Part 4: Silent Night

Tuesday: So, our sweet, silly little sheep girl still couldn't figure out what was going on.
Tuesday: It's far more interesting than a simple motel murder.
Tuesday: The truth is ... well ...
Tuesday: This is how the story started.

???: Hello? Is anyone there?
???: I heard you're looking for a new maid.
No reply. The girl walks to the front desk.
A blank application form is lying on it.
???: Name ... This should do.
Tuesday: Tuesday, Tuesday. Sounds like a criminal alias, but more friendly.
Tuesday: The name of the girl who ran away from home and broke into a haunted motel.
Tuesday: Haha!

Tuesday: Excuse me? Can anyone help me?
Tuesday: I'm hungry and tired.
Tuesday: Hello? I'm here for the job. I've filled out the form downstairs.
There is no sound but the echo of her own voice.
She knocks on every door, but not a single one opens.
Tuesday: Boring.
Tuesday: Hm?
A small noise grabs her attention. She looks around.
Not in shock or surprise, but in a kind of curious glee.
Standing in front of the source of the sound, she bends over to look through the keyhole.
???: ...!
Screams pour out of the doorways and into the hallway. They quickly merge into one solid sound, rattling her eardrums.
Tuesday: Oh, do you need something? How can I help you?
Tuesday: My apologies for the noise. I didn't mean to inconvenience you.

She stops.
Tuesday: Oh, how generous! There's a room for me already.
A door has appeared beside her, red as a fresh cut.
She opens it.
Tuesday: What a beautiful place. It's like I'm in a beating heart.
Tuesday: Too bad I can't feel your rhythm in my hand. But I can touch you.
Tuesday: Huh. Is it me who's trembling? Or you?
She caresses the floor, occasionally pulling and twisting the fabric in her amusement.
Tuesday: The stories of the disappearances have spread pretty far. Some say there's a gang around these parts. Others say a bear or some other wild animal.
Tuesday: I even heard stories about a killer clown and a murderer in a bunny suit.
Tuesday: No one dares go out at night anymore, especially young lovers. Doesn't matter how beautiful the moon is.
Tuesday: And despite all these stories, no one has ever stopped to think that the motel itself could be the culprit.
Tuesday: Is it because the thought has never even come to their minds, or that it seemed too ridiculous to be possible?
She stands up, releasing the fabric from her palm.
Tuesday: The answer is simple: They're afraid—just like you're afraid of me right now.
Tuesday: I know exactly what your fear is. You're like a child holding his breath in his room and staring wide-eyed into the darkness.
Tuesday: He's staring at the crack beneath the door. The light from the hallway always shone there. But now, it's gone. Dark.
Tuesday: What's blocking it? Who's out there?
The wall and floor press tightly against one another, producing a sound akin to grinding teeth.
Tuesday: Daddy? Mama? Is that you, older brother? Are you here to kiss me goodnight?
Tuesday: The door stays silent, and the crack stays dark.
Tuesday: His mind races as he tries to make sense of what's happening.
Tuesday: Maybe it's a rat? Or a kitty cat that hopped in through the hallway window?
Bang! A window slams closed in the distance.
Tuesday: Finally, the light returns beneath the doorway.
Tuesday: And in the dim light, he realizes he made a mistake.
Tuesday:                                                                                         Whatever it is,
                                                                                                      it isn't outside the door.
                                                                                         It's in his room.

Gusts of wind surround her in a fearful, painful howl.
Tuesday: Yes, fear often comes from the loss of control—from the unknown.
Tuesday: Poor child, facing all that with nothing but a blanket to defend himself.
Tuesday: He spent that night with eyes wide open. But once the morning light came, there was nothing but an empty coat lying in front of the door.
She hears footsteps coming toward her.
Tuesday: But that coat wasn't his. Nor was it any of his family's. Who left the coat on his bedroom floor?
Tuesday: He still wonders to this day.
Tuesday: Heh heh, intriguing.
Tuesday: I can tell that you're still a child yourself, needing care and companionship.
Tuesday: Maybe you could use a maid to tell you bedtime stories and a friend to spread fear for you. What do you say?
A cool, soft touch climbs up her pinky finger.
Tuesday: With a few tweaks, the story could be quite different.
Tuesday: The child comes home late, enters his room, and before he can turn on the light, feels two eyes staring at him through the darkness.
Tuesday: Both are terrified. Neither one dares look away. Their two worlds have somehow collided.
She recognizes what's gripping her pinky finger as a child's hand.
Tuesday: Until the boy finally plucks up the courage to reach for the switch.
Tuesday: Holding his breath, he pushes down to see ...
Tuesday:                                                                                                                                  HIS EXACT FACE.
Tuesday:
See? This time the fear comes from the known—the doubt of oneself—
                                                                                            or at least something disguised as "oneself."
The little hand lets go of her pinky. She hears the footsteps hurry away and disappear into the other side of the room.
Tuesday: You still can't trust me. But that's very sensible.
Tuesday: You shouldn't easily trust someone, especially when they're too similar to you.
Tuesday: But I'll stay here and tell you everything I've learned from the outside world.
She spins one story after another, like a patient mother soothing a naughty child.
A knock on the door interrupts her.
Tuesday: Oh, who could that be?
She opens the door.
???: So long.
Tuesday: Can I help you?
The gaunt lady in front of her doesn't answer. Instead, she starts to unbutton the maid uniform she's wearing.
Soon, the dress is off. She neatly folds it and puts it down next to the door.
Without a word, she turns around and leaves.
Tuesday: Well, well, well ...
The windows of the entire motel creak open and closed, and the sound of rustling and scratching emanates from within its walls.
She realizes this is an expression of its joy.
Tuesday: Thank you kindly. I'll take over from here.
Tuesday bows deeply to the now former motel maid and picks up the uniform she left.
From now on, she will be the maid of the motel and the owner of a house that feeds on fear.
Tuesday: Does the story end there?
Tuesday: Oh, no. After all, this motel is far older than I am; it has its own wisdom.
Tuesday: It approved of me, but it didn't fully trust me yet.
Tuesday: Be patient, dear. The time will come.
Tuesday: Lucky for you, the time is now. Look.
Tuesday: Sir, did you call?
Tuesday: It's the motel maid. Please open the door.
Tuesday: Sir?
No response.
She puts her hand on her chest. Her heart is beating faster than usual.
She's always been good at peering through keyholes. She's done this since she was a child.
The weight of her body makes the door groan and creak. There's a faint scraping sound coming from behind it.
Tuesday: ...
Tuesday: Oh.
She's also used to the sight of a dead person's eyes.
Tuesday: Another poor guest.