Norman Bates Motel Novels & Stories

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.

“Officially, BMS isn’t a functioning motel. It was closed down two years ago. It’s not a place that should be in use.” “What!” I exclaimed. “If Natasha’s car is there, she must be inside too.” “Unofficially…” Charlotte interrupted. “The motel is used by a notorious gang. From the little I’ve been able to gather, they run gambling dens, kidnap, and torture people in that same building. The crazy thing is that many people know about the happenings there. The police might know as well but they aren’t taking action.” “We need to go back,” I turned on the ignition, my heart beating crazily hard.

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."

It was completely beneath someone of Julian Whitmore’s standing. I slipped out again, using the same method I’d mastered the night before. When I arrived at the motel, the reality was even worse than the name. The neon sign flickered with a dying buzz, and the paint was peeling off the walls in thick, grey flakes. I walked into the lobby. It was cramped and smelled of stale cigarettes. The woman behind the desk had skin like parchment and didn't even look up from her phone. "I'm looking for Julian Whitmore," I said.

Before Bates could fixate on his obsession with Damien and Micah any longer, I kicked him under the table. Bates clenched his jaw but didn’t make a sound. “Your next payment is due in a month. Hope you deliver on time.” I finished my drink before I rose to my feet. “Until next time.” “You aren’t gonna buy a bitch for the road?” he asked, not rising to his feet. Bates stood up and pulled out a business card with his phone number written on it. “Let the bartender know I’m looking for a good lay if she is.” “And I’ll pass,” I said. “I don’t pay millions for pussy.”

"Okay, enough questions. It’s time for bed. You have school tomorrow." Norman looked up, a small, fragile smile finally breaking through. "Okay. Goodnight, Nathan." "Goodnight, buddy." Nathan watched until Norman entered his room and the lock clicked into place. The moment the door was shut, the warmth vanished from Nathan’s eyes. His gaze turned toward Stanley’s door, dark and murderous. He wasn't just doing this for the money anymore. He had to get Ethan out of the way and secure the estate so he could purge this house of Stanley’s filth.

Dried cum still covered her face and breasts. “We have to stop all of this,” Ryan said, his voice filled with concern. “Take off the collar and clamps. I will figure out how to fix this so you can get your things from the house and still make your flight tomorrow.” He pulled into the parking lot of the Starlight Motel. Half the letters on the sign were missing and the remaining ones buzzed and flickered. Several prostitutes lingered near the vending machines and stairways, watching their car closely as Ryan got out.

“No signal either. We’re properly screwed.” I grabbed the cooler from the back, the half-empty bottle of Casamigos clinking against ice packs. “At least we’ve got this.” A faded sign flickered into view maybe half a mile ahead: MOTEL 6. One bulb burned out in the M. We walked in silence, gravel crunching under our shoes, the night air finally cooling enough to raise goosebumps on my arms. The clerk didn’t even look up from his phone. “One room. Queen. Hundred bucks cash. No refunds.”

“Did you find anything about her?” Hannah’s voice was a low, urgent whisper that cut through the silence of the hotel room. She had sat up in the luxurious bed, the silk sheets pooling around her bare waist. Her eyes were wide, a silent, panicked plea directed at Norman. Norman Malcovich, a man who rarely showed a shred of vulnerability, was drying his hair with a white towel. He turned to her, a lazy, apathetic look on his face. “About who?” he asked, the words a slow, deliberate drag of a cigarette he had just lit. The smoke, a thin, hazy cloud, swirled around his head, a silent wall between them.

--- The motel looked like it belonged in a crime documentary. Chipped paint, flickering neon, a front desk behind bulletproof glass. The kind of place where people didn’t ask questions, and you didn’t leave a real name. He parked the car at the far end of the lot, angled so the front faced the exit. Always ready to run. I stayed in the passenger seat for a beat too long, staring at the cracked sign that read Sunset Inn. The irony stung. There was nothing golden about this place. Just the promise of silence.