Bates Motel Novels & Stories

This unqualified defense and support. "We'll figure this out, as a family," Pru insisted. "I'm not sure what help y'all can be helping me find another job," Athena said. "Duh," Ari said. "You should work here." "Excuse me?" "She's got a point." Kennedy leaned back against the table. "The fact is, though we're called The Misfit Inn, we're actually more of a B and B since we only do breakfast. True inns offer full-service meals. We could make that switch. Amp things up again."

Seeing the anger come to the Alpha's face I snickered but looked away when I was turned to the entrance of the hotel. Putting his arm around my waist Stanley steered us to the counter of the shoddy hotel. I was starting at the taxidermy on the wall of the Hillside Hotel. The neon sign continued to blink the name giving Bates Motel vibes. “How original,” Nova chortled, hearing my thoughts. My lip curled at her. “Can I help you,” the clerk asked, coming out from a tiny room in the back. “A room for my wife and I,” Stanley asserted and I eyed him coldly.

The motel is a shithole on the edge of town, the kind of place where people come to disappear—sometimes permanently. Yellow crime scene tape flutters in the night breeze, barely keeping the stench of rot and drug inside. Local cops mill around, throwing irritated glances at the federal agents invading their territory. I push past them all. Nobody tries to stop me. The room stinks of cheap whiskey and death. Carlos Ramos lies sprawled on the bed, a gaping hole where the back of his head used to be, blood splattered against the peeling wallpaper. The gun is still clutched in his stiff fingers.

I sat still in the front seat, eyes fixed on the entrance to the motel. The motel looked dead. Lights dim. Crickets humming in the surrounding grass. The only motion came from the occasional flicker of the faulty neon sign above the office. ‘Palm Motel’ buzzed faintly, the “L” half-blinking like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to stay lit or not. I didn’t move. Didn’t scroll through my phone. Didn’t reach for the water bottle I’d bought. Just waited. Because if Brenda was right, he’d come.

Then, at last we saw the bright neon sign of the motel. Silver Pine Motel. The light was weak, showing this was as local as it gets. “Stay close,” he murmured. The cringe smell of bleach hit me the moment we stepped into the motel. There was a woman sitting behind the counter, around her mid-forties, wearing a cardigan. She looked up as the door chimed. Her eyes flicked over me, lingering for a moment longer, before following Damien’s voice. “Evening,” Damien said evenly. “We need a room, just for the night.”

she asked. “Then we’re already gone,” Ethan said, steady, as if the answer was simple math. The neon sign appeared just ahead, buzzing weakly in the dark. Southern Pines Motel. The “S” flickered and died halfway, leaving outhern Pines to burn like a half-forgotten memory. Two levels, doors opening onto a concrete walkway, paint flaking off stucco that had once pretended to be white. A soda machine leaned in the corner of the lot like it had lost the fight years ago.

Each joke chipped at my walls a little—dangerous, because walls were all I had. Finally, we found a small motel at the edge of a town that looked like it had been left behind when the highways moved on. The owner eyed us with mild suspicion but shrugged when Travis made some offhand comment about being “traveling bards on a budget.” Somehow, we got a room. Two beds, the smell of old carpet, and a window overlooking a storm-washed parking lot. As we settled, I felt the old reflexes flare—checking the locks, scanning shadows, counting exits. Travis caught me in the mirror’s reflection and raised his eyebrows.

His dad smacked his head. "Stupid. You know why. The doctor has given him sedatives for his body to heal properly. And rest. Take Trist and Elliot with you. To drive you to the Mansion. And you have to stay by him okay". His dad left the room with the doctor calling in the Betas to get the car ready. Stephen dressed Callum properly, lifting in his arms, he quickly seated in his range rover. He could feel Callum's temperature rising up. Trist lifted his eyebrow and Elliot huffed. Though he didn’t mate with humans and he was a top. But he could relate.

Perfect for ghosts. "There," Adrian pointed to a faded sign. "Astoria Motor Lodge. Cash only." The motel looked like it hadn't been updated since 1975. Cracked concrete, rusted railings, the kind of place where drug deals happened and nobody cared. But it was anonymous, and anonymity was all we had left. Adrian parked away from the street, tucked between a delivery van and a pickup truck with a missing bumper. "Stay here," he said. "I'll get us a room."

Just me and a sleeping boy who deserved a father who didn't trade him for a mistress's bed. The motel was called The Blue Moon. It was a squat, two-story building with a buzzing neon sign that cast a sickly pink glow over the oil-stained parking lot. The woman behind the bulletproof glass didn't even look up when I handed her a hundred-dollar bill. "No ID, no questions," I said, my "Savage" edge returning out of sheer necessity.