The night had been quiet — too quiet. Angela, the night clerk at a roadside motel, had grown used to the dull hum of televisions and the occasional shuffle of guests. But that evening, something about Room 112 unsettled her. The man who checked in, introducing himself as Daniel Harper, had been polite yet distant, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. There was something rehearsed about it — a smile worn like a mask.
Hours later, as she performed her usual rounds, a faint glow from the window of Room 112 caught her attention. Curiosity mixed with unease, she stepped closer, peering through a small gap in the curtains.
Inside, a young girl sat cross-legged on the bed, illuminated by a unicorn-shaped nightlight. Her small hands clutched a pencil as she scribbled furiously in a notebook, her expression blank and mechanical. Angela frowned — the girl couldn’t have been more than eleven. What kind of lesson could keep a child so tense at this hour?
Then, she saw him. Daniel stood nearby, his once-friendly demeanor replaced with a chilling coldness. He leaned over the girl’s shoulder, pointing sharply at the page, his voice low but unmistakably harsh. Through the glass, Angela couldn’t make out his words, but she saw the girl flinch as her pencil slipped. Without hesitation, Daniel shoved it back into her hand.
Angela’s stomach turned. The walls were covered with strange equations and symbols — nothing a child should be studying. Fear tightened her chest. Was this some kind of experiment? A sick form of control?
For a moment, she hesitated. What if she was wrong? But then, the girl looked up. Their eyes met through the narrow slit of the curtains, and Angela’s breath caught. The child’s gaze wasn’t curious — it was pleading.
That was all the confirmation she needed. Angela turned and ran back toward the office, her hands trembling as she reached for the phone.