The Man in the Sepia Suit

Two summers ago, my father managed the Cedar Ridge Motor Lodge, a tired, two-story relic that clung to the edge of a forgotten highway. He brought my two younger brothers and me along, promising a weekend of poolside laziness. The place was a dying breed, with a flickering neon sign, a cracked concrete pool, and a lobby that smelled of stale coffee and bleach. Dad had a new job there, and he thought we’d enjoy the break from our cramped apartment.

After a long, sun-scorched afternoon of cannonballs and Marco Polo, we gathered our towels and headed back to our room, our skin pricked with goosebumps from the air conditioning. As we passed the staff corridor, Dad stopped. He pushed open the door to the janitor’s closet, a narrow, windowless space lined with shelves of cleaning supplies and mops. ‘You know,’ he said, his voice low, ‘a few nights ago, I came down here to grab a bucket, and I swear I saw a pair of eyes glowing in the dark, right at the back of this closet.’ He flicked on the single overhead bulb, illuminating nothing but shadows and dust. We laughed it off, told him he was seeing things. But he was serious, his face a mask of unease. ‘No, I saw them. Little yellow lights, like a cat’s, but they were too high up.’ He shut the door, and I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the AC.

Later, just past nine, we were lying on our beds, half-asleep, when we heard the crunch of gravel outside. Through the sheer curtains, we saw a small black sedan pull into the parking lot. ‘It’s Mom!’ I shouted, and we all jumped up, scrambling to the door. We were supposed to leave early the next morning, and we didn’t want her to make us pack up right away. We bolted out of our room, racing down the long, dimly lit hallway that connected the wings of the motel. My brothers were faster, but they slowed halfway, maybe because they were out of breath, maybe because something stopped them. They turned back to shout at me, but I kept running, a sudden, inexplicable determination to reach the lobby.

I skidded to a stop just before the lobby doors, panting. The hallway was empty, but I felt a presence. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flicker of movement. I turned slowly, and my blood went cold. There, standing in the middle of the corridor, was a man. He was tall, unnaturally straight, with slicked-back blond hair and a pale, smooth face. He wore a red shirt with a stiff collar and beige trousers, both pressed and old-fashioned, like something from a 1950s photograph. His clothes were immaculate, not a wrinkle, not a speck of dust, as if he had stepped out of a time capsule. He stood perfectly still, his eyes fixed on me. I couldn’t move my legs. I couldn’t breathe. He didn’t blink.

For what felt like an eternity, we stood frozen, locked in that silent tableau. Then, he smiled. It was not a warm smile, but a slow, deliberate spreading of his lips, revealing perfectly white teeth, too perfect, as if they never touched food. He raised a hand, beckoning me closer, with a single finger. My body was not my own. I took a step, then another, my heart hammering against my ribs. The hallway lights flickered. I heard my mother’s voice from far away, calling my name, but it was like hearing it through a thick wall. The man’s smile grew wider, and his eyes seemed to glow, faintly, a sickly yellow.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed my shoulder and yanked me backward. My father, panting, his face a mask of panic, pulled me into our room and slammed the door. ‘What were you doing?’ he hissed. ‘Don’t ever go down that hallway alone again.’ I tried to explain, to tell him about the man, but my voice was stuck in my throat. My brothers, wide-eyed, huddled on the bed, insisting they saw nothing. But I knew what I had seen. That man, with his antique clothes and his hollow smile, was not a guest. He was something older.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, replaying the image. Just before dawn, I crept to the window. In the parking lot, the same black sedan was parked, but it was empty. The next morning, as we packed the car, I glanced toward the janitor’s closet. The door was ajar. Through the crack, I saw two faint yellow lights floating in the darkness, just like Dad had described. They stared at me, unblinking, until my father slammed the trunk and called my name, breaking the spell. As we drove away, I watched the motel shrink in the rearview mirror, and I swear, in the window of our old room, I saw the man, standing there, watching us leave. He raised his hand, not to wave, but to beckon, one slow finger, inviting me back.