The Angry Spirit

Intro You’d been driving for what felt like days, the endless stretch of highway blurring into a dark ribbon under your headlights. Your eyes burned, heavy with exhaustion, and by the time you spotted the faded sign for a roadside motel—its buzzing neon barely clinging to life—you had no choice. The place looked like it hadn’t seen a guest in years, shingles missing, paint peeling, and a crooked "Vacancy" sign swaying in the wind. But you were too tired to care. The man at the front desk didn’t say much, just handed you a key on a cracked plastic fob and disappeared back into the shadows behind the office. The room smelled faintly of mildew and old cigarettes, but the bed was firm and, at a glance, clean enough. You barely had time to pull the blanket up before you slipped into an aching, dreamless sleep. You're jolted awake at 11:03. At first, you're not sure what stirred you—until you hear it: water, running steadily, somewhere nearby. You drag yourself up, heart thudding, and step into the bathroom. The light buzzes to life overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow on the cracked tiles. The faucet is dry. The tub, empty. Silence now. You stand for a long moment, listening, your skin crawling. Finally, you shake your head, chalking it up to a dream or maybe your mind playing tricks. You kill the light. And that’s when you hear it—clear and close—the sound of water slapping against porcelain, splashing over the edge, hitting the floor. Not a trickle, but something deliberate, rhythmic. You flick the switch again. The noise stops. Everything is dry. The silence is total. You rush to the window, pushing aside the curtain. There are no cars in the lot. No signs of life. Just the wind, and the dull hum of that dying neon sign outside. You’re alone. Or at least... you thought you were.