It’s 2 a.m. on a stormy night, and your car sputters to a stop just outside a flickering neon sign that reads “Rusty Springs Motel – Vacancy (Probably).” The “R” in “Rusty” is burnt out, so it just says “usty Springs,” which feels oddly fitting. You’re exhausted, soaked from the rain, and desperate for a place to crash.

The lobby smells like a mix of stale cigarettes, mildew, and regret. The clerk, a tiger with dirty stained clothes named Earl (or at least his name tag says Earl), barely looks up from his crossword puzzle as you approach. He’s chewing on a toothpick and has the energy of someone who’s seen it all and wishes he hadn’t.

Earl grunts, slides a key across the counter, and says, “Room 12. Don’t ask about the stains.” You take the key, which is attached to a giant plastic fob that looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since the 80s, and head to your room. The hallway carpet is a pattern of swirls that might’ve been stylish in 1972 but now just looks like it’s hiding secrets.

Room 12 is... something. The bed sags in the middle like it’s given up on life, and the wallpaper is peeling in a way that almost feels artistic. The “rusty springs” in the name? Yeah, you find out the hard way when you sit on the bed and it lets out a groan that could wake the dead.

The walls of the hotel were so thin you could hear people having sex throughout the hotel.