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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/IronViiking on 2025-09-23 07:36:57+00:00.

The Starlite Inn’s neon sign sputtered, red light bleeding into the Oklahoma night. Route 66 lay quiet, dwarfed by I-40’s rumble a mile off, big rigs roaring past like angry ghosts. The air was hot, thick with summer dust and a sour cattle feedlot the stench clutched my throat.

I leaned against my van, its chipped paint matching my nerves. I’m Quinn, 32, a genealogist who used to forge bloodlines for cash. Now, me, my brother Milo, and my guy Ezra were running from a Carter family fixer, mob scum I’d crossed with a botched scam.

That scam was my noose. I’d faked a Carter lineage to swindle their rivals, blew through my dad’s cancer money covering debts, and buried the family in lies. Dad, Mom, even Grandma, they all paid. Milo never knew the full cost, and I swore he never would.

Ezra climbed out of the van, boots crunching gravel. At 25, he was lean, sharp, a data courier who’d moved my fake files. His shirt clung tight, and when he lit a cigarette, the glow hit his jaw, his eyes lingering on me. I felt the urge to pin him against the van, but not now.

“Smells like a slaughterhouse,” he said, exhaling smoke.

“Feedlots,” I said. “Better than a bullet from the Carters.”

Milo slumped in the passenger seat, 22, fresh from rehab. His hands twitched, eyes darting like he was chasing a hit. I’d left him with our aunt years ago, too deep in scams to care. Now, he was all I had left.

“I’m fine, Quinn,” he muttered, catching my stare.

“I know buddy” I said, voice low. I thought otherwise, but I could hope.

The motel lobby reeked of mildew and stale cigarettes, the carpet stained, creaking underfoot. A radio hissed static, spitting half-words like a bad dream. The clerk, sallow-skinned, chewed a toothpick, barely glancing up from his phone. Behind him, a key rack sagged, one slot, 1701, holding a brass key that looked too sharp, symbols etched on it shifting when I blinked.

“Two rooms,” I said, sliding cash across the counter.  He tossed me keys for 1702 and 1704.

“Don’t break nothing.”

Ezra leaned close, his breath warm. “Guy’s hiding something.”

“Focus,” I said, but my pulse jumped at his touch.

We split up, Milo in 1702, me and Ezra in 1704. Ezra went into our room and I followed Milo into his. It was a dive: moth-eaten curtains, a mattress sagging like despair. He shuffled to the bathroom, pausing too long. I heard a clink, then silence. He came out, face pale, eyes fixed on the floor.

“You good?” I asked.

“This place is gross.” He said, but nodded to my question and collapsed on the bed. I checked the bathroom, an empty pill bottle sat on the counter, label scratched off. My gut twisted. He was clean, but that bottle screamed trouble. I flushed the toilet so he wouldn’t catch on. I want to trust him, but that pull is stronger than most men.

I left Milo to himself and went into 1704 where Ezra was, its walls yellowed, mildew clinging in the corners. He sprawled on the bed, shirt riding up, revealing a tattoo curling over his hip. I looked away, but his smirk said he noticed, craving the way I took control. I wanted to, but Milo came first.

“Stop babysitting him,” Ezra said, voice low, challenging. “He’s grown.”

“He’s my brother,” I growled, but his defiance sparked something, a need to shut him up my way. “Not tonight.”

He sighed at me in his way, and we cleaned up as best we could in the run-down shower and lay in the only bed together. It was hot, I stayed on top of the blankets, but he curled up underneath. He always wanted to be held. Sometimes I wondered why I kept him around, but other times, I knew why.

Sleep was a fight. The highway’s hum bled through the walls, mixing with the radio’s static from the lobby, now louder, whispering my name. I woke to the Starlite sign sputtered outside, letters warping into 1701 before snapping back.

A memory hit, Dad’s voice, rasping, “You sold us out, Quinn.” My knuckles ached, skin stretched, fingers too long.

Morning came, gray and heavy. I banged on 1702’s door. No answer.

“Milo, open up!” I raised my voice impatiently. “Dammit, you better not be on something!”

I grabbed the spare key from my pocket, the one the clerk tossed me last night, and jammed it in the lock. The door creaked open, revealing a dim room, the air heavy with mildew. Milo’s bed was empty, sheets tangled, his jacket gone from the chair. The pill bottle sat on the bathroom counter, its scratched-off label glaring like an accusation. Footsteps scuffed behind me, Ezra, trailed behind me, his eyes bleary but sharp with worry.

“Where’s Milo?” he asked.

“Gone,” I said. We tore through 1702, finding nothing. Ezra’s hand grazed my arm, steadying and sure. “He’s probably scoring.”

“Or around here lost because he’s a dumbass.” I snapped back. “Don’t assume the worst Ez.”

He flinched at my bark. He was used to my temper. He knew my ways, but he wasn’t used to it being aimed at him like that. I stormed to the lobby. The clerk was there, toothpick rolling.

“My brother,” I said. “Room 1702. Where is he?”

“Didn’t see him,” he said, eyes on his magazine. “Left last night, maybe?”

“What about Room 1701?” I asked, remembering the key.

He froze, toothpick still. “Ain’t got no 1701.”

I glanced behind him, the key rack was bare, no 1701 slot, just dust. My blood ran cold. Ezra leaned close, his heat grounding me.

“He’s lying,” he whispered.

Back in 1702, I dug through Milo’s bag. A brass key fell out, 1701, etched with symbols that shifted, stinging my palm like thorns. I dropped it on the floor.

“What the fuck?” I asked and picked it back up. It pulsed, warm, like a heartbeat. Ezra stared, his bravado gone.

“That wasn’t here yesterday,” he said.

“You were in Milo’s bag yesterday?” I asked. The guilt on his face spoke volumes. “He’s clean dammit!”

The bathroom mirror caught my eye as we passed. My reflection flickered, eyes too wide, hands bloodied for a second. A voice, not mine, hissed: You owe the Carters in blood.

I blinked twice, the mirror’s bloodied reflection fading, and stepped outside. The walkway to 1702 felt off, the concrete stretching too far under flickering neon, shadows twisting like veins. Between 1700 and 1702, a new door appeared, 1701, its number carved like a fresh scar.

I could hear something scraping against the other side of 1701’s door, slow and deliberate, like nails on wood. Then, “Quinn,” came Milo’s voice, whimpering from inside, faint and pleading. My heart raced as I jammed the pulsing key in, its shifting symbols stinging my palm, but the lock wouldn’t budge.

“Fuck!” I hollered and let go of the key.

“Q” Ezra said and his hand gripped my shoulder, firm, supporting. “What the hell is that?”

I didn’t answer. The key pulsed, alive. Whatever took Milo was behind that door and it wasn’t letting go. The key to 1701 burned in my palm, its symbols stinging like thorns, whispering, Pay the Carters’ blood. Ezra’s hand gripped my shoulder, his touch firm but shaking, as we stood outside the scarred door.

The motel’s neon buzzed, red light flickering over the Route 66 dust. I-40’s rumble rolled in the distance, big rigs growling, mixing with the sour feedlot stench that choked the air. My hands trembled, clammy, as Milo’s faint whimper, “Quinn”, echoed in my head.

“We’re going to find him,” Ezra said, voice low, eyes searching mine.

“Not yet,” I said, the key pulsing like a heartbeat. “This door’s wrong.”

I stormed back to the lobby, boots crunching gravel. The air was thick with mildew, the radio hissing static that sounded like “Carter.” The clerk looked up, toothpick rolling, his sallow face blank.

“Gimme the right key for 1701,” I growled, slamming the counter.

“Ain’t no such room,” he said, eyes on his phone.

“It was right there!” I spun, pointing down the walkway. The door was gone, just blank wall between 1700 and 1702. My stomach dropped. “Fuck, am I losing it?”

Ezra’s hand found my arm, steady but needing. “Milo’s out there, Q. Let’s go.”

My mind reeled. Was 1701 real, or was I cracking?  We hit the Route 66 strip, a dead-end town clinging to the highway’s shadow. Dive bars glowed dim, their signs half-lit. A pawn shop’s window showed cracked glass, and a derelict diner sported a rusted “Route 66” sign, its paint peeling like skin. Cigarette smoke hung heavy, locals slouched with opioid-dead eyes. No Milo.

In a bar, I froze. “Ronnie Carter” was carved into a table, jagged, fresh. My chest tightened, Ronnie’s voice in my memory: Your family’s blood pays. I blinked, and a shadowed figure stood in the alley outside, gone when I looked again.

“You’re shaking,” Ezra said, eyes sharp. “What’s going on, Q?”

“Nothing,” I snapped, but my gut screamed otherwise. “Keep looking.”

The diner’s jukebox hummed, static spitting “1701” in a warped loop. Ezra didn’t hear it, but his hand brushed mine, craving my control. I wanted to pull him close, hold him, but Milo’s face, pale, twitching, kept me moving.

Back in Room 1704, the yellowed walls closed in, mildew choking the air. Ezra’s eyes locked on mine, his breath quick. He tugged my shirt, pulling me into him, lips crashing hard. I pinned him to the bed, dominant, his body yielding under mine, craving it. His shirt was half-off when I glanced at the mirror, Milo’s face stared back, trapped, eyes wide, hands clawing the glass, begging, Help me, Quinn. Blood trickled from his lips.

I froze, shoving Ezra back. “Fuck!”

“What’s wrong?” Ezra panted, reaching for me, his need raw.

“Milo,” I choked, staring…

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