Motel Douche-o

I just spent two nights in the grossest motel I’ve ever seen. It even outdid the hovel where my very cheap bridegroom and I spent our honeymoon, in Brazil, Indiana.
Once in a while my daughter and I take a Dean & Sammy road trip in search of paranormal phenomena, and on the last one we discovered this motel, in Tombstone. (Which is overrated, if you ask me.) We booked there because their website says it’s haunted and, sure enough, the second we entered our room, our hair stood on end.
At least 100 years’ worth of grime peered menacingly from the shadows. The lamps dimmed and flickered erratically, so the main light source was an inch of open air all around the window air conditioner. We forgot our EMF meter (yuk yuk), but there were no cold spots: The whole place was a freezer, because the frigid night air oozed right in. The threadbare blankets, which probably once belonged to Wyatt Earp’s horse and which I wouldn’t have touched if I didn’t have to stave off hypothermia, didn’t even try to keep us warm.
Coffeepot? Internet? Cute little bars of soap? Don’t make me laugh.
The worst was the bathroom, which was the size of a coffin and obviously hadn’t been painted or scrubbed out since Doc Holliday bought the farm. The shower was–a wooden box. A dirty, splintery, wooden box with a feeble shower head suspended over it. I believe Wyatt washed his horse in it.
It at least showed signs of recent un-ghostly occupancy, though: There was an adhesive strip from a sanitary napkin in it. Somehow I can’t see that belonging to the Earps OR their horses.
The final otherworldly manifestation was the note on the dresser saying the maids worked very hard keeping the rooms clean and to please leave a nice tip.
Y’all want a tip? Finish your business and cross over.
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