The Lunar Motel had been a pit stop for the damned long before the first neon flicker of its crescent moon sign.
Back in the 1950s, it lured in the misfit travelers: the once-happy vacationing family (now broken by secrets), the fading prom king and queen (rotting in their vanity), the gluttonous food truck woman (who was rumored to serve more than just beef), the disbarred doctor (whose scalpel was never truly put away), and of course—the motel’s owner, a twitchy-eyed voyeur who installed hidden passageways and two-way mirrors.
Then, one autumn night it exploded! It gutted the Lunar Motel down to its bones. No cause was ever determined. No bodies were ever found. Some whispered that the motel itself refused to let its residents leave. Some said they never did.
Developers bought the lot. Ignoring the town’s nervous whispers, they rebuilt the motel. New name. Skinner Motel - Same retro-style rooms. “A New Experience!” the ad boasted.
They reopened to travelers under a blood-red full moon.
And almost immediately, guests began to check in who felt… familiar.
A family of four rented Room 3. They smiled too widely. Their laughter was shrill, the mother’s hands clenching and unclenching as if resisting the urge to strike.
A beautiful young couple, glowing like they had just left a prom, took Room 7. They posed for endless selfies, but if you looked closely, their faces were too tight, their eyes too hollow.
A woman in a grease-stained apron set up her food truck, selling “handmade treats” that smelled a little off.
A man who introduced himself as a “life coach” moved into Room 2 - where strange thudding and gurgling noises kept neighboring guests awake at night.
And the new owner? A slick, smiling man named Mr. Vance who offered free upgrades only to rooms with hidden cameras.
The Lunar Motel had rebuilt itself. But it hadn’t been rebuilt for the living.
Some of the guests, it seemed, were the same as before reanimated, trapped in a mockery of their former lives.
Others were new. Fresh blood. They didn’t know yet that once you checked in to Skinner’s Motel... you didn’t always check out.
Not by your own choice.
Each night, the walls grew a little thinner.
Rooms bled memories. Mirrors wept with old footage. The neon moon outside seemed to pulse beating like a heart, keeping the dead and the living bound together.
And soon, the newcomers, the happy families, the young couples, the tired truckers would begin to change too.
