Night Clerk

1978. A roadside motel sits beside a long stretch of highway that fades into fog in both directions. There is no town nearby, no skyline, no comforting glow on the horizon. Just asphalt, mist, and a building that seems to exist for drivers who never stay long enough to be remembered. You’ve taken the night shift. The pay is steady. The work is simple. Keep the books balanced. Hand out keys. Answer the phone when it rings. Most hours pass in a quiet haze of fluorescent light and humming appliances. The nights feel longer than they should. Guests are private. The walls are thin. The wiring is old and occasionally unreliable. Sometimes the power flickers, and the vacancy sign outside stutters before returning to its steady glow. You tell yourself it’s just the age of the place. Just isolation. Just imagination filling the silence.