The Salt Flats Motel

In the autumn of 1975, when I was barely five years old, my family became lost in the vast, unbroken expanse of Nevada. We had left my great-aunt’s house in Modesto later than planned, and my father, against my mother’s advice, took a shortcut suggested by a drunken mechanic at a gas station. The road was little more than two tire tracks across a dried-up lake bed, and the sun was already dipping towards the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and oranges.

My mother’s voice was taut as she clutched the dashboard. ‘Walter, we haven’t seen a sign in over an hour. This isn’t a road, it’s a scar.’ My father, jaw clenched, stared at the endless white expanse ahead. ‘He said it cuts forty miles off, Martha. Just trust me.’ The car, a rusty Ford Fairlane, groaned as it hit a deep rut. My sister, Clara, who was eight, began to cry softly. My stomach ached with hunger, and the warm, dusty air through the open windows made me feel drowsy, but I was too anxious to sleep.

Just as the last light was fading, a cluster of lights appeared on the horizon. It was a town, or what passed for one: a motel with a flickering neon sign that read ‘Salt Flats Motel,’ a gas station with a single pump, a diner called ‘The Rusty Spur,’ and a few sagging trailers scattered like discarded dice. My father sighed with relief. ‘See? I told you.’ My mother didn’t answer, just stared at the motel with an expression I couldn’t read.

We pulled into the motel’s gravel lot. The office was a small room with a counter and a bell. A man emerged from behind a curtain. He was thin, with hair the color of dead grass and eyes that seemed to look through us. ‘Evenin’,’ he drawled, his voice like gravel. ‘Need a room?’ My father nodded. ‘Just for the night. We got lost.’ The man’s lips twitched. ‘Happens a lot. Got a vacancy, number seven. End of the row.’ He handed over a key with a metal tag. ‘Diner’s closed, but there’s a vending machine out back. Help yourself.’

We drove to the room. It was musty, with peeling wallpaper and a bed that sagged. My parents put Clara and me on one bed, and they took the other. I couldn’t sleep. The window was open, and through the screen, I could hear a humming, a low drone that seemed to come from the ground itself. I got up and pressed my face to the screen. The moon was up, casting a pale light on the salt flats that stretched endlessly. In the distance, I saw a silhouette—tall, thin, with arms too long, and it was walking towards the motel. It moved with a strange, jerky gait, like a broken puppet. I wanted to cry out, but my throat was frozen.

The doors on either side of our room were all shut. But as the figure approached, I saw it stop at the door of the first trailer, not the motel. It stood there for a moment, and then it simply faded, like mist. I blinked, and it was gone. I told myself it was a trick of the moonlight.

The next morning, my father decided we should have breakfast at the diner before leaving. We were the only customers. The waitress was a plump woman with a tight bun, but her smile did not reach her eyes. As she poured coffee, my father asked, ‘What is that humming noise?’ The waitress paused. ‘Oh, that’s just the salt crystals. They hum when they grew.’ She laughed, but it was forced. ‘Don’t mind it, hon.’

As we ate, I noticed a man sitting in a corner booth, his back to us. He was wearing a long coat, even though it was warm. He didn’t touch his food. He just sat there, perfectly still. When I looked at him, I saw he had no reflection in the window. I tugged my mother’s sleeve. ‘Mommy, why doesn’t that man have a reflection?’ Her smile froze. ‘Don’t point, dear. It’s rude.’ But I saw her eyes dart to the window, and her hand trembled as she set down her fork.

We checked out, and as we drove away, I looked back at the motel. The thin man was standing in the office doorway, watching us. At the edge of the town, we passed a sign that read ‘Salt Flats: Population 12.’ But I counted the trailers—there were six, and the motel had seven rooms. Even if each trailer held a family, that was more than twelve. And the man in the corner booth was gone.

The humming followed us for miles, even after the town was out of sight. It was in my bones. I pressed my hands to my ears, but it wouldn’t stop. My parents were arguing again. ‘We should have gone the other way,’ my mother said. ‘This is what you get for trusting a gimpy mechanic.’

We soon realized we had taken another wrong turn. The road we were on was even more desolate. We passed a dead tree, and on its branches hung wind chimes made of animal bones and old keys. The humming grew louder. Then, up ahead, I saw a figure standing in the middle of the road. It was the thin man from the motel, wearing the same long coat. My father slammed on the brakes. The car skidded to a stop just feet from him. He didn’t move. He just stared at us through the windshield, his eyes black, like voids.

My father rolled down his window. ‘Hey, are you okay? We almost hit you.’ The thin man spoke in that gravelly voice. ‘You shouldn’t have left without your receipt.’ My father frowned. ‘Receipt? We paid cash.’ The man tilted his head. ‘You paid with something else. The girl. She’s not yours.’ My blood ran cold. Clara was adopted, but how could he know?

My mother screamed. ‘Drive, Walter! Drive!’ My father floored the gas. The car lurched forward, but the thin man didn’t move. We passed right through him. I felt a cold, icy jolt pass through my body, and I fainted.

When I woke, we were stationary. It was night again. The car was parked in front of the same motel. ‘No,’ I whimpered. ‘No, no, no.’ My parents were in the front, frozen, their faces blank, staring ahead. I shook my mother. ‘Mommy?’ She didn’t respond. Clara was beside me, hugging her knees, whispering, ‘He wants to play, he wants to play.’ I looked out the window. The motel was different. The sign read ‘Salt Flats Motel,’ but the letters were all backwards. The gas station was gone. The diner was gone. Only the one motel, and next to it, the trailer with the door open.

The thin man appeared at my window. He smiled, revealing teeth like needles. ‘You’re home now,’ he said. ‘We’ve been waiting for a new family.’

I don’t know how long we stayed. Time lost meaning. We did what they wanted. We ate their food, which tasted like ash. We watched the other families—the ones already there, hollow-eyed, sitting in rows in front of a static-filled TV. The humming was everywhere. It was in the walls, in the floor, in my sleep. I learned to never look at the windows, because sometimes there were faces, pressed against the glass, screaming silently.

But children are adaptable. I learned the rules. I learned that when the thin man sang, we listened. I learned that the salt flats outside weren’t white, but bone-colored. I learned that the humming was the sound of souls being ground down.

Years later, I managed to escape. I ran out during a dust storm, when everyone was distracted. I ran until I found a highway, and a trucker picked me up. He asked my name, and I said, ‘My name is Ben.’ He asked where I was from, and I couldn’t answer. Because I wasn’t from anywhere anymore.

To this day, I can’t drive through Nevada. Even the memory of that humming makes my hands sweat. Sometimes, in the stillness of the night, I hear it again—a low drone, rising from the earth, calling me back. And I know, one day, the salt flats will claim me, and I’ll become one of the families, sitting in front of that static TV, waiting for the next lost traveler to take my place.