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The Eyes of Stargrass Motel
“Hello, anybody here?” asked the tourist on the lobby desk of the little Stargrass Motel.
Seconds after he asked, came a tall man sporting a moustache from the back door, on his nametag, the name Wilson was written, and he answered “Welcome to the Stargrass Motel, sir, how can I help you?”
“I’d like a room, and I see you still have vacancy. I’d like to stay the night here.”
“Of course, sir, wait just a moment. Do me a favor; write your name in one of those cards there.” Wilson pointed to a stack of cards on the corner of the table. The tourist picked one up, took a pen from the desk, with the writing “Stargrass Motel” on it, and wrote his name on it: Tony Shire.
As Wilson looked at his computer and Tony filled in the little card, he noticed, on the Stargrass pen, the motel logo, a crudely drawn eye that one can consider ‘artistic’. Abstract. A style of painting Tony never cared much even in his job as a painter. Below it, in gold, “A place to close your eyes in tranquility”.
Amused by the slight contrast, imagining him being watched by this abstract eye while trying to close his own eyes, Tony managed to hold down a tiny snicker as he wrote his cell phone number into the tiny card from the corner. “Are you finished sir?” asked Wilson, his right hand still on the mouse as Tony kept writing.
“Wait, just a bit more.” Tony wrote the last digits of his phone number and gave it to Wilson. “Here you go.”
“Thank you,” Wilson said, he copied the information in the card to his computer in fast keystrokes—God knows how fast this man types, thought Tony. “Okay, sir, you’ll be staying in room 166.” Wilson reached down and grabbed a set of electronic keys, all neatly put in a white envelope, “Stargrass Motel” written on it in blue. “Cash or charge?”
“Uh, charge, here’s my card.” Tony grabbed a wallet from his jacket, opened it, and grabbed a Mastercard. As he watched Wilson process the card patiently, his eye caught something in its corner. Through the window which views the road and the various rooms of the Stargrass, was a girl, maybe about twelve, looking—staring at him with her big, black eyes. Her face and hands touched the glass, so it made her nose look flat, but she was a pretty girl, for that age. Tony, confused on what to do, smiled faintly and uncomfortably at her, bringing his hand up as to wave, but wiggled his fingers instead. His lips mouthed the words ‘Hi’, but the girl just kept staring, staring, with those strange, black eyes that seemed to pierce his skull, into his minds and fears. Tony began to sweat, uncomfortable as he was, in the silence and the staring. Mercifully, Wilson broke the silence. “Thank you sir,” he handed him the Mastercard, “Enjoy your stay at the Stargrass Motel.”
“You’re welcome,” Tony replied, taking his keys, his card, and looking toward the window again.
The girl is gone, leaving a fresh, fading ghostly faceprint and two handprints on the lobby window.
Not thinking much of it, (Probably just some lost girl looking for her room, right?) Tony picked up his luggage and walked toward room 166.
*****
In his room, (Not bad, he thought) he put his luggage down and dropped himself, almost literally, into bed. Lying down drowsily, having driven a couple hundred miles alone. He flipped to lay on his back, reaching the TV remote on the little bedside table by the King-size bed, and instead of the flat bumpy surface of TV remote control, he felt something else. Something small.
A pen.
He picked it up and looked at it, finding it to be the same as the one he used in the lobby. The abstract eye in gold gleamed in the gloomy motel lights. Now that he looked at it, though, Tony thought the eye also looked like a sun. Whatever, Tony thought, and being the opportunist that he is, he stuck the pen in his pants pocket to keep.
I’ll do the bathroom supplies later, he thought, and grabbing the remote, he flipped to Nick at Nite.
*****
He woke up at twelve, looking at his clock, exasperated. Man, I feel weird, he thought.
He felt as though he was being watched, by whom, and why he does is unknown to him. Might be a dream, he thought. I don’t remember what I dreamt… maybe it was something bad… and I just woke up… or something?
Unable to rationalize, Tony looked around; his TV still on Nick at Nite, old reruns of Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. His Air conditioner blowing, and above it, the window…
Eyes wide and jaw open, he saw ghostly, misty marks on the window. Still fresh and new, they faded slowly in the outside’s cold air. The curtain—Tony could’ve sworn it was closed when he dozed off, but now it was wide open for the whole world to see.
But that wasn’t the most of it. Though the curtain bothered him, what bother him most were the marks on the window. Two handprints and a faceprint, looking toward the room, staring at the sleeping Tony, just like the lobby. Just like the girl.
Tony got off from bed, closed the curtains, and went straight to bed, leaving the TV on and letting Will Smith do his antics as he slept.
*****
Three hours later, Tony awoke once more, again feeling that funny feeling like someone is watching. The room was silent and quiet, which was normal, right? He thought.
But then, as he awoke, he remembered the TV should be on, Fresh Prince should be showing on the television. He knew, that was supposed to be, was it not him that turned the TV on?
Afraid, he looked to the window. He turned his head to his left, slowly, carefully…
The curtain’s closed. All is well.
Again, Tony grabbed the remote to turn the TV on, scared as he was. But when he pointed the remote towards that TV…
That startling, ghostly image again, the prints, face and hands, fading slowly from the TV screen.
Tony’s mouth opened to scream, but he shut it with his hands. He sweated even with the air conditioner blowing, and he looked around. Nothing. Nothing in his room. But he took the pen out of his pocket and held it like a dagger, just as a way to make him feel a bit secure. A bit. Like it will do much, his mind thought, but what else can he do, really?
He turned his head and saw the large mirror by the sink, and this time, he screamed without holding back. His yell is loud and terrified, but he managed to stop yelling after a couple seconds. Yet he was crying, confused, weirded out by this supernatural experience.
But then he saw the black-eyed girl in the mirror turn her gaze to the side, toward the King-size bed he slept at. Tony looked at the pen he dropped, and amazed, the abstract eye on the pen was facing the bed, as if it looked on the bed, the lower layer on the stack of mattresses.
As if some divine inspiration, he looked at the bed, and an idea occurred to him, that maybe whatever haunted him will go away if he saw what she saw, maybe. Just maybe. Is it under the top mattress? Tony stood up, trying to not mind his shaking knees. He grabbed the top mattress and tried to push it aside. Heavy, he thought. But within minutes, he managed to put it on the floor… and unleashed a particularly strong stench from under.
Tony covered his nose with his left hand, wondering what the stench is. Under the mattress was a wooden board, not exactly thin but not thick enough to bother Tony’s sleep. Knowing that the answer of all this may be that board, he picked it up, meaning to look at it, but when he did…
Oh, the smell grew stronger, its sickening, horrendous stench filled the room… and when he saw what was under the board—as he now knew the mystery, not the board itself, but what it covers, he threw up on the floor.
For under it, was the corpse of a girl, a girl with big black eyes and a white dress, stabbed mercilessly on the chest. Her eyelids sewn so it will not close, staring upwards toward any inhabitant of room 166.
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