agrees it's weird," Leo added, zooming in on Ethan's pained expression with an imaginary camera. "Give us the details. We're your friends. We deserve to know the truth behind the 'complicated sleeping arrangement.'"
Ethan groaned, sinking deeper into the lumpy armchair. "There is no 'truth.' She's just… there. It's a temporary thing. A weird, sharp, and silent temporary thing."
"A temporary thing that makes you clean your house," Ray countered, wiggling his eyebrows. "Come on. You can tell us. Did you… you know?" He made a crude, universally understood gesture with his fists bumping together.
"No! We did not 'you know'!" Ethan's voice cracked. "Why is that everyone's first assumption? We live in a demon house! There are more pressing matters than… than that!"
Leo nodded sagely. "Ah, so the passion is so intense it distracts you from the paranormal. A love that conquers even evil. It's a beautiful arc, really."
"I will smother you with this floral quilt," Ethan said flatly.
"He's deflecting," Ray announced to the room. "Classic deflection. That means it happened. Multiple times, probably. In the newly repaired living room. On the non-screaming wallpaper."
They continued like this, their good-natured ribbing bouncing off the cheap paneled walls. Ben even cracked a smile, offering a statistically improbable theory about optimal cohabitation logistics. For a fleeting moment, wrapped in the cheap polyester blankets and the glow of a bad action movie on the laptop, Ethan almost felt like a normal college kid on a normal trip. The house, the ghost, the cult—it all felt distant, like a bad dream receding in the morning light.
He should have known better.
The fun began to die as the movie credits rolled. One by one, they got ready for bed, the camaraderie fading into the quiet unease of an unfamiliar place. The motel's plumbing groaned like a dying man as Leo showered. The air conditioner kicked in with a sound like a chain being dragged across concrete, then settled into a wheezing hum.
Lights out.
The room was plunged into a darkness that was thicker and more complete than the one in Nolite. There were no streetlights here, just the deep, consuming black of the woods pressing in against the windows.
Ethan lay on his side of the bed, staring at the glowing red numbers of the digital clock: 2:17 AM. Ray was snoring softly beside him. Leo was a silent lump in the other bed, and Ben's breathing was a slow, steady rhythm from the next pillow. The initial novelty had worn off, and the silence now felt heavy, expectant.
Then the first sound came.
It wasn't loud. It was a faint, metallic scrape from somewhere outside. Like a trash can being nudged.
Ethan's eyes snapped open wider. He held his breath, listening.
Nothing.
Just a raccoon, he told himself. Or a very dedicated squirrel. A squirrel with a key to the dumpster.
Five minutes passed. The clock glowed 2:22 AM.
Then, another sound. This one was closer. A soft, dragging noise, like something heavy being pulled slowly across the asphalt of the parking lot. Scrunch… pause… scrunch…
Ben stirred in his sleep. "Mmph?"
"Shhh," Ethan hissed into the darkness, though he wasn't sure why.
The dragging stopped. A new sound took its place—a low, guttural humming. It was tuneless, mechanical, and wrong. It was the sound a very large, very angry insect might make if it had metal for vocal cords.
Ray's snoring hitched. "Turn off the… lawnmower…" he mumbled, still mostly asleep.
Ethan's blood ran cold. It wasn't a lawnmower.
The humming grew louder, coalescing into a recognizable vibration. It was the sound of a poorly tuned engine. A two-stroke engine.
Leo sat bolt upright in his bed. "What is that?" he whispered, his voice tight with sleep and sudden fear.
The sound revved, ripping through the silent night. It was right below their window now.
Vrrrr-RRRR- VRRRRAAAAAP!
It was no longer just an engine. It was the unmistakable, teeth-rattling snarl of a chainsaw.
The sound didn't idle. It revved again, a violent, aggressive roar that promised splintering wood and worse. It was so loud it seemed to shake the very walls of the motel room. The floral patterns on the quilt seemed to tremble.
Ben was fully awake now, clutching his blanket to his chin, his eyes wide and terrified behind his glasses. "Is… is someone cutting wood? At two in the morning?"
"No one cuts wood at two in the morning, you idiot!" Leo whispered back, his director's brain already conjuring the worst possible scenario. "That's a horror movie trope! That's the killer's calling card!"
Ray was finally awake, propped up on his elbows. All the color had drained from his face. The jokes about Ethan's love life were a distant memory. "What the hell?" he breathed.
The chainsaw revved a third time, a screaming, metallic challenge that hung in the air. And then, with a final, sputtering BRRAAAP, it cut off.
The silence that followed was somehow a thousand times more terrifying than the noise. It was a listening silence. A hungry silence.
The four of them sat frozen in the dark, their hearts hammering in a synchronized rhythm of pure, primal fear. They didn't speak. They didn't move. They just stared at the window, at the thin curtain that was all that separated them from whatever stood in the parking lot, holding a now-silent chainsaw.
The fun was officially over.