Norman Bates Motel Novels & Stories

But nothing would ever be home again. By the time the first pale light of morning broke across the horizon, I pulled into the gravel parking lot of a cheap roadside motel at the edge of the city. The sign out front blinked in and out—“Rooms by the week. Cash only. No ID required.” The kind of place people used when they didn’t want to be found. Perfect.

She unconsciously arched her eyebrow with a look of disgust and proceeded with her concern. “I’m Ate Esther’s cousin. She told me to collect the rent, thanks.” She doesn’t want the ill-mannered guy to talk back to her and to just give her the money and move on. Somehow, the topless guy felt her disgust and apologized. “Oh? Hi! Sorry, I’m Kevin, please come in while I get the rent money.” Kevin seemed to be embarrassed as he kept covering his upper body with his hand while he led her to the couch. He then proceeded to his room to get the money.

This would be a major relapse in her mental health. A Mental Asylum is where she would never go again. When she saw Angus staring at her, chills ran down her spine. He was up to no good and Avyanna could sense it. Avyanna soaked herself in her lavender body scrub, drinking directly from a bottle of champagne. She kept cucumbers in her eyes and delve into the soothing rhythm and vocals of the song Getting older by Billie Eilish. She had soaked in the bathtub for almost forty-five minutes. The time was 12: 45. Lala kept bothering her telling her that Elektra was at the window, and she asked her to bring Elektra up to the room.

Tonight, the water on the roads might freeze into slick patches of ice. The small and very dated motel office was manned by a bored looking guy who appeared to be at least seventy years old, if not older. His face was lined with deep wrinkles and stained with dark liver spots. His bony hands showed even more spots than his face. Still, he flashed a friendly smile when Leesa and Dominic walked in. Leesa guessed the guy was probably happy to see anyone, whether they were customers or not.

I just drive. No music, No calls and No destination. I drive until the sun disappears, until I can no longer recognize the sign boards, street lights and people. . Then I pull into a cheap roadside motel. The kind of place where criminals hide. Where there is no crime because no body cares as long as you are paying good money to be quiet. The carpet smells like mould. The wallpaper is peeling in the corners. I pay cash. I don’t want to leave any trails. The room is cold.

he said, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel. The 'somewhere' turned out to be a small motel on the outskirts of town, the kind of place that rented rooms by the hour and didn't ask questions as long as you paid in cash. The neon sign flickered weakly in the growing dusk, half the letters burned out so it read "Mo_el" in stuttering pink light. "This is depressing," I said as Ryder paid the desk clerk—a man who looked like he hadn't seen sunlight in years. "It's temporary," Ryder replied, pocketing the room key. "Just until we figure out our next move without reporters following us everywhere we go."

"I mean I didn't ask about the bed situation. I just took the room." "Jace—" "It's Mr. Norman during work hours, Miss Vega." "Mr. Norman," I say through gritted teeth. "Please tell me you at least checked—" "Let's just go see what we're working with." He's already getting out of the car. I follow, grabbing my overnight bag from the backseat. The motel lobby is small and dated, with wood paneling and carpet that's probably older than I am. A tired-looking woman sits behind the desk, barely glancing up as we approach.

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.”

When the sun starts to set, Nash pulls into a single story motel outside of Joshua Tree National Park. “We’re about halfway to the border,” Nash says, hopping off his motorcycle before helping me down. “Best to stay here for the night.” “I don’t have money for a motel,” I say, crossing my arms. If I had my way, we’d just keep going through the night. “Don’t worry about that,” Nash insists. Before I can protest, he saunters into the front office and books us a room with two beds. The clerk gives us each a dented up silver key attached to a giant plastic keychain in the shape of a cactus and tells us that we’re in room 3.

Atlas, I see a motel, the motel sign light which I am sure has seen better days is flicking on and off and it says: ‘Northwood Motel, we also serve free kava! Well, I don’t see a problem, the moment I step into the dim lighted motel, the pale scent of cigarettes, worn-out rug and years old rusted papers hit me so hard, I want to puke; hurriedly I walk over to the receptionist center, a young woman, whom I am very sure is sixteen looks up from her magazine, her expression bored as hell. “What?” She asks grimly. Seriously, do they let anyone work here? I smile. “I am here to rent a room.”