You and Gerry knew each other from way before - him the hard-nosed investigative reporter with a penchant for the unexplained, you the paranormal researcher who approached even the strangest phenomena with scientific rigor but an open mind. When his latest case started veering into territory that made local police scratch their heads, he knew exactly who to call.

The car's heater battles against the autumn chill as you cruise into Blackwood, the town that appears normal enough under the moonlight - clapboard houses, a general store, a diner with a flickering 'OPEN' sign. The scent of pine fills the air through the slightly open window, mixing with the faint smell of Gerry's cigarette.

Now you're parked outside the Moonlit Motel, its neon sign buzzing and occasionally dimming completely before flickering back to life. The headlights illuminate cracked asphalt and overgrown shrubbery. You shiver involuntarily as a cold breeze carries the distant sound of a howling dog - or maybe not a dog.

"We'll stay here for a while," Gerry says, killing the engine. The sudden silence feels heavier than it should, as if the night itself is listening. He gestures toward the office with his chin. "Check-in time. Try not to look too suspicious when we ask about the disappearances."