The Midnight Shift

Jessie Adams, self-proclaimed master of apathy and night-shift janitor-extraordinaire, leaned on the laminated counter of the Sleepy Hollows Motel grumbling to the sounds of muffled traffic beyond the foggy windows. Midnight shifts weren't boring per se; they were soul-sucking rituals where time stood still. Jessie flicked on the old box TV, perpetually stuck on static, casting a cold glow on the faded lobby decor — sun-bleached couches, peeled wallpaper, and - was that a blood-stain? She stilled the thought, nothing new. 'Anything can happen at night,’ her dad used to say before he vanished years ago. Jessie chose not to believe - and yet here she was, guarding the peace in Sleepy Hollows. “Jess!” hissed a petite voice behind her. It was Annie, the energetic day clerk. “You’ve got a stranger at 11, been pacing like he owns the place. Creepy vibes.” “Probably a traveling salesman... still, intuition's never wrong,” Jessie shrugged, grabbing the room key from the pegboard. The stranger, tall with hollow cheeks, introduced himself with a chilling smile. Harold his name was, though that felt oddly misplaced in Jessie's gut. They made brief eye contact — icy and unblinking. “Room Seven,” Jessie nodded to Harold. They held each other's gaze for a moment before she added, “If you hear anything, I mean anything, you call me.” As the night enveloped the hollow, Jessie returned to her counter routine. Not long after, it began. Her eyes flicked to the red clock hands — 3 AM. Outside, the wind howled unnatural longings, as though yearning for something lost. A faint tapping pierced the silence, followed by muffled walls moaning, vibrating sounds that darted through Jessie's very core. “Just the pipes,” she reassured herself. An hour passed and Harold hadn't rung. Curiosity edged over: Was Harold snoring away in motel comfort or tiptoeing skeletons in his closet? Jessie steeled her nerves, donned the keys, and shuffled towards Room Seven. With each step, the moans softened, subsiding into splinters of aching quiet. Knuckles rapped twice on the door; it creaked open by itself. The room darkened, swallowing her view — bizarre and foreboding. The static returned from the TV within, echoing cryptic messages. Jessie reached inside and her fingers found something: half-formed dark memories yet-to-be—or had been? Without warning, she was enveloped in luminescent mist; fear coursed her veins as memories unfurled. Snapshots of yesteryears flashed before her — Harold, her vanished dad performing some unspeakable ritual. Jessie’s breath stifled. “What in the hell—” was all Jessie managed before retreating outside. Eyes wide, she fumbled back to the lobby, jittery fingers barely gripping the doorknob. The cold blue glow of the TV welcomed her. Annie – why hadn’t Annie answered, Jessie thought. Shadows reached across the lobby from the hallway; a silhouette loomed larger with each step. “You wanted to know the truth, Jessie. You always did.” Harold spoke from darkness as if conjured. His amusement twisted into a demented grin. “It’s a test,” he continued cryptically. “Your father — he sought refuge in the ordinary. Maybe you can find brighter solace. Or this darkness will consume your soul whole.” Jessie's heart pounded rebellion; her resolve sharpened. Whispered echoes summoned purpose within her, and she defiantly proclaimed, “No longer bound to old fears.” As the fog dissipated into clarity, shadows of memory and deception shrank away, Harold slipping inexplicably into nothingness. With resolve unfathomed and strength rekindled from within, Jessie met dawn reclaiming promises unbroken: A new beginning sprung where once tragedy had dominated. The occasional glimmer swirled in her vision, reminders never to let mundanity fool her again.