Owl Eyes Motel

By Barbara Avon

The year is 1985, and there's a storm brewing. It's the kind that forces even the derelicts to retreat to their gutters. Each room is its own unique story; each chapter, a room. Check in at Owl Eyes and stay a spell, won't you? There's always room for the dead.

"Come in! Come in! Welcome to the Owl Eyes Motel. My name is Milton and I am the owner of this fine establishment, situated on Route Number 666. That's six-hundred and sixty-six. Owl Eyes offers impeccable service. There is no lack of creature comforts at this here motel. At Owl Eyes, we pride ourselves on our attention to detail. Management kindly reminds you that we are not responsible for lost luggage...or souls."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barbara Avon
• Release date: Jun 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201507503

Book preview

Acknowledgements

If, ten years ago, someone had told me that by 2021, I would be celebrating the release of my 22 nd book, I would have laughed and told them it was a nice fairy tale. Yet, here I am. I published my first book in 2015 and since then, I have branched off into various different genre. Psychological horror is one of my favourites. I am able to explore the darkest part of the human mind. Scary things born of fear, guilt, and even love, get tucked away until someone, or something helps unleash the beast. Owl Eyes Motel was inspired by the motel in Speed Bump – my Christmas horror novella. The guests, they all have their secrets. Thank you for visiting with them for a while.

I want to acknowledge the many people in my life who support me daily and follow me on this tremendous journey I call my life, but there is not enough room here to do that. To my friends, I cherish you. To my fellow authors in the Writing Community on Twitter, you honour me. To my family, I love you for the abundance of love and support you give me from one book to the next. To my husband, who helped me brainstorm the end of this book, you are the love of my life, and my anchor. Thank you is never enough.

Note: Some scenes depict dark, and sensitive themes.

1

(Room 503)

It was the kind of storm that forced even the derelicts to retreat to their gutters. The neon Vacancy sign blinked victoriously, despite the rain and lightning that distorted the man’s vision as he exited the taxi. His 83-year-old legs wobbled precariously, threatening to send him to the asphalt. He had left Whispering Heights on his own volition, ignoring the pleas from well-meaning nurses. With no next of kin, there was no one to call for help; no one to embrace the man and welcome him into their home. He was tired, he said. He was tired of the same view, questionable dinners, and three lousy channels on a small black & white television set that ultimately helped keep him sane by drowning out the whispers of ghosts, both real, and imagined.

Where are you going to go, Mr. Bennigton?  

Road trip.

But surely a man of your age...

I’m not dead yet, young lady! he said, taming his thinning white hair back into place. Where do I sign? I have a cab waiting.

The nurse relinquished the form that would absolve the Home of any wrongdoing, should a resident face adversity in the outside world. She stared at Walter Bennington’s notebook where a crudely drawn portrait of a young woman graced the cover.

She’s...pretty.

The old man softened his disposition. His gnarled fingers gently traced the woman’s features.

Beautiful, my Diana, was. Died in ’34. I never did remarry. My heart had no room left in it.

Oh. I’m so sorry.

Stiffening, he scrawled something that slightly mimicked his signature; the elegant penmanship stolen by Father Time.

Thanks for taking care of me, he said, offering his hand.

The nurse’s young hand, encircled fingers that were cold as ice, I hope you find a grand adventure, sir.

Just want to feel like a man again, is all. Good night, Nurse Neville.

Walter watched as the taxi driver sped away, anxious for his next dime. He picked up his one suitcase and entered the foyer of the motel, cringing as the bell on the door rattled endlessly. The checkerboard floor beneath his feet gave him a sense of vertigo. A red velvet rope blocked off a settee as if to dissuade travelers from taking a rest. Above it, a large painting featuring a white owl unnerved him. The veins in the creature’s eyes resembled shimmering red tributaries. Slowly making his way to the concierge desk, he met a man, barely five feet tall, and sporting only a wisp of grey hair that was styled neatly over his large forehead.

Good evening! Good evening! My name is Milton, and I am the proprietor of Owl Eyes Motel at Exit 666. That’s six hundred, and sixty-six. What can I do for you this fabulous Friday eve?

Do you have a room for one? Walter asked, holding his notebook to his broken heart. Don’t need anything fancy. A King-sized bed sure would be nice, though.

How long do you wish to stay, my good sir?

Walter surveyed the little man’s brown trousers, and brown vest. His gold name tag shined as if it had just been polished. M.I.L.T.O.N. was spelled out in upper-case letters above the letters, O.W.N.E.R.

That’s...to be determined.

Very well, Milton said. He scanned a thick, leather-bound ledger before stating, Room 503. Will that do?

Does it have a television?

I’m afraid not. It does have its other perks, however. Tailored to make your stay as pleasant as possible. There are no television sets in any of the rooms. Will that be a problem? Milton asked, wringing his hands.

No. Don’t plan to stay long enough for it to matter.

"Wonderful! Allow me to escort you, myself. We are not