In the middle of a vast, desolate landscape, a forgotten motel stood isolated and weathered by time. On a stormy night, John, a weary traveler, found himself navigating the treacherous roads. The rain pounded relentlessly against his windshield, making it nearly impossible to see ahead. Just as he began to doubt he would find shelter, a flickering neon sign emerged through the sheets of rain: "Rooms Available."
Relieved, he pulled into the gravel lot. The motel looked like a relic from a bygone era-its paint peeling, windows clouded with age, and a creeping sense of unease settled in his gut. Inside, the lobby was dimly lit, adorned with old-fashioned decor that had long lost its charm. An air of unsettling quiet enveloped the space, broken only by the occasional creak of the old building.
The receptionist, an older man with a distant expression, checked John in without much conversation. His weary eyes seemed to gaze through John rather than at him, as if he were a mere shadow passing through.
John made his way to his room, grateful for the shelter from the storm. The quiet was oddly comforting, but as he walked through the dim corridors, he caught sight of the other guests. A middle-aged man sat alone at the dusty bar, nursing a drink, his gaze distant. In a corner, a young couple whispered and giggled, seemingly on their honeymoon, oblivious to the darkness outside. And then there was the older man by the fireplace, studying a chessboard. John did a double-take-he recognized him as a famous chess player from a century ago, a figure he had long admired. But it couldn't be him... could it?
Shaking off the oddities, John retreated to his room, eager to escape the storm. He collapsed onto the bed, his exhaustion overtaking him. But when he woke the next morning,he notices from the thin curtains that the storm still raged outside, and the darkness thick and impenetrable. John felt as though he had been asleep for hours. Groggy, he reached for his phone to check the time, only to find it dead—likely drained of battery. Glancing around, he spotted a watch in the room. It read 12:27 AM.
"I'll see if I can borrow a charger from the receptionist downstairs," he muttered to himself.
With that, he made his way downstairs, hoping for some help.
he take notice that the same scene as that of last night's seem to be playing out before him: the middle-aged man at the bar, the young couple in their corner, and the chess player, once again pondering his next move, that wasn't even the scary part because he is starting at himself getting inside the motel drenched from the storm, making a booking with the receptionist and officially signing in.
Panic surged through John as he walked toward what appeared to be himself. The other version of him passed by without a glance, as if John were invisible. He reached the receptionist's desk but, once again, was ignored. What's happening? What does this mean?
Determined, he turned to follow the other version of himself up the stairs, but the figure had vanished. Frantic, John raced back down and shouted at the receptionist, "Hello! Can you hear me....hello?" His voice echoed, but there was no response.
"That won't help," said an old man sitting at the bar, nursing a drink.
Startled, John turned. "Oh, hi. Sorry. I'm John. Why isn't he reacting to me and what do you mean talking to him won't help?"
The old man took a sip before answering. "You're caught in a loop. It happens the moment you walk through those doors."
"But he heard me fine when I was signing in! Why can't he hear now, what changed?" John insisted.
The old man shrugged. "Look I'm no expert, but I've been here for sometime now. After you walk in, things start to repeat themselves for a while."
"How long is 'a while'? Does that mean it stops eventually?" John quickly asks
