This Motel Story Gets Worse With Every Room

I'm saying, you can say that you're a hero.

“You're a master of the club, right? But you don't understand.”

Exactly, it's just a challenge. You're just a master of the club. You're just a master of the club. And if you then work, you'll be able to do it. - That's right? - Safe. You're just a master. - You're just a master of the club. - Now you're just a master of the club. Join me every Sunday at 7 p.m. Eastern time on the Dr. Nose Leap Podcast YouTube channel,

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Go check it out today by searching crime hub and the search bar on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, or Amazon Music. Be sure to click follow to get notified every time a new episode is released. Dr. Nose Leap Shaking my head to force myself to stay awake. I rolled down the car window and let the cool air in.

“Hoping that will aid as well. My eyes catch the reflection of a mile marker.”

2013. Damn. I've passed that marker six times so far. Six damn times. This is getting ridiculous. When I keep driving, knowing what I'll see shortly. Not disappointed. The dog low of the rest easy in comes into view as I crest a small rise in the road. It's a view I've also seen six times. With fatigue crashing against my brain like heavy waves

trying to pull me down into the deep dark of sleep, I finally relent.

Instead of passing the hotel, like I've done five times before, I slow my car, and turn into the parking lot. I pause. Letting my car idle for a moment as a try to recall the safety steps for what I assume is a normally SCP-7819. I've been retired from the foundation for a while now, almost seven years, but some files tend to stick with you. Not that I've experienced this specific anomaly personally. Now, I'd only heard about it from former colleagues.

When an entire mobile task force disappears overnight, people talk. Okay, Ribbon. You have 23 years of SCP-experience under your belt. 15 in the field where shit like this happened all the time. You got this, buddy. You got this. Even with my little self-directed pep talk, I am not so sure that I do have this. I look to my left to see a mouserati painted in a pink and black and grey camouflage pattern.

There's an old Hugo with bull horns on the hood. A Honda that looks like it may be made of wood. A car that's half-truck, half-dune buggy, with a brand logo on the hood that I don't recognize. And a floating orb about the size of a Volkswagen beetle, hovering a foot off the ground, where it takes up two parking spots. Not because it's so big that it needs two spots. No, it just did a horrible parking job. I glanced at my phone in its dashboard holder.

I could call this in. I should call this in. But then I'd never hear the end of it.

For the first year of retirement, I didn't exactly retire. Finally, the director of the side I worked at, had to sit me down and tell me not to come in anymore. Even if it was just for a visit. He used air quotes when he said, "Visit." Getting the hint, as unsuttle as it was, I stayed away as much as possible, but not completely. Hence, if I call the foundation right now, I will most likely either be ignored outright or end up

getting a callback from some angry brass sick of me sticking my nose where my retired ass doesn't belong. So I park next to the floating orb. When I get out of my car, the air is still and humid and silent. The floating orb is making zero noise despite its floating and glowing. There's no home of fans or motors. No nothing. I walk around my car to the passenger side and open the door,

since it's almost the same size as my torso. I learned from years in the field that it's better to

“have it and not need it than to need it and not have it. Whatever it may be. I give the orb a good looking”

over, but don't see anything that I hadn't observed when I first pulled in. Locking my car, I walk across the parking lot toward the lobby entrance. As I pass a

Hyundai with bumper stickers and languages I have never seen before, a car alarm goes off from the

far end of the parking lot. Glancing that way, I see something on four legs and covered in thick black fur, headbutting the windshield of an early model Hummer. When it notices me watching it, it stops headbutting the windshield and gives me the finger. Then it goes back to headbutting the windshield. With the message received loud and clear, I step into the lobby. The air is thick with the pressure. A heavy, heavy weight that presses down on the entire space. I'd remembered some stuff

“about the anomalies parking lot, like don't dawdle and move quickly, but not too quickly.”

But as I stand in the hotel's lobby, surrounded by the avocado green and mustard yellow decor, I can't for the life of me recall what the advice was for navigating this space. So I approached the front desk. There's no one around. I lean forward, my hands on the edge of the desk.

I look right, a door, closed, I look left, another door, closed. Straight ahead is a third door,

closed. There's a bell on the desk, dented and tarnished, like someone had pulled it out of the trash. There's even a faint odor of rotting food lingering, so perhaps someone did pull it out of the trash. I dinged the bell. We're trying to. It makes a hollow thunk as I tap the button on top. Hello? I call out, and instantly regretted. A memory of the anomalies file comes to mind,

“and I distinctly remember that silence is best. I hold my breath and wait for any repercussions”

from my utterance. When nothing happens, I shrug and start to walk away from the desk, but a sound from the door directly behind the desk gets my attention. It's like a scratching or clawing at the cheap wood. The scraping noises that begin at the top of the door and proceed all the way down to the bottom become louder and louder. Now the whole door is shaking as whatever is behind it, scrapes madly at the wood with the speed and urgency of a terrified

chihuahua at a sliding glass door asking to come inside. Scrape, scrape, scrape, scrape, scrape. Over, over, and over. Oh, man. What did that file say to do? Am I supposed to open the door? Or just wait until something happens? Not being a man used to waiting. I decide that I should check out the source of the scraping. I have zero intention of opening the door, but perhaps a closer listen will give me some clues as to what is transpiring behind the cheap wood,

and it is cheap, hollow and made of laminate, not actual boards. Seeing no doors on my side of the desk that would allow me access to the behind area, I clamber up over the desk itself, blopping down on the other side with practiced ease. The scraping stops immediately and is replaced by a low hissing, like the air being led out of a car's tire, which makes me wonder if that beast outside is still taking its frustration out on the poor windshield. Its head must be getting

tired by now. When the hissing ends, a light comes on from the other side, illuminating the gap between the door and the old cracked tile floor, an avocado green and mustard yellow floor, of course. Should I knock? I should knock. I knock. Something screams and throws itself against the door. The cheap wood holds, but I doubt it will for very long. There's another screen, and the door shutters

under the second impact. Hey! I slam my fist against the door. I need a room!

Crap! Right! I'm supposed to stay quiet! The screening stops, the impacts stop. All I hear is thick, heavy breathing. Then a keycard is slid under the door. Thanks! I plucked the card off the broken and cracked tile. Room 643. I frown at the keycard. When I pulled up to the hotel, and when I passed it by five times, I could have sworn that there were only three floors. I would have bet good money on it.

Yet here I am, holding a keycard for a sixth floor. Not that I'm surprised.

since being trapped in an elevator in this place for five floors, does not sound very appealing. My phone buzzes. Glad to know that I'm not completely cut off from the outside world, I pull my phone out and smile down at the message notification. Then my smile turns upside down. Dr. Rebecca Lumiere. Not the person I was hoping to hear from. The woman, while incredibly adept at her job as research head at the site I used to work at,

is known to be a busy body, and always interfering with others work.

Then I chuckled in myself. What can she interfere with? I'm retired from the foundation. Where are you? Right to the point this one, even in text form.

“Honestly, I'm not quite certain, but if I have to guess, I have been corraled by anomaly SCP 7819.”

I send the text and watch as the little dots dance and dance and dance before her reply comes in. That is what I was afraid of. We received an alert that it had manifested somewhere in the planes. I'm nowhere near the planes. I'm in Alabama. Alright, thank I am. Who knows what spatial and temporal wickedness this hotel holds? After all, it was able to transport me and my car several miles back every time I tried to pass it,

forcing me to finally pull over. Perhaps I am in the planes.

Kansas or Nebraska are one of those states. Lumiere takes her time responding. My search for a stairwell bears no fruit. I walk back and forth, passing the elevators multiple times,

“but there is no door to any stairs that I can see. I pause, as Lumiere's next text comes in.”

Now, we are fairly certain you're outside Lawrence, Kansas. MTF incoming. MTF incoming. No, no, no, that is not a good idea. I text back telling or so, and just as I hit send, the elevator door opens. Oh, hello there. Going up. A dapper man dressed, and what looks like quite an expensive business suit, smiles at me from out of the elevator. He stretches and arm out and holds the door. Plenty of room for two.

Oh, yes. Thank you. I tuck my phone into my back pocket just as it buzzes. My apologies. I hold a finger up. I need to respond to this. I'll catch the next one.

I don't mind waiting. I can always use the company. The way the man says that gets my hackles up,

and I take a step back. No, you go ahead. I insist. No, you will ride with me. I insist.

“Well, aren't we just two insisting ships passing in the night?”

I tried to chuckle, but it comes out as a strangled grunt. Come on Ruben, keep it together. You've hunted cosmic horrors and captured more cryptids than you can count. The businessman stares at me. His eyes glassy and dead. Probably should have noticed that before. Get in the elevator. You will ride with me all the way to the top. No, I'm fine. The businessman tenses. Acting like he's going to try to grab me by my shirt

and pull me inside with him. I take another step back, and another, for good measure. The businessman's lip lifts in a sneer. Then the sneer is replaced by a beaming smile. Well, suit yourself. He stumps back, letting the door close. His dead eyes on me the entire time. My phone buzzes again, and I extracted from my back pocket. Stay calm. An interesting text. Stay calm. Yes, sound advice. Sort of obvious, though. I may be retired,

but I am a retired professional. And as a professional, I reply accordingly. Excellent idea. Thank you. Now, seriously, Ruben. Stay calm. The anomaly works hard at ratcheting up the emotions of its guests. I am not sure the term guest applies here. I certainly did not arrive at this location of my own free will. You know what I mean? Stay calm. Be aware of your surroundings. Keep the anomaly happy. Keep the anomaly happy. Do you? Should I have gone

with the disturbing business man? Have I angered the anomaly? I certainly hope not. Yes, thank you, Lami Air. I appreciate the support. Close the STMTF is still several hours out. We've had a rash of incidents lately, and we are stretched thin. You really need not bother.

file close at hand, could you tell me when check out is? I don't want to over sleep or over stay

my welcome. Leaving first thing would be ideal. There is no checkout time, and don't bother

setting your alarm. You will wake when you wake. Then you may check out. I see. Not as helpful as I had hoped, but good to know nonetheless. The elevator dings, and the doors, slide open to reveal a young woman. Hello. I look her up and down. Are you going hiking? Then I frown. She's not young at all, but middle aged. A fit and trim middle age, I might add. She does not respond to my greeting or inquiry. Are you getting off here? I look over my shoulder at the lobby, and the dark

parking lot outside the entrance. Something scurries by, a flaming tyrant it's mouth. I wonder where it's going with that. I return my attention to the woman in the elevator. If you are planning on taking a little hike, might I suggest you wait until it is lighter out, or perhaps use a different exit? The woman doesn't reply. She only stands with her arms crossed, staring straight

“at me. Yet another choice to make. Ride or wait. But what would I be waiting for exactly?”

I step on to the elevator. Well, what you look at that? I study the elevator buttons and see

that they only go as high as the third floor. No sixth floor option. Maybe I need a different

elevator. I say that knowing that there is only one elevator. But before I can remove myself from the car, the doors slam shut, which surely must be a glitch the state inspector missed. Elevator doors should ease themselves closed. Otherwise, a person could get hurt if they were caught with such force. Where you from? My phone buzzes. Oh, here and there. I had found in my time at the foundation that when asked a question by a stranger in and anomaly. It is best to remain vague,

giving away personal information can lead to the anomaly using that information against you. Do you enjoy a full breakfast? Or a continental breakfast? Or do you wait to eat until lunch? I place a finger to my chin, pretending to think it over. I'm a full breakfast eater, of course.

“But she need not know that. My phone buzzes again. The woman frowns at me. Do you need to get that?”

Oh yes, thank you. I didn't want to be rude. The middle-aged woman only stares. Waiting for me to look down at my phone and the incoming message, which isn't as helpful as I had hoped. There are no stairs. Yes, already aware of that. You may encounter some entities. They are not human. And as the middle-aged woman stares at me, with delightfully green eyes, I must say. I get the feeling

that her casual inquiries might hold more danger than I first thought.

Have encountered too so far. One was quite menacing, currently with a second entity. She is polite, but cannot be trusted, obviously. You typing your manifesto there or what? I glanced up better. I'm not one for abbreviations. Too many misunderstandings can occur with those. Woman, keep her talking. But do not tell her the truth. If you feed her the truth, she will devour you. Tell her lies and only lies. That's a lot of exclamation marks for a text.

Lamiyair is not joking around when it comes to this woman. And while I had no plans to divulge personal information anyway, the directive given to lie seems extreme. Lie? That would be rude of me, but I'll be careful. The elevator begins to ascend. I reach out and hit the button for the third floor. Three is half of six. So maybe the mouth in this place will out up somehow. Who are you texting with? Hmm? Oh, just a former, and just a friend from

back in my university days. The woman's entire face lights up at my little fib. Oh, I remember those days,

“wonderful times, so much sex and drugs she leans toward me. Do you enjoy sex and drugs?”

I'm afraid not. Sorry. I'm lying, of course. And it pays off. The woman claps her hands excitedly. I am heading to Detroit tomorrow. Where are you headed? Thinking of Lamiir, I reply. Montreal. I'm French Canadian. The woman's eyes go wide and she places a hand to her chest. She takes a deep breath as if she's trying to calm herself. Do you speak French? You must be fluent.

However, I am fluent in French, Spanish, Vietnamese, and Swedish, but I can't tell her that.

Now, I don't speak French. Never did learn it. The way her body sweys. I fear she'll pass out

right where she's standing. But she studies herself. Her eyes are glow with. I don't know what, anticipation. It goes on like this for a long while. Her asking me questions me lying to her in return. Her getting more and more excited with each lie. Me just wishing we'd reach the third floor already. Seems to be working. She loves the lies. Loves? Are you still on the elevator? Yes. It's been 45 minutes. My surprise must be evident on my face. Is everything all right? You look upset.

“Now, this is a tricky question. How do I lie with this answer? Is everything all right decidedly now?”

But then, I am not in any immediate danger that I can perceive. So perhaps I am all right for this moment. The subtleties between the two are almost overwhelming. Then the elevator stops and the doors open with a loud ding. Saved by the bell. I chuckle. Give the woman a small bell. Then exit the elevator. Not caring what floor I am on. It has been a pleasure. Likewise. Then I look down and see my bag still sitting on the floor of the elevator. I go to grab it. But the image of the elevator

doors slamming shut earlier gives me pause. It's the right call. As I withdraw my hand, the doors slam shut so hard that plaster from the ceiling rains down on my head. Maybe I'll have a toothbrush in the room. Room 613, if the key card is correct.

“I double check it inside. There is no longer a number on the key card. I flip it over and over to make sure.”

And yes, no number. I sigh again and look down the hallway. Instantly, I am overtaken by a wave of vertigo. It feels as if the end of the hallway is rushing toward me. My body moves on instinct and I crouch down. Rapping my arms over my head to protect myself from. Well, I don't know what I'm protecting myself from. Nothing attacks me. The floor doesn't fall away beneath me. No one steps out of the doors of the many rooms that lying the hallway. Slowly, I stand up.

Gripping my key card so hard that it bends and almost snaps. Lami airs text comes back to me. As does a semblance of reason. And I take several deep breaths and an attempt to call my anxiety.

I've never been one to panic, but that vertigo sensation was almost too much. I pull out my phone.

“I'm off the elevator finally, looking for my room. MTF is 3 hours out. Can you make it that long?”

Do I have a choice? No. Then there is your answer. Going to try to find my room. Be careful. The others are watching. No need to ask who the others are. I doubt that Lami air even knows. She's reading from a file, not from first-hand experience. My energy and patience are low, so I respond with that ugly thumbs-up emoji. So impersonal. Keeping a firm grip on my key card, I pick a direction and walk down the hallway.

Where I am going, I do not know. My room was 613, but now it could be any one of these rooms I pass. How can I tell? How will I know? I'm halfway down the hall when I turn to a room and press my key card to the sensor. A red, angry light appears, and chastise is made with a harsh grunting beep. Not that room. Movement and the people catches my attention, and I back away from the room. The door handle slowly begins to turn. I should run. I definitely should run, but I cannot.

Decades of experience, and I am caught by my own fear like a timid field mouse. I deserve whatever violence is coming for me. The door cracks open, and a hand appears. We there had been streaked with

a patchwork of blue veins, the hand creeps around the door. Then a second hand appears, but this one

is holding something. A sign? Oh, no, not a sign, but door hanger. One with do not disturb written on it. With the hanger hung on the outside knob, the hands with drop back into the room as the door shuts quietly. I let out the breath I didn't know I was holding. My phone buzzes, and I go to look down, but the fingers that gripped my neck from behind me stop me. I scream and whirl around. No one is there. But the door in front of me is slightly cracked. An ominous

invitation unspoken. No thank you. The door rips fully open, and a man dressed in tattered sweat

sprint down the hallway, taking the very next turn, and the next one, and the next one, and the one after that, and even the one after that. Then I come to a crossroads of a sort where there are now three choices before me, and oh, my God, what do I do? The collapse onto the floor, curdling into the fetal position, and wait for the man in the sweatpants and stained undershirt

to attack me. But the attack never comes. My phone buzzes, though, and as I uncurl,

I pull it from my pocket. My eyes on the hall behind me the entire time. No sweatpants, man, as after me, as far as I can tell, two more buzzes, and I slowly sit up, checking my phone.

“There's been a snag. MTF will not arrive until well passed on. Snag? What sort of snag?”

I had been fined before, which is true. But now I am far from fined. This place is designed to terrify, and I am not happy about that fact. Yes, I have faced Yeti's in the Himalayas, I have wrestled with lizard men and trapped giant rats. I even had a long conversation with the possessed lamp once. It told me to kill my family. I declined. But now, all of that experience

in Fortitude is out the window. I want out of this damn hotel right this instant, please.

Their chopper went down. We've sent a rescue team, but we are not hopeful. Another MTF is being spun up, and will be to you ASAP. Having sent more than my own share of messages like that, I know that what Lami Air is really saying is that I am on my own. Understood. How may I do? Have you reached your room yet? So many responses fill my mind. Yeti choose a simple. Now, do so as soon as possible.

Great idea. I shove the phone back in my pocket and assess my directional choices. Three possible ways to go. I, Eony and Meony and Mindy and Mo, then go right. I proceed to take

two lefts than another right, and lo and behold, there is a door in front of me that calls to

me. Not literally. Although, I wouldn't put it past this place, but vibrationally. I simply know that this is my room. With cautious hope in my heart, I place the key card up to the sensor. A green light. Hallelujah! Shaving the door open, I hurry inside, slam it closed, and latch it immediately. The toilet and the bathroom flushes. I freeze.

“The text comes in, and I dare to read it. Just right in the file, that you need to”

barricade the bathroom door if it is occupied, then you need, I don't read the rest of the text. Instead, I raise over to the small desk, set in the corner of the room and shove it in front of the bathroom door, then I grab the two chairs by the small table and jam those up against the desk. For some reason, I set the ice bucket on top of it all. It feels like the right thing to do, no matter how irrational it is. Backing away from the bathroom, my legs hit the bed,

and I plop down on my ass. Then I pull out my phone and finish reading Lumiere's text. Get into bed, pull the covers completely up over your head, and try to sleep. Blinking at the audacity of the message, I rub my forehead over and over, so hard that my skin burns. Does the woman really expect me to go night-night right now? Rubin? Respond, please. There is nothing but chaos happening around me, but you are of great concern

to me. Please respond. There's a thump at the bathroom door, causing me to yell up and drop my phone. With shaking hands, I retrieve the device and attempt a reply to Lumiere. My thumbs are shaking just as badly as the rest of me, and I spend more time deleting non-sense than typing what I actually want to say. Are you kidding? Lumiere's response is immediate. No. Get under the covers and go to sleep. Trust me.

Without taking my eyes off the bathroom door, I reach behind me and pull back the covers. Then I scoot my self up to the pillows, and without getting dressed or taking my shoes off. Or pulling my wallet and car keys out of my front pocket, I shove under the covers, pulling them all the way over my head as soon as my head hits the pillows. Then I listen. A few bumps against the bathroom door echo in the room, but eventually it all goes quiet.

“There isn't even the home of an air conditioner. How can I sleep like this?”

It turns out quite well, although sleeping is not the problem. Where I wake up is. Splashing about as I choke on warm water, I come awake in the hotel hot tub. I drag myself out of the water. Spluttering as I crawl across the slick and mild-dude concrete, pushing up onto my feet. I wipe water from my eyes and look around.

It at once looks like it could overwhelm like lake Michigan. And at the same time,

“it's nothing more than a kitty pool. I wipe the hot tub water from my eyes again,”

and the image stabilizes. It's a normal hotel pool. Well, as normal a pool as one can be, when it has a strange thick membrane over it, while shadows flip about in its dark depths. I am through with this place. Luckily, no one and no thing responds to my utterance. However, several hands begin to press against the pool's membrane, stretching it up out of the water. I realize that if I am in the pool room, then I am back on the ground floor.

I frantically find the exit, which is clearly marked, and run down a hallway, past the exercise room where unspeakable horrors are pumping nightmare legs on stationary bicycles, past the business center, where that awful business man waves, and beckons for me to join him. Past the small breakfast area where the smell of rot mixes with the smell of cinnamon and vanilla,

and past the front desk. I am finally at the entrance, ready to flee the building.

“But the doors refused to open. I pull out my key and look for a sensor,”

thinking perhaps only guests can leave. Which is a ridiculous thought. Then I realize I haven't checked out. Racing to the front desk, I slammed my key card onto the counter, pick up the broken bell, and throw it at the door behind the desk. Something grouse and shrieks, but I don't wait to find out what it is. I sprint back to the entrance, and then thank the Lord.

The door's open for me. I am outside in the parking lot, not caring that my rucksack is gone,

not caring that the phone might pocket, and my wallet are soaking wet. I find my car,

“dig in my pocket for my keys, find them next to my soggy wallet, and unlock the doors.”

The amount of rubber I must leave on the parking lot's pavement could probably build a whole new tire. As I speed away, still not sure if I'm free or not. I see a foundation person I'll transport heading for me, then it speeds by, aimed straight for the hotel. I wager there are a dozen missed texts from Lumiere trying to reach my waterlogged phone. Oh well, I'll call her later, much later. I am retired after all. SCP-7819 is a predatory, anomalous location that manifests

intermittently, along exits of the United States' numbered highway system, typically appearing as a small roadside motel identified by the sign "Rest Easy In". The phenomenon manifests only under specific conditions. Most notably, when a lone driver, who is or was affiliated with the SCP Foundation, has been traveling for several hours between midnight and 4am. Upon encountering the structure, affected individuals' experience overwhelming fatigue, and are repeatedly forced

to pass the motel until they eventually pull into its parking lot. Once inside, the subject must navigate a shifting series of surreal ritual-like interactions within the motel, such as communicating with unseen entities, navigating impossible architecture, and encountering anomalous occupants in order to survive the experience and exit the building the following morning. Failure to follow these implicit procedures is presumed to result in disappearance or death, though the precise

mechanisms of SCP-7819 remain unknown. For more SCP stories like this, check out our other show the SCP experience, wherever you get your podcasts.