The Hungry Lady

With one hand, Nathan twirled the oversized gold ring on his finger, conscious of its foreign bulk. Using the other, he cranked the windshield wipers of the old Chevy Cutlass Supreme. Still, the old, beaten road was just a haze of gray, only slightly lighter than the night that surrounded it. For an airport rental, it handed well in the snow, Nathan thought. Not that he really knew. A banker, he felt more comfortable staring into executives’ vindictive eyes than under the hood of a car. 

He looked over at Samantha slumped in the passenger seat, though he could have guessed she was only pretending to sleep. She still had on her wedding makeup, and it gave her a wakeful appearance, almost that of fairytale glee. Caught in the first flush of youth, hers was a vigorous face but motherly too, as if she had already borne the many children she fantasized about since girlhood. Back in Tulsa, she worked as a hair stylist in a salon almost exclusively patronized by wisened old ladies and snide highschool girls, each group apparently trying their best to under-tip the other. But Samantha took pride in her work. She even insisted on doing her own hair for the wedding—its long, ruby tendrils tied up now, all except for a few front-lying strands that draped across her face. Nathan allowed his eyes to pass over her beauty to the avalanche of white flecks which assaulted the corn field beyond, the stalks standing like a thousand sentinels in the night. 

“Where the hell is this place?” he muttered under his breath. He consulted the crude map that the airline attendant drew for him back at their gate. A couple more miles then a bent silo then right and follow the red fence to The Hungry Lady. Cute name. Sammi will get a kick out of that.

Nathan knew he had the right place well before the car lurched to a stop under a huge, swinging sign of a pudgy woman in overalls proudly displaying a sausage on her fork. It was the only building he saw in the last 20 miles, and it gave every impression of a once respectable motel, probably handed down from immigrant father to immigrant son until the owner was as native as the cornfields around it. One, long line of rusty doors painted over with thick, grass-green paint spanned to his left. To the right, a receiving office with sickly yellow light pouring out the frosted glass door. He kissed Samantha on the cheek and whispered in her ear, “We’re here,” cringing at what she might say when she saw their backwater honeymoon suite. She took one look at the motel, one look at him, then smiled just as sweetly as if they were at The Palm Springs Hotel. We’ll get there tomorrow. First flight out, he told himself. 

A little bell rang as they entered the lobby, if you could call it that. Two foldable chairs and a water cooler that looked like it hadn’t been drank out of since Nixon took office. A wiry man in his forties with too tight skin and an oversized, cardboard-colored uniform crept out of the office door behind the counter. Between his legs, Nathan could clearly see the foot end of an army cot on the stained carpet inside. 

“Welcome to The Hungry Lady,” the man said in a high, raspy voice. It reminded Nathan of the old milking stool that so often whined under the weight of his father early at work in the barn.

“Thanks. Our flight to Cali was grounded.” A quick gesture of his eyes to the tundra outside was explanation enough. “Could we get a room for the night?”

“It’d be our pleasure.” He sniffed then drew his small, sunken eyes to the floor as if he had said something scandalous.

“Thanks a lot. How much?”

“20.”

“Hey, not bad. They don’t have inflation in Minnesota?” Nathan chuckled. But by the man’s expression, Nathan thought he might as well have cracked the joke at the stranger’s own brother’s funeral. Samantha shifted uneasily in the silence, discreetly grabbing the cuff of Nathan’s starched button down. 

“Our customers pay with kindness as much as with cash.” he replied, mouth tight. “We’ve got house rules.”

Nathan noticed for the first time the sign stapled above the office door. 

1. Pose for politeness.
2. Be out of room from 12-12:30p for cleaning services.
3. Check out at 8a.

“What’s that first one mean,” asked Samantha. Her soft voice sounding strange next to his.

The man answered as though reading off a teleprompter. “We don’t ask for ID. We take pictures of each resident. Pose for politeness to protect the palace.” His hands drifted up on either side while he spoke as if to indicate that this dump was a chateau in serious need of safeguarding.

Samantha frowned. “So… like, if we were criminals on the run or something and the police came looking for us, you would give them our picture? Is that the idea?”

“More or less.”

“What if they don’t come? What happens with the photo? You throw it out?” She tried to give the strange character every benefit of the doubt.

“Sure.”

Nathan was getting sick of this. He craved a warm bed and more besides. This was their wedding night, afterall. “Fair enough,” he barked, interrupting Samantha’s next thought. He took out a $20 bill and handed it to him. “Here you go. Now, where’s the camera?”

The man slid a brass key across the counter. #5 the tag read. He then stooped below the counter to retrieve the polaroid camera. “Smile.” It sounded more like a command than a request. He leaned over the counter to take it. Nathan couldn’t say for certain, but it looked like he was training the camera more on Samantha than the both of them. He wondered if he even made it in frame. 

*click*

“Say, what’s your name?” he asked, rubbing the flash from his eyes. “In case we need anything, you know.” 

Nathan was the one to ask, but the man looked at Samantha when he gave his answer. “Eli.” It was the first time he smiled since they arrived.

“Alright, Eli. Thanks again. Anybody here able to help us with our luggage?”

“It’s just me tonight. But I can wake the maid if you like.” His smile widened. 

Nathan had to repeat the sentence in his head to make sure he got it right. Wake the maid? Was this a joke? “No. No, that won’t be necessary. I’ve got it.”

Eli wasn’t smiling anymore, but panting, the excitement his voice rose almost to a squeal, “Goodnight then.”

Samantha was first through the glass doors by a mile. Her set face and hurried steps told him she’d need at least 10 minutes to decompress and discuss Eli’s unsettling behavior before he’d be able to steer the night even an inch in a more interesting direction.

The room itself was maybe the closest thing to normal. All the ordinary furnishings were there—a queen bed, two nightstands, a lamp, a color T.V, and a gaudy rug bearing the image of The Hungry Lady set at the end of the bed—but the place had an odd, staged feel to it, as it it wasn’t a real motel room but some Hollywood set. It was the lighting, Nathan decided. Had to be.

“Do we really have to stay here?” Samantha began, then, not wanting to appear ungrateful, hastened to add, “I mean, it’s great but that guy creeps me out.”

“I’m sorry, Darlin’. It’s just one night. The guy at the airport said this was the only place inside an hour’s drive. I didn’t even ask where another one might be, and I doubt Eli would be much help.” He swept Samantha off her feet, hoping to expedite things. “But life is what you make it, right? Isn’t that what your brother said in his toast? What a doofus. He might be right about that, though.” He tossed her on the bed. “Let’s make life lovely tonight.”

Samantha smiled, only distantly realizing that he somehow twisted her anxieties into aphrodisiacs. He always had a way of doing that. And tonight her nerves really did crave settling. “I think maybe you’re the doofus. But you’re my doofus. Come here.” She planted a crimson peck on his stubbled cheek.

The snow never ceased that night, never even slowed. Layer fell on layer as inevitably as one second proceeded another. The heat of the earth, lingering even in that late season, was trapped by the upper layers, effectively thawing the lower. That is, until the furthest reaches of night ushered a frost that cut through all layers, freezing the melted snow below to ice. Those same upper layers would then insulate the ice, ready to preserve it for days if not weeks unless the sun rallied. All this happened with the complete apathy of nature so that the sting of it, its brazen inconvenience, would not and could not be directed anywhere but at the heart of Samantha and Nathan’s young love. The power outage that rendered her hairdryer useless and her hair a soggy nest. The engine that wouldn’t turn over in the -4 degree weather. The rattling of the radiator, like a big cat forever coughing up a hairball. These and more were all laid at the feet of the other and in a way that even the most seasoned of marriages would struggle to endure. 

“… How the hell am I supposed to know when it’ll stop, Sammi? Or do you have a crystal ball you’re hiding somewhere?…”

“… I told you I heard the weatherman going on about a storm. Did you even hear me?…”

“… You’re right; I’ll go out and ‘Haaa’ on the tires till they thaw.…”

“… Next flight out, my ass!…”

“… If you can’t be a lady, at least act like one.…”

“… Your boss? You’re worried about the briefing you promised your boss? What about the massages you promised me?…”

And so on until noon rolled around.

“Look, I’m so hungry I could eat The Hungry Lady herself. I don’t reckon the maid’s gonna doing any cleaning today, but we should probably leave here and get some grub anyway. I can’t stomach another granola bar. What do you say?”

Samantha would have rather eaten with a pig, but the pig supply being what it was, she agreed. There was no need to ask where he was taking her. The only “dinery” from here to the airport was at the end of the row of rooms, just opposite Eli’s receiving office.

If there were any other occupants of The Hungry Lady, none of them wanted anything to do with her scant lunch. The pickings were so dismal that Samantha thought she finally understood how the motel earned its name. They ate their meal of greasy potatoes, cold bean and mushroom soup, and banana pudding—the bananas more brown than yellow—in silence, relishing the absence of the radiator’s retching. 

Nathan looked at his Cutlass Supreme through the room’s only window. It gave only a vague impression of being a car now. Or maybe a snowman pretending to be a car. He could still see a bit of exposed paint from where his boot punished it for not starting earlier that morning. Shaking his head, he went back to his bean and mushroom soup. But something caught his eye as he did. A movement in the corner of the window. Whatever it was, it was moving too fast to get a good look at. His eyes only barely had time to latch onto the last bit of it as it disappeared from view, cut off by the window frame. A woman’s black high heel, he thought. The maid’s maybe, or another guest perhaps. But he had a hard time imagining a woman moving that fast, high heels on or no.

Meanwhile, Samantha was revisiting the morning’s arguments in her head, arguments he had long forgotten had even taken place. She was rewinding, replaying, rewinding, and replaying again in slow motion all the critical moments. She had won most the little battles, but she looked ugly doing it. An ugly bride. She wondered what her mother would say. No, she knew. She would tell her to go back to the room, put on some makeup, and apologize in a way even the thickest man could understand. Samantha knew she wouldn’t enjoy it, but it would put this train back on its tracks faster than anything. She sighed.

“Can we go back to the room, Nathan? I’m cold, and so’s the soup.”

“What? Oh, yeah. Sure, Darling.” He loved it when she asked permission, especially when she used his full name. The formality came close to submission, and he was sore for it after their morning combat. He pulled the seat out as she stood to leave. But, instead of making for the door, she waited for him to lead. And again she waited for him to open the door. She even curtsied a little before going through. All these premeditated efforts passed well below the surface of his consciousness, but they registered strong in his subconscious. Little, blinking, Christmas bulbs and bells to boot. Somewhere deep in his amygdala, she transformed by degrees from dragon to princess. By the time they got back to the room—him left alone while she took the bathroom—these primal associations had bubbled up into his waking psyche and, what’s more, his heart. He felt remorse that he had ever lashed his tongue at her, his fair lady. 

She came out in a lacy black number he’d never seen before, looking like a new woman. Looking like she did last night. The memories came flooding back. He closed the distance and kissed her.

Then, remembering himself, he took a step back. With almost lordly gravity, he took her hand and, bowing slightly, kissed it. “I’m sorry, Sammi. The damn snow—” No. No excuses. “I shouldn’t have taken my anger out on you. Will you forgive me?”

And with that she had won the war. Maybe not in his mind, but definitely on paper and at least two minutes sooner than expected.

“Of course, baby. Do you forgive me?”

He smiled like a kid ready to unwrap a present. “I already have.”

He moved for the bed but stopped short. Something was already on it. He eyed it first as a mere obstacle, something to be swept to the floor. But a second glance drove chills down his spine. It was a doll dressed up as a maid. On closer inspection, they concluded that the doll—white with red hair—was made separate from the outfit, which appeared to be hand sewn. Quickly, Nathan searched for other signs that someone had been there. And someone had. He scolded himself for not seeing it sooner. The whole place was cleaned and tidied to an absurd degree. Nathan’s briefcase, which was grubby on a good day, had been polished to a near shine. And Samantha’s undergarments had been neatly folded into themselves like little envelopes and arranged by color within the dresser as opposed to the suitcase where she had left them. Nathan remembered the black high heels from earlier. He opened the door to the outside. A torrent of frigid air slapped him in the face. But sure enough, two sets of shoe prints, one coming and one going, were still clearly visible in the snow outside their room.

That was too much for Samantha. “You need to tell that maid that this is too much. It’s inappropriate!”

“Now??” Her stare gave no room for negotiation. “Agh, fine. Stay here. I’ll talk to that Eli guy about it.” He could have screamed, leaving her there dressed like that, but a husband carries more duties than one.

As if expecting him, Eli was behind the counter, arms crossed and mouth stretched wide like some snouted animal

“Welcome to The Hungry Lady,” he said.

Nathan wasted no time. “Some welcome your maid left us just now. You know what she did?”
“Oh, are you already guests with us?”

“What? Of course we are. You don’t remember me? I came in with my wife just last night. Our plane was grounded.”
“I don’t recall.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. I think we’re the only ones here, and you’ve only got 14 rooms besides. Are you retarded?”

Eli only smiled.

“Well, we’re guests. Okay? Room 5. Your maid cleaned and organized all our personal stuff and left a doll on our bed. What’s that all about?”

“She’s very thorough. I can pass along a tip if you’d like.”

“A tip? She invaded our privacy! Would you want your briefs handled by a stranger? And we have no need for a creepy doll. Tell her next time to wipe the counters and replace the towels. She can leave a chocolate on the pillow if she must, but that’s all.”

“Sure thing.” Still smiling, he offered a stiff bow in place of a formal apology. 

“Good. And, while I’m here, do you have a phone I can use? I’ve gotta call Palm Springs to tell them to move our reservation. And I should probably let the wife’s folks know whats going on.” Wife. Golly, that still sounds weird.

“No phone.”

“No phone? What do you mean? You don’t have one, or you won’t let me use it? Look, I’m happy to pay.”

“No phone,” he repeated without the slightest change in infection.

“Is it because I called you retarded?” The man gave no sign of hearing him. “Or is this about the maid thing? If it is, I’m sorry. Okay? We just don’t want her going through our stuff and leaving little surprises. Tell you the truth, we want to get out of your hair just as soon as we can.” He couldn’t help glancing up at the thin whisps that struggled to veil Eli’s waxy scalp. “But we can’t do that till the snow clears up a bit. That old mess of miles out there wouldn’t make it past your fence before stalling out, even if we managed to her unstuck in the first place. So I gotta use your phone. Work things out. This is our honeymoon, man.”

Eli’s eyebrows wrinkled his forehead. “Honeymoon?”

“Yeah.”

Eli recovered himself. “Congratulations. But no phone. Sorry.”

“Whatever. Here’s $20 for another night, but don’t expect any gratuity.” He crumped the bill and let it fall to the floor.

Back at the room, the mood was a carcass swallowed up in the marsh. After some debate over the doll, they decided to keep it as a memento. At the very least, it would probably get a few good chuckles back home. If they ever got back home.

Nathan couldn’t help but check the locks a few times that night. The itch of paranoia had worked its way under his skin. No phone. What kind of motel doesn’t let people call out in a snowstorm? Something told him this place wasn’t quite as banal as it let on. Samantha called him paranoid for it, but he balanced an empty coke can with a few dimes inside atop the door handle. 

The following morning, the can was there, just as he left it. But something was different. Samantha caught it before he did.

“Sleep bad?” she asked.

“Actually, I slept better than I have in months. Why?”

“The T.V.’s on. I figured you couldn’t sleep and passed the time with… what is this show anyway?”

Nathan looked. The sound was off, but the screen showed a woman crawling in a dark tunnel. It must have been on a loop because despite incessant crawling, she never got any closer. She was definitely looking into the camera, but it was too dark and she was too far away to tell her identity. “You think I was watching that in the middle of the night? You take me for more of a man than I am.” He shut if off and shuttered.

“That’s really weird. I like this place less and less every day.”

“Where’s the remote? Are you sure you didn’t accidentally turn it on?”

She frowned at him. “The remote’s all the way over there. Maybe… Maybe it’s just broken like everything else in this place.”

“I don’t think so.” Nathan looked to the can. “You don’t think it was the maid, do you?”

“Oh, don’t be crazy. You think the witch maid turned on our television in the middle of the night? What, for kicks?”

“I guess you’re right. But I wouldn’t put it past that woman. I hope we run into her today.”
“You don’t need to hope.” She answered. “Just be here between 12 and 12:30, and she’ll run into you.”

“It’s not a bad idea.” His voice trailed off in thought.

She shot him a look. “But I won’t be here alone when she comes. I don’t want you running off anywhere close to noon.” 

“Nah, I won’t leave the room today. Well, maybe once or twice for a smoke but not anywhere close to noon. What do we do till then?” he asked, peeling back the red curtain to size up the still falling snow.

“It’s Sunday. I found a Bible in the top drawer the day we arrived. King James, but that’s what my father used to read to me anyway. Maybe you want to pick out a passage? A preacher man once told me you can flip it open to any random page, and the Holy Ghost’ll parse the paper so you get exactly what it wants to tell you.”

“I can think of a few better ways to pass the time,” he mumbled behind a coy smile. But one look at her expression shut that down. He reminded himself that they had a Christian wedding, and that meant certain things. That meant he was a spiritual leader. A ‘head’, the priest had called it. His grandma used to say the Lord gives where the givin’s the greatest. He guessed that meant you’ve got to give to the Big Man for him to give to you. He wasn’t religious, but quid pro quo was Latin any banker could understand. Maybe if he read a passage or two, a prayer out of this place would take. He grabbed the Bible and theatrically dropped it on the bed, letting the pages slip where they may. He read the first line.

“The woman shall not wear that which pertaineth unto a man, neither shall a man put on a woman’s garment: for all that do so are abomination unto the Lord thy God.” Nathan laughed a little. “Maybe the first one’s always a dud.” He tried again.

“Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.” He swallowed. “Should… should I try again?” Wide-eyed, Samantha nodded.

“And he cried mightily with a strong voice, saying, ‘Babylon the great is fallen, is fallen, and is become the habitation of devils, and the hold of every foul spirit, and a cage of every unclean and hateful bird.’”

At the last syllable, the can of coils fell. Both jumped from the bed, hearts in throats. Nathan instinctively reached for his pocket, but his knife wasn’t there. He pounced on his suitcase, feverishly grabbing at cloth, hoping to feel the resistance of the old buck knife. “Damnit! Where is it?”

Samantha was already in the bathroom, peering out at him from around the corner. “What are you looking for?” 

“My knife. I can’t find it.”

“Just see who it is!” she urged.

“I need something to defend myself, Sammi!”

“Take this.” She held out her hair dryer.

“What am I going to do with that?”

“I don’t know! Just answer it.”

“Agh! Fine!”

Slowly, he crept to the door. The peephole was useless; it had been recklessly painted over, probably by Eli in the last sloppy renovation. He cursed his name. “Who is it?” Nathan shouted through the door.

There was no reply.

Looking back at his bride, he recognized this for what it was: a test of bravery. He swung the door open, tensed for a fight. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the blinding white, but when they did, that’s all there was. White on white. No demon, no maid, no Eli.

He let the door shut behind him and with a deeper voice announced, “All clear.”

Samantha’s nerves took longer to calm than his, but eventually she agreed to his proposal to get a drink. Wash the fear away. Have some fun. This still is a honeymoon, isn’t it? “Sure, why not?” 

“Excellent! There’s got to be some beer or wine around here somewhere. Let’s try the feeding trough—I mean, the dinery.” They both laughed harder than usual, their bodies working off the anxious energy.

Nathan found a bottle of Cold Duck, even if he had to jump the counter to get it. Samantha snuck it in her floral tote back to the room. There, Nathan used an old trick from highschool to get the cork out. Three glasses in, and the honeymoon was back on track again, chugging along at a virile clip. That is, until Nathan felt the lick of cool air against his naked spine. 

Turning to look, he saw a face hanging in the crack of their door. “Hey! You!” Nathan hollered.

“What is it?” Samantha asked, scrambling to put herself together.

Nathan helped her the best he could. When he looked back, the door was closed again. “I don’t know. Someone was in the doorway, watching I think.”

“Go look!”
“What do you think I’m doing?” 

They both slipped into their coats and went outside, him first. Again, the high heel tracks. They followed them to the receiving office, but nobody was there. Predictable, Nathan thought.

Whether it was the wine or the arguing from the day earlier or the sudden intrusion, Samantha couldn’t have said. But, standing there in the vacant lobby, hands limp at her side, she broke down. Just broke down. She didn’t remember falling into Nathan’s shoulder, nor any of the words he spoke—if he said anything at all—but when she finally pulled away, she left a stain of tears and mascara as big as his fist. 

“That’s it,” he said, fear and rage at war in his voice. “Let’s go back. We’re getting out of here tonight. I think I saw a shovel in the dinery, but I’ll dig that car out with my bare hands if I have to.”

When they got back to their door, Nathan’s hand met resistance against the handle. He tried again. “Locked.”

“You have to be kidding,” Samantha sniffled, wondering if she would start crying again.

Nathan pounded his fist against the door, not sure whether from anger or as a plea to be let in. He heard something fall or crash inside. Something metallic. A gun?

“Who’s in there? Is that the maid? Open up! OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!” he bellowed. Temper colored his cheeks more than the weather.

Utter silence. 

Samantha looked at her watch. 12:08p. “It is the maid,” she said, showing him the time. “‘Be out of room from 12-12:30’, remember? I bet you she came to clean, found us still there, and stayed for a show. You spooked her, and she ran off but is back now to clean the place!”

“The balls on this lady.”

Samantha smacked his chest.
“What? Am I wrong? I mean, who does something like that?”

“Let’s just focus on getting the car out. She has to come out sometime, and when she does, we’ll catch her and ask just what gives her the right.”

“She’s lucky if that’s all I do. I’ve never hit a lady before, but I have no qualms with tying one up and dragging her to the station. There’s got to be some law against what she did. There’s just gotta be!”

Tying her up? That sounded drastic, illegal too. “I don’t know, Nate… We can’t be sure how long she was watching. Maybe she had only just opened the door when you looked. Maybe it was an honest accident?” She sounded as if she was trying to convince herself. Trying and failing.

“If that’s the case, why won’t she open up now? No, this woman is mad. We need answers, and I’m gonna get ‘em.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Samantha replied. She knew she could calm him, convince him to drop his crazy plan. But sometimes the only sword a man has is his authority. Take it away, and it might not be so easily picked up again. And she needed a man with a sword, now more than ever.

Samantha guarded the door while Nathan went to find the shovel. It was rusted and splintered, but it did the trick. He cleared two feet behind and in front of all four tires. There was still the ice, but he didn’t think that would be too much of a problem. He could dig up some topsoil or sand over by the cornfield and put it around the tires for traction if it came to that. He was debating on going forward or in reverse to get it out when Samantha called his name.

“It’s open! I just tried it, and it’s open!”

Inside, it was just as before. Everything neat and tidy. This time, however, Samantha’s underwear and socks were missing altogether. So was the doll. And a new item occupied the center of the bed: a tangled ball of hairs. Some brown and curly, some blond and straight, and—to Samantha’s horror—several of what appeared to be her own ginger hair. On closer examination, she saw that some of the hairs still bore their follicles. She’d seen that at the salon. Those hairs had been ripped out. But what about hers? She ran to the mirror in the bathroom and found the spot, just behind her left ear, where her hair had been cut. 

Nathan was too focused on apprehending the maid to care much about the unwelcome gift. “You’re certain you watched the door the whole time?”
“Yes! I was leaning against it the whole time you shoveled. If somebody would have opened it, I would have fell in!”

Nathan shook his head. “Then she had to have used the window. Small window, though. It’s locked too. She must be skinny and know a way to lock and unlock it from the outside. I bet I can catch her. She can’t be far. Stay here.”

“Are you crazy? I’m not staying here alone. If she’s gone, then I say ‘good riddance’. Let her escape. If you want, we can stop by the police station, wherever that is, on our way to the airport, but I’m not staying here a minute longer than I have to.”

“You’re right. I can’t leave you alone, not without my knife to give you. I bet she stole that too. Crazy woman. The car’s all ready. I don’t think we’ll need any sand to get out. Let’s go.”

In less than 5 minutes, everything was wedged in the trunk of the Chevy. He pieced together a quick prayer in his head, rubbed his hands together for luck, and turned it over. It gargled and clicked violently for several unending seconds. Then, the sweet sound of liberty. Like a firework on the fourth of July, the exhaust popped. The whole beast came to life, its purr vibrating every cell in his body. Samantha let out a moan of relief, only then realizing that she had been holding her breath. Nathan put it in reverse, cranked it into gear, and stomped on the gas, full throttle.

The car lurched free of the ice and careened backward. Nathan fought for control. Almost instantly, he knew he overdid it. Straining, he pulled the wheel left. The car swung wide, nearly taking out the red fence. Nathan tried the break. Nothing happened. He banged the petal again and again, panic sinking in as he felt no spring in it. He managed to yell, “I can’t stop!” before they slammed sidelong against an old pine tree. Neither of them were wearing seatbelts. Nathan’s sheer bulk held him in his seat, but Samantha was thrown out the open window like a ragdoll.

Dazed from the whiplash, Nathan scrambled over broken glass and black, oil-stained snow to reach her. She was facedown, still breathing but unevenly. Her skin was torn down the length of her back. Nathan thought it was superficial, though he couldn’t be sure. Hesitantly, he turned her over. Relief flooded him when he saw that her eyes were not only open but possessing that familiar spark of lucidity. The acrid smell of motor fluids stung his nose. He knew how cars could combust after wrecks like this. But he also knew it was risky to move trauma victims whose spine could be compromised. God, is that what she is now? My wife, a trauma victim?

“Stay still. I’m getting you out of here.” He looked around for someone, anyone, to help. There wasn’t a living thing in sight. Doing his best to brace her back, he carried her across the parking lot back to the room. She groaned, but even that was a welcome sound. Dead people don’t groan. Dying ones do, though. He pushed the thought out of his mind.

Even before he laid her on the bed, he had pieced it together. Someone, probably Eli, had cut his brakes. Him and that cursed maid were working together somehow. To what end, he didn’t know, but he was sure of it now. Just as soon as Samantha was safe, he was going to the kitchen to get a knife, and he would carve that man’s face till he gave him a phone. No longer to call home but 9-1-1. 

Adrenaline must have been all that held Samantha together because once within the warmth and security of the bed, she fainted. He pinched her leg. Even unconscious, it recoiled. The other did the same. That was good. She wasn’t paralyzed. Gently he turned her over to examine the gash. He was right about it being superficial, but he thought it still might need stitches. Maybe antibiotics too. He hated to leave her, but there was nothing more he could do for her. If her mind and body craved unconsciousness, then that was probably the best thing for it. He double and triple checked the locks on the window and door before making for the dinery. He was actually glad to see the place unoccupied. He jumped the buffet counter and opened several drawers in the kitchen before finding one full of knives. A long, filet knife caught his eye. It felt nice in his hand and would serve his purpose well. Or so he thought. He was a banker. He’d never so much as seen a bar fight. But this was his wife. The future mother of his children, dammit. Something had to be done. And he was the one to do it. Her father, ex-military and big as a dozer, certainly couldn’t protect her now. What would he say, what would he do, when he saw his little girl’s mutilated back?

No time to think about that now. He’d been away from her too long already. Too long. He should have never left. Stupid. Fucking stupid. He ran back to the room as fast as his legs would take him. When he swung the door open, his stomach lurched. The maid was there, on the bed where he left Samantha. His hands were numb, but knew the knife was still there. He rushed her with a primal yell, knife held high above him. He stopped dead in his tracks. It was Samantha. She was dressed as a maid now with no sign of the blue dress she had been wearing. He looked around the room. Nothing had changed. Nothing. Even from the bed, he could see that the window was still locked. A frantic sweep of the bathroom gave him no answers either. The knife fell to the floor as he shook Samantha to wakefulness. 

“Wake up! Are you okay? Who was here? What happened?” He couldn’t stop his voice from shaking.

Samantha eventually came to, looking at him like some small, frightened animal you might find under an upturned rock. The confused stare told him everything he needed to know. She was just as clueless as he.

Nathan shouted at the ceiling, at walls, at nowhere and everywhere. “Where are you?! Come back here! Face me! Face me like a devil you are!”

“What—What is going on, Nathan?”

“We’re about to find out,” he panted, delirious with rage. “Somebody cut our breaks. I went to get this knife.” He lifted his hand but nothing was there. Spotting it on the ground, he stooped to pick up up with a shaky hand, “When I got back, you were dressed like this.” Her hand shot to her mouth just as fast as her eyes took in her new attire.

In a flash, a plan formulated in his mind. He went on in a stony undertone, leaning closer to her. “I’m done playing their game, Sammi. Now, they’re gonna play mine.” His voice was a cold boil. “We’re going to leave here and make like we’re going to the reception office. If Eli’s there, I’ll kill him.” The words came easy. Too easy. “But he won’t be here. I just know it. That weasel’s watching our every move, and I’ll bet you there’s not a second we spend out there that he doesn’t spend in here. I don’t know how he does it, but I mean to find out. Once at the office, we’ll circle back behind the motel, see, and we’ll look in through that window. I don’t care if it’s Eli or the maid or the president of the Goddamn United States of America. Whoever’s in this room, I’m gonna kill with this here knife. I’ll leave this window unlocked and jump in on ‘em when they least expect it. Do you understand?”

“I—” Her voice failed her. Was that what this had come to? To killing? Yes. Yes, she supposed it had. But she didn’t like the look in his eyes. She wanted to run from him and kiss him all at the same time. And what if his didn’t work? God, let it work. Apprehensively, she nodded her assent. 

He saw her unease, and it worried him. Not because it caused the same in him but because he needed her strong. She had to be all-in. Any hesitation could mean death. “Look. It’s better to be the hunter than the hunted. Maybe he—or she—does this to all the folks that come here. Maybe that’s who the hair came from, other women, I mean. Maybe whoever it is has never had someone fight back.”

“Okay.” She sat a little taller, shoulders back. “Okay, what do you need me to do?”

“I want you to take this.” He handed her the knife.

Shock fell on her face all over again. “I don’t want that! You want me to do the attacking?”

“Hell no. I’ll take it back when it comes to the ambush. But you deserve a proper weapon… in case we get separated.”

“In case we get separated?! Nate, I—”

“Don’t worry. I’m not gonna let that happen. Just… It’s just in case.”

“Then what will you have? You should at least have something.”

Nathan picked up the lamp and let it fall the the floor. It shattered into a dozen pieces. He selected a medium sized shard and wrapped the thick end of it in a washcloth. “This’ll have to do. Let’s go.”

Samantha sat up on the bed to leave but fell back with a yelp. She was crying into her hands now.

Nathan rushed to her side. “You’ve got a pretty nasty cut on your back,” he explained. “But there’s no helping that now. We’ve got to do what we’ve got to do. Look, I’ll carry you, and you make like you’re unconscious. More convincing that way, and you won’t have to move. Whoever’s doing all this will recon he’s got more time to do his dirty work in here if think’s I’m lugging a limp body around with me everywhere I go. You ready?”

She had wiped away her tears and was sitting at the edge of the bed now. She nodded with strained resolution. 

Under the darkening sky, the outside air seemed somehow colder than it did just moments before. Ceramic in hand, buried under Samantha’s maid skirt, Nathan hobbled in the direction of the receiving office. His car was still smoldering on the edge of the deserted parking lot. The only sound was the melodious creaking of The Hungry Lady sign swinging in the breeze. 

“They’re watching us. I can feel their eyes,” Nathan hissed through gritted teeth.

Once inside the receiving office, they took a moment to scavenge Eli’s room. There was no phone and no car keys. But when Samantha opened a file cabinet next to Eli’s cot, she found herself looking into the faces of tens, maybe hundreds, of women, all dressed exactly as she. Some were bloodied, but all of them had their names written on the white of the polaroid. She gasped, and Nathan seized her by the arm and dragged her out a back door. He all but had to slap her to keep her from hysterics. 

At last, they made it to the window of their room. The motel was built into a small ridge, so the window was partly below ground. Nathan army crawled and dipped his head into the window well. Sure enough, the maid was there. She had on the same outfit as Samantha. It was dim inside, but could see her outline well. He watched as a thin woman with thick, black hair stalked around the room. With a wave of nausea, he realized that the stockings she was wearing were Samantha’s. Then anger gripped him again as he wondered what else of hers she had on. She stopped at the edge of the bed, visibly panting with excitement. As if driven by instinct, she crawled, or rather slithered, over the bed to Samantha’s bloodstain, stopping to smell it. After a moment, she planted her face in the pillow—Samantha’s pillow—nuzzling her head side to side, deeper and deeper into the satin, apparently relishing every moment. Nathan saw something reflective in her right hand. He gasped. She had a gun. There was no way he could execute his plan now. He stared in helpless wonder as she moved to the bathroom. She would have to pass directly under the window to enter it. Just as Nathan thought to pull his head away to escape notice, he saw the light of the moon fall on her face… No, his face. It was Eli, lips curled into a snakish grin, nose ruffled as a dog whose caught the scent of a strange cat. Nathan tore himself from the window at the same time Eli looked up. He couldn’t be sure whether he was seen, but he didn’t want to stay to find out. Or did he? Now knowing that it was a man who did this to his wife, part of him would have been happy to die killing him. At last, he made up his mind. “We need to go. He’s got a gun,” he frantically whispered to Samantha who was shivering in the snow beside him.

Washcloth wrapped around his knuckles, he broke the window of the next room over. He winced at the lengthy roar of falling glass. He reached in to unlock the latch and slid it open. The opening was tight, but he made inside without being cut. He helped Samantha down after him. Exhausted, Samantha fell into the bed while Nathan scoured the bathroom for something, anything, that might be used as a weapon. “What the hell? I think this room is taken. Look at all this makeup!”

But Samantha didn’t answer. The words were caught, strangled in her throat. Her eyes, struggling to adjust to the darkness of the room, watched with flat disbelief as The Hungry Lady on the center rug lifted to face her. 

A trap door! Tunnels between rooms. The woman on the television. It all came together as Samantha’s world fell apart.

Out from underneath the trap door, a revolver followed by Eli crawling on all fours, his wheezing punctuated with soft assurances. “They’re here. We smell ‘em. We’ll clean ‘em right up. We’ll clean ‘em good. Real good. Real good!” 

The trap door made a loud clap as it snapped shut behind him. His reedy whispers ceased at the noise. Breathless, he rose and turned on spindly legs to face her. Then that smile again, starved and blood red with thick lipstick. His eyes never left hers. Sniffing violently, his tongue flicked over those thin lips. 

He shuffled forward. “Ah, the bride.” His voice was as high and tense as violin strings grated against a nail file. “Are you hungry? Dress up always makes me hungry.”

His steps were faster now. They dragged against the floor in pace with his seductions. It was all she could do to push herself back against the headboard. The painful resistance she met there brought something fierce out of her. Remembering the knife, she thrust it out in front of her. He threw his head back with insane laughter, with mirth beyond the pale of anything earthly, anything human.

She closed her eyes, expecting at any moment to be shot, or worse. Then, the cackle that consumed her dark world was cut short by a gurgling sound like that of a drowning animal. Then two deafening shots. Dimly, she felt the air escape her lungs. When she opened her eyes again, Nathan was standing over Eli’s body, gun in hand and a pool of blood expanding around his sinewy neck. Nathan dropped the ceramic shank on The Hungry Lady’s smiling face. He crawled into the bed beside her. He held her there, tight against his bleeding chest, until both drifted to someplace better, someplace warm and bright. To the Palm Springs perhaps. But who could say for certain?