Meanwhile, Father Nicholas floored it—his tires screeching as he tore around a sharp bend. Headlights cut through the dark like twin blades, and then it appeared:
The Rest Stop Inn.
A roadside motel that looked like it had been plucked straight from the edge of nowhere. Its flickering neon sign buzzed and casting jagged red light across the cracked pavement. The building stretched in a tired L-shape, its faded doors staring blankly at the highway like a row of hollow eyes.
He pulled into the lot, gravel crunching beneath his wheels, and killed the engine. For a second, he basked in the silence.
Then, he moved.
The bell above the motel office door jingled as he stepped inside. The room smelled faintly of old coffee and carpet cleaner. Behind the counter sat a tired-eyed woman, her nose buried in a dog-eared paperback.
Father Nicholas approached the desk, not bothering with pleasantries.
"Room 314," he said, voice low. Urgent. Almost strained.
The clerk looked up slowly. Her smile was polite, but her eyes held something else—curiosity, wariness, maybe. But she didn't question him.
"Key's ready, Father. Same room as always."
She slid the brass key across the counter, and Nicholas took it without hesitation. No thank-you. No explanation. Just a curt nod before turning on his heel and heading back into the night.
The woman watched him go, the soft jingle of the bell marking his exit.
She lingered for a second.
A priest. At a motel. Same room. Every time. Always after dark. Always alone.
The questions hovered like ghosts in the stale air, but she didn't chase them. She just shrugged and went back to her book.
Some answers, she figured, weren't worth the asking.
Father Nicholas retrieved a nondescript brown briefcase from the trunk of his car. The leather was worn smooth at the edges, the handle darkened from years of use. Unassuming, yes—but the weight of its contents gave it gravity. Closing the trunk with a heavy thud, he turned and strode back toward the L-shaped motel building, his footsteps sharp against the cracked pavement.
The "Rest Stop Inn" looked like it hadn't been updated since the late '70s. Its doors were chipped, paint peeling like sunburnt skin. The faded numbers on each one hung crooked, and rust traced the hinges like veins. No one would expect much from a place like this—especially not from the room at the very end of the hall.
But Father Nicholas didn't hesitate.
He veered left, to the farthest edge of the structure, and stopped at Room 314. The key slid into the lock with an old, metallic sigh. The door creaked open—
And revealed something else entirely.
Inside, the room looked untouched by time.
A fireplace crackled quietly in the corner, casting soft golden light across the space. A thick, espresso-brown rug stretched across the polished hardwood floor, inviting and plush. The bed, made with precision, was draped in rich, ivory linens, its headboard carved from dark wood that gleamed under the firelight. At the foot of the bed sat a modest table, set with a carafe of water, two empty glasses, and a bowl of fresh fruit that hadn't spoiled—despite no one ever seeming to tend it.
To the left, the bathroom gleamed. White tiles sparkled like bone under the dim sconces. The sink was marble, and the mirror above it bore no cracks, no rusted edges.
Above the fireplace sat an old rotary phone. Its brass mouthpiece and dial were scuffed with age, but something about it—like everything else in the room—worked. And not just functionally.
It was a room dressed in elegance, humming with warmth and quiet care. But the kind of warmth that felt... curated and controlled.
The contrast between the exterior and the interior was jarring.
Outside: chipped paint, rust, neglect. Inside: polished perfection, luxurious, and preserved.
It was as if Room 314 didn't belong to the motel at all.
Father Nicholas stepped inside, the door closing behind him with a gentle click. The noise from the highway, the creaking neon sign, even the wind—gone. The silence here was thick, sacred and heavy.
He set the briefcase down on the table with slow reverence and stared at it for a long moment.
With reverence, He opened the briefcase. The hinges groaned softly, revealing its contents like the opening of a sacred reliquary.
Inside: a chalk set wrapped in worn cloth, a small silver chalice, bundles of incense, a vial of black oil, a curved ritual knife, a grimoire bound in cracked leather, a mortar and pestle, and several short, bark-stripped sticks bundled in twine. Nestled beside them was a cauldron—blackened from use. Every object had its place, and he laid them out one by one on the table like a surgeon preparing for delicate work.
The air began to shift, heavy with the tang of sandalwood and myrrh as he lit the incense. Smoke curled through the room in slow, lazy spirals, brushing the ceiling like fingers.
He turned the lock with a sharp click. Privacy sealed.
Shedding his clerical collar, Father Nicholas unbuttoned his black shirt, revealing a sliver of inked skin etched with sacred glyphs and unknown symbols—tattoos, a man of God with tattoos on his arms. His sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Without hesitation, just routine-like.
He crossed to the bed and shoved it aside with a low grunt. It groaned against the floorboards, revealing a clear space in the center of the room. He tugged the rug back with a soft whoosh, the fibers crackling from static. Beneath it, the hardwood gleamed like something rarely seen.
Then he knelt.
Chalk in hand, he began to draw.
A circle—perfect and wide. Runes lined the edges like teeth, intersecting at four cardinal points. At the center, he etched a symbol older than any language could interpret, pulsing with unseen weight.
At the table, he selected the sticks. They looked mundane at first—just dry branches. But as he broke them into smaller pieces, a strange, bitter aroma filled the air. He crushed them with practiced rhythm in the mortar, grinding them into a semi-powder. When he was satisfied, he poured the mixture into the cauldron and added three drops of oil.
It hissed softly.
He stirred it once clockwise, once counter-clockwise, then dipped two fingers into the warm blend and traced lines from the bowl to the floor. First around the sigil. Then outward, like veins.
This was no simple invocation.
This was a door.
And Father Nicholas was about to open it.
He lit the candles—one at each point of the chalk circle—and their flames trembled like they knew what was coming. Then he opened the grimoire, its pages stiff with age and coated with smudged ink. He flipped to a marked chapter, the page etched in a language with no clear handwriting. He read silently for a moment, mouthing the words as if they might bite back.
The silence in the room changed.
Father Nicholas's preparations sent a shiver up Aria's spine.
Even from across the veil, she could smell it—sandalwood. Myrrh. Oil thick with intention. The sacred scents drifted like smoke through the lines, whispering of a ritual unfolding just beyond reach, disturbance to the already disturbed.
Her gaze locked onto Room 314.
The motel looked like rot and rust from the outside—nothing sacred, nothing worth remembering. But that room... it pulsed like a heartbeat in the dark. Reeked of ancient things.
And Aria felt all of it.
Something was stirring in there.
Something that didn't belong in this world.
She had tracked the energy here, pulled by a force she couldn't name—a ripple in the spiritual fabric that spoke in tongues no one else could hear. It murmured secrets. It beckoned to her, it spoke to her.
As a wanderer of the unseen, Aria was no stranger to omens. She could feel malevolence the way others felt cold. Hear spiritual static where others heard silence. See chaos where others so misunderstanding. And whatever was happening in Room 314?
It was not a mistake.
She stepped closer, shadows licking at her heels, eyes burning with quiet, unnatural focus. Her breath was steady. Controlled. She didn't need to guess—she knew something was about to go terribly, violently wrong.
The veil was thinning.
And someone was about to rip it open.
Father Nicholas!