The Jacob Motel

📅 Published on January 9, 2021

“The Jacob Motel”

Written by Geoff Woodbridge
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).

🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available

ESTIMATED READING TIME — 7 minutes

Rating: 8.50/10. From 4 votes.
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Asphalt tires glided us along the black sea of the Interstate. My vision had become blurry, tired from the constant repetition of the white line, a dotted Morse code along the center of our path. We’d spent several days in Memphis: tourists indulging in the atmosphere, visiting Graceland, Heartbreak Hotel, Sun Studios and Stax. We enjoyed the Tennessee whiskey and danced every night, drinking deep the vibrant activities of Beal Street. This was our reward for a summer of hard work and something for us to remember when we were back in our classes in England. It was perfect and Jenni loved every minute. It was great to see her smile and forget about her life at home for a while. We planned to travel South East, heading into Alabama, calling at Tupelo, the childhood town of Elvis; a small, humble, simple home for the seed of Rock and Roll. We took photos; Jenni on the swing chair out front on the porch, another with one of the ladies who gave the tour of the home. She and Jenni talked and talked about Elvis. I could see it was getting late but couldn’t bring myself to pull her away. We still had a big journey ahead. The car was full of souvenirs: plush toys, Elvis sunglasses, t-shirts, CDs and tour-guides for every attraction. There was also the guilty evidence from numerous fast food outlets, crumpled cartons, boxes and polystyrene cups. That was all 600 miles behind us and the Smokey Mountains were near.

The journey should have taken much less time, but at some point we’d taken a wrong turn sending us through the countryside. It was dark now. For the past few miles, we’d been following a pickup truck. Jenni was concerned as she pointed out the wide-brimmed Stetson and the shotgun visible through the rear window of the truck in front, a silhouette somewhat comical but creating a deep, unsettling feeling in my stomach. I decided to drop back a little, giving distance between the possible threat and us, the innocent victims. I was glad to see the sugar-pink neon lights up ahead. The Jacob Motel came into view as we swung our car off the road and onto the forecourt. The Stetson traveled into the distance. The car park was busy, surprising as we were in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere. A honeypot for lost tourists. I left Jenni in the car and headed for the reception. The room was sparse and looked unchanged from when it would have been originally built some 40 years earlier. A portable TV hummed the soft tune of memorable adverts although the counter was deserted. I strolled in and dinged the bell. The receptionist startled me as he stepped from the back room, gaunt and looking slightly deranged, staring with large bulbous eyes. He was a young man, early twenties. He took his seat behind the counter, eyes circular and glazed, glued to the TV; a distraction from his course work which he had sprawled out across the counter, a landscape of literature. He looked up at me and said, “Yup?” I cleared my throat and spoke out. ‘Evening, can I get a room for the night?’ The Americanism of ‘get’ spilled from my mouth. Jenni pulled me up on my speech constantly. “It’s ‘can I have’, not ‘can I get’, you’re not an American”, she would say.

The receptionist placed his hand in the return key box, rummaging around for the lucky fob, the Motel tombola, producing a single winning key. ‘Room 23, that’s thirty bucks. No pets, no smoking, leave the room by 11 am.’ The words flowed like a script, rehearsed and repeated, spoken without thought or any kind of interest. I placed the notes on the counter, took the key, turned and walked toward the door. ‘Hey’ shouted the receptionist. ‘You have a good evening now.’ A full smile filled his young face, mischievous and menacing, which encouraged an uncomfortable feeling. I thanked him, turned the handle, and left the reception. Walking briskly back to the car I found Jenni had created a small collection of cases, some open, with clothes migrating from one to the other. ‘I thought we could just take in the things we need for the night,’ she said. ‘Did you get the room ok?’ I nodded a silent reply. The room was the same as every other we’d stayed in across Tennessee. I couldn’t help but be surprised at how similar these hotels were, regardless of how much you pay for the room. Ninety or twenty dollars. You get the same pair of double beds, a huge wooden encased TV, a sink, an impossibly low powered hairdryer, an oversized ironing board and a highly overused, worn bathroom. When I say overused, I mean, these places have been used and cleaned and used and cleaned to the point that enamel was wearing from the tub, the color was bleached from the lino flooring and the taps had a smoothness only gained from years of erosion, kind of like a weathered effect. They don’t seem unclean, just overused. What did differ was the level of cleanliness.

This room came in mid-table; the bath had hair in the plughole, but the sheets look freshly changed. It’ll do. Jenni went straight for the shower whilst I switched on the TV, remote in one hand, Tennessee firewater in the other. Late-night chat shows with celebrities unknown to UK viewers shouted and smiled whilst the gossip and scandal of their lives spread across cable networks for all to see. Sometime later I awoke. The room was in darkness. I was still in the same position, whiskey bottle firmly in my grip. The remote had long since gone, vanished into the room. I tried to move. My neck was stiff, maybe from the long drive or the awkward position I had slept in. Pulling off my t-shirt, I climbed under the duvet, looking over at the Jenni shape in the bed, like a small mountain range in the world of bedding. I lay there, staring into the darkness, watching the shadows and listening to the night outside. Silence becomes loud and deafening when given an ear. Creaking and whispering of trees, the wind, the breathing of the wood, the soft hum of an electrical device. Clicking, buzzing and whispering. Then I felt it. A slight movement, right next to my thigh. It felt like a cat, circling to make its own bed, pushing ever so gently with its paws. I froze and held my breath.

Lifting my head slightly, I tried to look at the thing on the bed. I envisioned a rat or a raccoon or some other creature from the wilderness which creeps in each night. ‘How do I fend off a raccoon?’ I thought. I squinted, struggling to see in the darkness. There was nothing there, just the linen pressed against my leg. I turned over, taking a deep breath, and closed my eyes. Then the feeling came again, this time on the other side of my legs. I froze, no breathing or movement, just waiting. Again, it circled and sat, pressing against me, warm and persistent, then it moved again to the other side of my body. I began to panic. I was burning up. My heart was pounding as the animal, or whatever it was, stepped out its own song, pressing its feet and body in time with my heartbeat. Then it stopped. I felt it fall off the side of the bed. I could hear the scratching as it pulled itself across the carpeted floor, catching its claws in the flock. I sat up slowly, trying to focus in the darkness. There was someone standing in the bathroom, facing the mirror. I could make out an outline, a shadow, the figure of a woman; she looked naked. She was just standing, staring. I looked back at the bed. The outline of Jenni was still next to me. I reached over slowly to touch her, to wake her up. My heart raced as sweat drenched my chest. She didn’t move. I reached over for the bedside lamp. Click. A burst of brightness filled the room leaving white spots in my eyes, blinded. The bathroom was empty. No figure in the doorway, nothing on my bed. ‘Christ’ I said. I checked the bathroom, under the sink and behind the TV just to check there were no animals. I smiled feeling quite annoyed with myself, and then I noticed that the bed was empty. I called her name, lifting the duvet, looking under the bed, in the bathroom. Empty. I looked at the un-opened cases. My cases.

Where was Jenni’s blue polka dot bag? I turned the room upside down before running over to the reception. The room was empty once again. I hit the bell on the counter before stepping back to the safety of the doorway. Only then did I realize I was wearing no shoes or T-shirt, and for a moment felt embarrassed. The bulbous eyed man appeared once again from the back room. ‘What’s all this about?’ he asked, pointing at my lack of clothing. ‘Hey, I’m sorry, but have you seen my girlfriend?’ I blurted out. The young guy tilted his head and threw me a shrug as he chewed on something, I presume tobacco. ‘What the hell happened to your clothes buddy?’ ‘I’ve been asleep, my girlfriend, she’s not…’ I stopped ‘You only paid for a single. You got your girlfriend with you mister?’ he said, prodding a finger into a ledger where the number 23 was scrawled with a ballpoint pen. ‘She’s missing, did you see her?’ ‘You need to pay another 20 bucks, mister. You have girls in your room, you gotta pay extra.’

His face changed, smiling as his fat tongue slipped across his lower lip. ‘No, it’s not like that’ ‘I know your type. Now put on some god damn clothes.’ The smile was gone, replaced with a force of authority. An overwhelming feeling of loss came over me as I stumbled back out of the reception and into the night air. I checked the car. It was full of pizza boxes, crusts, doughnuts and drink cartons. No sign of Jenni. My mind was racing, questioning reality, the woman in the room, the thing on the bed, Jenni taking a shower, my last thoughts as she closed the bathroom door. ‘Think, just think,’ I told myself. The stairway up to the room was dimly lit, a single bulb blinked, flickered as it struggled for life. I stood on the first-floor balcony looking out into the woods, so dark and deep with the unknown. A slow build-up of sound filled my ears with the night. The forest was alive, crawling, scratching, creaking, breathing. I watched the night through shadows and darkness and listened to the deafening sound. I could feel something watching from within the wood – a kind of 6th sense that someone was glaring. It sounds like such a cliché, but I felt a shiver run down my spine. The bulb flickered, buzzing and crackling. I turned quickly, grabbing the handle of our room, the feeling of something from the wood moving towards me. I entered the room. Jenni was standing with damp hair wearing a nightgown, smiling. ‘Hi, I wondered where you’d gone.’ ‘My god!’ I said, falling onto the bed. ‘I’ve been out looking everywhere for you.’ I told Jenni all about it. She just laughed. ‘Too much firewater,’ she said, still smiling that gorgeous smile of hers.

I shook my head, grabbing a towel. I took a shower before getting back into bed. Jenni was warm under the sheets; I could feel her soft skin and the purring of happiness. I inhaled her scent as I nuzzled into her neck and held her tight: content and safe. I’m not sure how long I stayed like that. It could have been minutes or hours. I could hear the wind whistling through the slight gap under the door, and the sound of the TV, buzzing quietly as it slept in darkness. Then my skin turned cold. My heart froze as I felt the circling, spiral movement; warm, prodding, leaning against the side of my leg once more.

Rating: 8.50/10. From 4 votes.
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🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available


Written by Geoff Woodbridge
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

🔔 More stories from author: Geoff Woodbridge


Publisher's Notes: N/A

Author's Notes: N/A

More Stories from Author Geoff Woodbridge:

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Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).

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nobody
nobody
6 days ago

Jacob Motel? More like My Girlfriend is a Werecat.

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