West Virginia author: no, it's not like Wrong Turn, until it's exactly like Wrong Turn.
William's works include the psychological horror novel "The Man Behind the Door" and the supernatural horror novel "The Devil Within Us All," William takes inspiration from his own experiences to craft novels that tackle the horrors and demons of real life.
His debut, The Man Behind the Door, tackles grief, trauma, and addiction through the lens of a ghost story and explores generational trauma. It was acclaimed for its compassionate tone, handling of the difficult subject matter, and multiple storylines that come together in the end.
He currently works full-time as a pharmacy technician at an independent pharmacy while raising son and daughter with his wife. In his free time, he enjoys outings with his family, reading, and playing music.
Read more and connect with William HERE.
THE GUY IN ROOM 6
by
William Gray
Greg had a bad feeling about the guy in Room 6.
Not that he usually had a good feeling about anyone that checked in during his shift at the Glory Inn, affectionately called The Glory-Hole Inn by most of his friends. Anyone who needed a room between the hours of ten at night and six in the morning either did something they shouldn’t have, were actively doing something they shouldn’t be, or simply having the worst day of their life. Sometimes it was the first one; more often it was the middle option; rarely was it the last thing.
Looking at the clock in the dirty lobby, Greg saw that it was only just past midnight. He still had almost six hours to sit behind the counter.
Just take off. No one will know.
That part was probably true. There was no surveillance equipment in the lobby—not any that actually worked, anyway. The little black dome hanging over his head was quite clearly fake, and not fooling anyone. The only way someone would know he left was if they needed something.
Like the weirdo in Room 6.
Everything about the man sent warning bells flying through Greg’s mind. His slouched, almost defeated posture stood in stark contrast to the confidence in his eyes. The large, black rimmed glasses he wore were more The Zodiac Killer than academic. Even his non-descript, logo-free clothes were worrisome to Greg.
“You’ve watched one too many scary movies, Greggy-boy,” he said to himself as he looked at the small black and white TV situated on the counter. Halloween III: Season of the Witch played quietly as he picked up a bag of M&Ms and dropped the last few in his mouth. “Getting to your head.”
That was also probably true. But there was something off about the guy in Room 6, and that was definitely true.
Crumpling up his trash, Greg threw it in the can at his feet. The sense of uneasiness shifted to irritation as he picked up his can of soda only to find it almost empty.
“Damn it,” Greg muttered. He leaned forward over the counter and looked through the window at the front of the lobby. Two vending machines sat in an alcove under a flickering yellow light near the end of the building. Walking the thirty or so yards to the machines every so often was the worst part of the job.
The chair creaked as he stood up. Checking his pocket, he verified he still had the change he’d put there. It was more than enough for the rest of his work week, but he was always afraid he would forget it at home. The idea of sitting through an eight-hour overnight shift without snacks was unbearable.
His fingers touched the rotary phone on the counter as he walked around to the front of the lobby. Usually, Greg didn’t put too much stock in technology and the future, but he couldn’t help but think how much of a comfort it would be to have a phone in his pocket as he walked across the dark lot.
The squeak of the hinges was louder than the bell over the door as he stepped out into the chilly night. The parking lot of The Glory (Hole, he thought with a laugh) Inn was bathed in shadow as he made his way toward the machines. The various lights affixed to the building were mostly out, something that management did not seem to be worried about.
Greg’s breath puffed out in front of him as he reached the machines. Placing the coins in the slot, he pressed the button for a can of Coke without thinking. The familiar whir of the vending machine filled the quiet night, followed by the commotion of a falling can. He retrieved it and moved on to the next machine. Here, he took his time. The company had just been by to restock, so he had all the options available to him.
After a few moments, he clicked two buttons: E and 10. Greg shivered as he watched the coil move, pushing a bag of Funyuns to the front. When it finally dropped and caught on the lip near the drop-box, he laughed in amazement.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Greg grabbed both sides of the machine and tried to shake it to no avail. The bag remained stuck where it was. Turning to violence, he hit the side as hard as he could, then kicked it. Still, the Funyuns didn’t move.
Sighing, he knelt down and slid his hand into the slot. The angle immediately hurt his arm and his wrist as he tried to reach the bag. He could see his fingers through the glass, mere centimeters from the bag. Just a little bit further…
Lowering his body, his fingers brushed the bag. It was barely any contact, but it was enough—the bag fell into the drop-box.
Then the tire iron collided with his skull.
Mathias Sawyer felt like he was having an out of body experience. Pushing his big glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose, he dragged the body of the front clerk to the back of his Impala. His breath was ragged as he licked his lips and thought about the way the man’s head had caved in upon impact.
His breath fogged up his glasses, but Mathias could still see the bloody spider-web cracks in the glass of the vending machine. When the man’s head had bounced forward into it with a satisfying crunch, he’d giggled with glee.
As he lifted the clerk into the open trunk, the sound of change hitting the ground filled the night. A quick glance revealed about two dozen coins scattered around the asphalt. After reaching down and picking up the change, Mathias spotted his name tag..
“Sorry, Greg,” he said, pocketing the change. Not that he meant it. It was Halloween, after all—and there was more killing to do.