Blackdamp: The Novel. A Nerve Shredding Suspense Novel

Chapter 2

           The ear splitting wail of car tyres broke the quiet calm on the main road. The sudden burst of noise made Megan jump out of her skin. As her nerves started to settle, she spotted the bottle of nail polish she’d been using lying on its side. Before any of the liquid could escape, she grabbed it and placing it upright. She stood, walking over to the open window in the small backroom of the motel and glanced out. The stifling air blew in her face, and the aroma of burning rubber and exhaust filled her senses. The smell made her grimace. The back room was already stuffy. The hum and rattle of the barely functioning air con clattered away in the background. The room was no bigger than ten feet by eight feet, and the circulation of cool air should have been simple were the system working properly.

All she could see was the diner on the other side of the road, and the shops on either side, as a thinning cloud of pale smoke spun in the summer air. It danced and swirled in the air before disappearing into the humidity. It was either some kid speeding through town, or that bitch who worked in the cafe, Halfpenny her name was. Everyone in town knew she drove like a total ass around town, as well as acquainting herself with several of the male townsfolk.

Realizing there was nothing left to see, she walked back to her chair and returned to the task of applying the colourful, strong-smelling lacquer to the ends of her fingertips. 

The day was just like any other. Next to no people checking in, except for the odd couple looking to spend the night together. Couples was probably the wrong word to use. People hooking up. Husbands rendezvousing with a mistress, or vice versa. In the hope the motel would be too remote and far from the spying eyes of home. Megan had grown used to this type of clientele. Who else would be crazy enough to stay in a place like Silver Creek?

She was just getting back into the motion of painting her nails, when her concentration was broken by the ring of the bell at the front desk.

‘Dammit,’ she muttered.

Who the hell was looking to check in at this time? It was too early for the usual customers. Perhaps a particular horny two-timer was eager to get a good start. Who the hell knew?

She stood, causing the chair legs to squeal against the old, tiled floor. Time to deal with whoever asshole was out there. Hopefully, it would be just five minutes that she would have to deal with them. Unless they were a talker, then God help her.

Upon walking into the reception area, Megan found herself coming over all flustered. There was a man standing on the other side of the counter, leaning with his elbows on the counter. He was attractive. Early thirties, she thought, with short blonde hair, a well-built frame and was wearing a blue khaki jacket.

She tried to compose herself, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear but stopped upon realising the wet polish on her nails. The man looked at her. Neither smiling nor frowning. Neither happy nor sad. A neutral expression.

She reached the counter, brandishing her best smile. The man broke the silence.

‘I need a room for a few days. You have any spare?’

Megan looked into the man’s eyes. His deep blue eyes were hypnotising, as if he were looking deep into her soul. Damn, he looked good.

As her eyes danced over the man’s facade, her gaze fell upon a small scar that ran across the right side of his forehead. It was subtle but just about noticeable.

‘Er,’ she found herself stumbling over the sentence. ‘Is it just you?’

She felt a burning sense of annoyance that she’d asked in that way, but at the same time hoped his answer would be, just me. God, she hoped he was on his own. Seeing this man every day would make her day worthwhile.

The man tilted his head. ‘Just me,’ he said.

She thought she saw the edge of his lip curl up into the start of a smile, but it quickly retreated to the neutral expression.

‘For how long?’ She asked.

The man shrugged.

‘Not sure.’ He raised an eyebrow as if thinking about how long he might want to stay. ‘Let’s go with three days.’

Megan smiled again.

‘That’ll be fifty dollars a night.’ A wave of panic came over her, thinking that this guy might decide to go elsewhere. Not that there was anywhere else to stay. Shit! She should have made it less. The man reached into his pocket, fishing out three bills, and laying them on the counter. One hundred and fifty dollars.

She smiled again. ‘I’ll get you a key. You’ll need to sign in.’

Megan reached under the counter, pulled out the guest book, placing it on the desk. The folder had been a light brown at one point but was now discoloured from oil and dirt. The names of previous occupants were still just about legible. Although many of them were fake. As he scribbled in the book, Megan reached into a drawer, pulling out a key. Number twenty-seven. She knew the cleaner had been around sorting out the rooms, with this one being the best room in the whole motel. Though best wasn’t the ideal word. More like, least shitty.

‘Room twenty-seven,’ she said, placing the key on the counter.

The man looked back at her. The edge of his lip quivering once more.

‘Sounds perfect,’ he replied.

He reached down, picking up an olive-green army bag by his feet. Maybe he was ex-army, or a drifter. Or some sort of survivalist exploring the countryside, she thought.

In a fluid, neat motion he swung his hand over the counter, grabbing the key and walking off to find the room.

‘Have a nice day,’ he said, turning and walking away

Megan shouted out after him. ‘Enjoy your stay.’

A stomach turning sensation twisted in her gut. Idiot, she thought to herself. Why the hell did you say that? She felt stupid. But at least she knew something about this handsome stranger. Her eyes fell to the book, scanning the page, she found the name written at the bottom of the page. She read what was written, and she felt her heart sink. The name read Mason Ranger. Megan had seen enough people sign in under a fake name that she could spot them a mile off now. It seemed this man was no different.

She turned, watching the man disappear around the corner. Shame, she thought. When the guests used a fake name, it meant they were either meeting someone they shouldn’t, or they were bad news. Megan didn’t know which one was worse. Disheartened, she stood and headed back to the small room, where the bottle of polish waited.