Creepypastas

Menagerie

Nightfall.

A mother and daughter walk into a hotel lobby, dragging their entire lives in a pair of suitcases behind them. The Daughter is about 13 years old; a carrier bag slung over her shoulder with a lap dog inside; she looks like she's been crying for hours. The Mother is in her mid- to late-30s; she quietly carries her own burdens that make her look over her shoulder with extra caution. They both wear that tired, haunted expression of people who have been driving all day under the worst imaginable circumstances. They have hit a wall of exhaustion and this nameless, unexceptional airport hotel is the closest thing they can find to respite.

In the background, a few people are checking out of the hotel. Dropping off key cards, settling bills, dragging suitcases. Although they seem rested, they wear their own dull, dazed expressions. This hotel is a way station in the middle of nowhere. No one stays here for longer than one night and a stay here invariably means you're still a long way from your final destination.

The Daughter gravitates toward an old, circus-themed pinball machine in a corner of the lobby. She slaps the flipper buttons a few times before realizing that the machine is dead; the dust caked on the glass suggests it's probably been sitting in disrepair for a small eternity. Disappointed, she sits on her suitcase and has a staring contest with her dog as her Mother checks them in at the front desk.

They make their way to the elevator banks where an airline pilot and two flight attendants are waiting with their luggage. They look like they've been through their own harrowing evening but manage to smile sympathetically at the weary-looking mother and child. The Older Flight Attendant crouches toward the Daughter and admires her dog.

"What's his name?"

"She's a girl. Her name's Diablo."

"Pretty name. She's lucky to have you."

The slight frown on the Daughter's face doesn't budge. The elevator arrives: an antiquated deathtrap with a claustrophobic cab. Parts of this hotel are clearly overdue for renovations. The aircrew lets the Mother and Daughter take it.

The elevator lifts off with a heavy, ominous churning sound. The Mother places her arm around her Daughter. The Daughter pulls away. They've reached a point in their trip where words are meaningless.

They arrive at their floor and drag their suitcases down the carpeted hallway. The Mother scans the numbers on the identical doors. They pass by a middle-aged man in a gray suit and glasses, carrying his suitcase into his room; the Businessman nods hello at them but they are in their own world.

The Mother stops at a door and tries her key card. The door won't open. She tries a few more times, getting flustered. The Daughter sits down on the floor and hugs the carrier bag to her chest, absently noticing a patch of floral-patterned wallpaper peeling off the wall. The exposed corner of wall is covered in rust.

The Businessman approaches them, offers to assist. He flips the key card around and slips it into the slot: green light. The door opens easily. He helps carry their suitcases into their room.

"Thanks," says the Mother, as an apology and a polite invitation for him to leave. "We've had a long day."

"I'm right next door, if you need anything," he offers, lingering a little longer than comfortable before he lets himself out.

In the hallway, the Businessman returns to his room as the aircrew passes by him. They head further down the hall, to the two adjacent rooms they've secured. The Flight Attendants in one room with the Captain on his own.

The Captain pauses at his door. "If either of you ladies are looking to forget the flight we just endured, I'll be in my room dismantling the mini bar."