"Trust me when I say, this is messed up..." - Matt Shaw, author of Sick B*stards
"I believe pain lingers," Angel said. "Do I believe in spirits? In the supernatural? Probably not."
The Lonely Motel holds many dark secrets... and Room 6 just might possess the worst of them all.
Angel knows all about pain. His mother died in this room. He's researched its history. Today he's come back to end it, no matter the cost, once and for all.
Shyla, a plus-sized prostitute, thinks the stories Angel tells her can't be true. Secrets so vile, you won't want to let them inside you.
But the Lonely Motel doesn't forget. It doesn't forgive. And it always claims its victim.
The book has sold several thousand copies in its year of sales. It is currently sitting at around 39000 in the US Kindle Store, and is almost always in the Top 100 in Horror Short Stories. In the UK it has been in the Top 100 in Horror Short Stories and Dark Comedy for several weeks.
Angel opened the door to Room 6 with a key so scratched he was surprised it still worked, linked to a vermillion fob worn by so many thumbs the number was barely visible. The old room was just as he remembered it—this was not a good thing. There was no nostalgia here for Angel, only pain. Some places hold the pain in their walls, in the carpet snags, in the cracks of the ceiling and chinks in the baseboards. Room 6 of the Lonely Motel thirty minutes from the New York-Canadian border was one such place, Angel believed. With quiet apprehension, he hoisted the heavy black backpack onto his shoulder and crossed the threshold.
"Hello, Mom," he said to the empty room. "It's been a long time."
Angel dropped the bag on a threadbare carpet the same shade as the key fob, and gave the room a careful examination. The flowery bedspread was new—he supposed it made sense, considering. The solid wood bed-frame, and possibly the mattress if they'd been able to get the red out, were still the same.
The painting stuck to the wood paneling above was the same: a poor oil rendition of Jonah escaping the whale. The same faux red oak dresser and vanity, chipped in the lower right corner, warped near the top like a carnival mirror, so if you stood on your tiptoes your head would stretch out long and pointy. The ashtray was new, a cheap black plastic one. The last time he'd been here, the front desk had requested no smoking, though they'd smoked anyway. You had to, just to get rid of the smell.
| Language | Status |
|---|---|
|
Italian
|
Already translated.
Translated by Marta Leoni
|
|
Spanish
|
Already translated.
Translated by Celso Florance
|
