The Night Runner

I work the night audit at the Desert Mirage Motel, a faded two-story horseshoe of a place on the edge of a dying Arizona town. The job is easy: check in the occasional late traveler, keep the books, and make sure the soda machine doesn’t eat quarters. When I started, they warned me about the dead, but they were talking about the rattlesnakes. They didn’t say nothing about the runner.

The runner is what my predecessor, old Tom, used to call him. I only knew Tom for three shifts before he had a stroke at the front desk. He told me stories, but I figured he was senile. He said that every night at exactly 1:33 AM, a man would sprint through the parking lot, from the fence line on the east side to the fence line on the west, never missing a beat, never looking back. Tom said he’d been doing it since the motel was built in the seventies, and that he was not a ghost but a memory that wouldn’t die.

I laughed it off. I’ve worked graveyard shifts all over, and I’ve heard every kind of ghost story. But after a week of silence, I started to watch the clock. 1:33 AM. I was pouring myself a cup of burnt coffee when a blur of white flashed past the window. I dropped the pot, coffee splashing across my shoes. I rushed to the door and looked out, but the lot was empty. Still, I saw the dust settle in the beam of the one working floodlight, like something had just run through.

The next night, I had the camera ready. At 1:33, I watched the feed. A man in a white, old-fashioned running suit, like something from a track meet in the 1970s, sprinted across the lot. His face was gaunt, and his movements were jerky, unnatural, like a film reel running too fast. He ran from one end to the other, and just before he reached the fence, he vanished. I rewound the tape, played it back, and I got a chilling look at his face. It was Tom.

I told my manager, a rotund man named Sam who only came in during the day, and he just laughed. He said, ‘Oh, that’s just the night runner. Old Mrs. Delgado, who lived in unit 12 for thirty years, she says he’s the ghost of a kid who died here in ’74, just before the motel changed owners. He was a runner, training for the Olympics, but he got hit by a car in the parking lot. They say he never stopped running.’

I wasn’t convinced. The runner looked like Tom, and Tom had only died two months ago. But Sam insisted, and he showed me an old black-and-white photo in the lobby of the motel’s grand opening. In the background, there was a lanky teenager in a running suit, but the face was blurry. Still, it was the same outfit.

The next night, I decided to confront him. I stood in the parking lot, just past the pool, waiting. At 1:33 AM, I felt a cold wind, and the hair on my arms stood up. I heard footsteps, but they were disjointed, like a broken drumbeat. And then he appeared, sprinting straight at me. I froze. He didn’t slow. He passed through me, and I felt a cold, violent shaking, like my bones were being rattled. I turned and watched him reach the fence, and just before he vanished, he looked over his shoulder. And his face was my own.

I didn’t sleep for days. I called my sister, told her I was coming home. But that night, I had a dream. I was in the parking lot, wearing the white suit. My legs were pumping, but I wasn’t moving. In front of me, the runner was standing, and he spoke, but his lips didn’t move. ‘You’re on the schedule now. You have to run, or you have to take the walk.’ I didn’t know what that meant. He pointed to the fence. On the other side of it, in the desert, I saw a row of grave markers, and my name was on the closest one.

I came to work the next night, ready to quit. Sam was at the desk, which was odd. He never worked nights. He looked at me, and said, ‘Heard about the runner.’ I nodded. He said, ‘You know the story better now. In ’74, it was a kid named Jose. He was running the lot for a bet. A car came out of nowhere, hit him. The driver, a salesman, panicked, dragged him into the desert, buried him under a palo verde. But Jose’s spirit stayed, and he ran. He needed someone to take over, so he could rest. For years, he tried to get Tom to see him, but Tom wouldn’t. Finally, Tom had a stroke, and Jose tricked him. Now Tom runs, and Jose rests. But Tom, he’s a stubborn old coot. He wants out. So he’s showing you. If you don’t take over tonight, he’ll take you with him in his final sprint.’

I stared at him. ‘This is insane.’ Sam shrugged. ‘I’ve been here forty years. I’ve seen things. But you have a choice. You can walk away now, go start your car, and never come back. But if you set foot on this property again, you’re a runner. And he’ll make you run every night until you find a replacement. Or you can stay, take the shift, and I’ll help you find a newbie, like I did Tom.’

I didn’t believe him. I left. I drove down the highway, shaking. I pulled over at a gas station a mile away, bought a pack of cigarettes, even though I quit years ago. I sat in my car, trying to steady my breath. And then I saw a white blur in the rearview mirror. It was the runner, Tom, standing at the edge of the station’s lot. I blinked, and he was gone. I looked at the clock. 1:33 AM. I saw him again, closer, sprinting down the road toward me. I started my car, but it stalled. He was almost there, his face contorted with desperation. I managed to get the engine running and sped off. In the mirror, he was right behind me, then he vanished.

I kept driving. I never went back to that motel. But every night, at 1:33 AM, I feel a phantom wind, and I see a white figure in the corner of my eye. And last night, my alarm went off at 1:33, even though I never set it. When I woke, my running shoes were on the floor, soaked with sweat, and there was dust on them. I checked my phone. There was a voice message from an unknown number. It was static, but I could make out a whisper: ‘Tom says hi. He’s still running.’

I moved again, to a town two states over. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched, timed. And every time I see a track or a stadium, I feel an itch in my legs. I think the runner is looking for a new partner. And I’m starting to think I might be the only one left to help him rest.