The Glass-Door Chant

Our journey had been a pilgrimage of sorts, a last-minute decision to visit an old friend in the highlands of Vermont, far from the neon glow of the city. The miles of winding roads had taken their toll, and as dusk bled into night, we sought refuge in a roadside inn that looked like it had been frozen in time since the 1970s. The sign, creaking in the wind, read ‘The Pines Motel’ in peeling gold letters. The air inside was thick with the smell of stale cigarette smoke and dust, and the owner, a gaunt man with yellowed eyes, handed us a key without a word, his gaze lingering a moment too long on my daughter, Elara.

Our room was at the far end of the corridor, number 13. As the door swung open, a wave of cold air hit us, raising goosebumps on my arms. Elara, always sensitive to such shifts, began a dry, hacking cough almost immediately. I dismissed it as the mustiness of the place, but the chill seemed to cling to my skin like a wet shroud. The room was stiflingly dated—a floral bedspread, a tube TV, and a bathroom with one of those translucent, frosted glass doors that offered only a vague, distorted view of the inside. The light buzzed, and the radiator clanked as if it were alive.

That night, I tucked Elara into bed, her forehead feeling unnaturally warm despite the cold in the room. She tossed and turned, her cough punctuating the silence, and I drifted into a restless sleep. In my dream, I was in the bathroom with Elara, huddled together on the cold tile floor. The frosted glass door seemed to be the only barrier between us and a shadowy figure on the other side. It moved with an unnatural fluidity, a grotesque silhouette that shimmered like heat haze. Then, it pressed its face against the glass—a girl with hollow eyes and a mouth moving in silent incantations. The words were not of this world; they slithered into my ears with a hiss, and I felt a pressure building in my temples. She raised a thin arm, and her finger traced the outline of a key on the glass. The handle began to turn slowly, and I screamed.

I woke with a start, my heart hammering against my ribs. I fumbled for the lamp, and harsh yellow light flooded the room. The bathroom door was closed, and the bathroom was empty. Elara was asleep, her breathing shallow, but her forehead was burning. I stayed awake the rest of the night, listening to the sounds of the old building settling, and the occasional faint whisper that seemed to come from the vents. At dawn, we checked out as quickly as we could, and as we stepped outside, the fresh morning air hit us, and Elara’s cough eased.

It wasn’t until we were miles away that I noticed the small, rusted key on the floor of the car, under Elara’s seat. It was old, tarnished, and bore the number 13. I threw it out of the window, but I know we were not done with it. The glass door of the motel room has haunted my dreams ever since, and sometimes, when the night is quiet, I can still hear that chant, faint and insistent, calling me back to the Pines.