“It’s not working,” my son said, emerging from the adjoining room, “I don’t like it here.”

I sighed, patting the couch. I already knew it was going to be a long night. My son had spent almost three hours pacing in and out of the bedroom, unable to fall asleep. I couldn’t blame him, of course. The implications of the divorce had undoubtedly trickled down far enough, and this was his way of letting me know.

“It’s only for a couple of days,” I said, ruffling his hair, “Then we’ll go to grandma’s.”

He nodded, a forlorn expression on his face, “Is dad going to be at grandma’s too?”

I squeezed his hand in mine, “No. Only us.”

I could see it going round and round in his mind and couldn’t help feeling a pang of guilt. There was no way I could have known my ex-husband was going to turn up on the doorstep of our motel room that morning, of all places! I knew I shouldn’t have let him in. What was supposed to be a simple ‘goodbye’ transformed into yet another row, until he’d had enough and stormed out.

“Tell you what,” I said, trying to keep my inner turmoil under wraps, “How about you go get into bed and I’ll come read you a bedtime story, hm? Whichever one you’d like.”

I perched on the edge of the couch, ready to make good on my end of the deal, but my son’s expression remained shrouded.

“I don’t want to sleep in that room,” he muttered, “I don’t like it there.”

“Why?” I asked, “What’s wrong with it?”

He took a while to answer, his eyes dancing across the small TV screen in the corner of the room, “I think… I think there’s someone in there.”

I stared at him, my skin prickling. How could there be anyone in there? The motel room only had one entrance and we were on the second floor.

“What…what do you mean?” I said, trying my best to keep my voice steady, “Why do you think so?”

He wouldn’t meet my gaze, but I could see his little hands working overtime, molding strange and intricate shapes with his fingers, “I heard someone breathing…”

My stomach lurched. I mean, I knew no one was really in the room. But… but what if someone was? What if my ex-husband had somehow managed to sneak in and was hiding in the bedroom, waiting for us to go to sleep, waiting to take back his son..?

I shook my head free of the thought. Ridiculous.

“Shall we go have a look?” I got up and extended my hand, “Together?”

He seemed hesitant at first, his eyes darting over to the crack in the door and back to the TV, but eventually nodded and slid his hand into mine.

There was nothing in the room. Nothing at all. I left my son standing in the doorway and checked under the bed, in the closet, even behind the curtains, but there was not a single thing amiss.

“See? It’s empty?”

He didn’t seem convinced, “ It won’t work with the lights on and you here, mom…”

Of course, it wouldn’t.

“Well, do you want to sleep in my bed?” I said, kneeling down in front of him, “Or on the couch?”

His face lit up, “On the couch! Can I keep watching TV?”

Well, how could I say no? All it took was twenty minutes of some obscure reality show and my son was completely out of it. I sat next to him, stroking his back and every so often glancing towards his bedroom.

I knew he’d be far more comfortable in bed, but I couldn’t bring myself to carry him there. I mean, of course I knew there was no real danger, but I felt wary of it all the same. What if my son knew something I didn’t?

Tucking him in the best I could, I left him on the couch and got into my own bed. Tomorrow would be better, I told myself. We’d go shopping, watch movies, do anything to take our minds off the events of the past few months. It was finally over. Before we knew it, we’d be on our way to my mother’s house in the neighboring city. We’d be safe there. We’d be ha-

A soft nudge into my back made my blood run cold. I stared up at the ceiling, fear sizzling through my body like electricity. Okay, I thought. Okay, it was only my imagination. A product of my weary mi-

Another nudge. Harder this time.

I shot out of bed, my heart hatching out of my throat. Every cell in my body felt like it was on fire. I flipped on the light switch and inspected the mattress, my stomach churning. What the bloody hell was that?

The mattress looked clean and… well, ordinary. Not a single lump in sight. I inspected the clothes I was wearing as well, wondering if perhaps what I’d felt was a missed tag or loose thread, but found nothing.

After about ten minutes I began feeling better. I mean, I hadn’t slept properly in what - two, three weeks? My sanity was obviously crumbling under all the pressure. Stress-induced hallucinations are a thing, right? Especially in a strange motel room like this. It wasn’t just likely, no, this was to be expected.

But as soon as I turned out the lights and settled down, a soft nudge into the small of my back sent me over the edge again. I grit my teeth and did my best to ignore it, beads of sweat springing out on my temples. It was only a figment of my imagination, only a figment of…

That’s when the mattress started shifting.

It protruded at awkward angles, slowly but surely digging into my back, as whatever was inside attempted to turn over, change positions, or - I didn’t have time to speculate. Slick with sweat, I kicked the covers away and fell to the floor. An overwhelming smell of blood seemed to permeate the room. I retched.

Snapping the light switch on, I grabbed the phone and dialed for the front desk. I wasn’t entirely sure what I was doing. What was I even going to say? Excuse me, there’s something moving in my mattress…? Ridiculous.

“Front desk,” a friendly voice came through the speaker, “How may I help?”

“Yes, hello,” I choked, “Listen, there seems to be an issue with the bedding in our room, could you please send someone up?”

Silence.

“Hello?” I repeated.

The line went dead.

I buried my face in my hands, wondering if I was truly losing my mind. I couldn’t go downstairs and leave my son, but I couldn’t get back into bed either. Oh god, I knew we should have stayed in that three-star hotel down the road. I knew it.

I stared at the mattress, wiping my clammy skin with the hem of my shirt. Imagination or not, I decided, there was no way in hell I was getting back into that bed.

I fell asleep on the couch next to my son instead. Well, perhaps sleep is an overstatement. I tossed and turned for most of the night, unable to stop peeking at the bed, and promising myself that as soon as the sun rose, we’d pack our bags and leave.

Except we didn’t.

I woke up to several uniformed men patrolling the room.

“What the hell..?” I sat up, my son still sleeping soundly in my arms.

“Yeah, the front desk received an anonymous call last night,” one man said to another, “Sent a maid up to check. She said no one answered the door, but the smell was putrid when she got in. Found this.”

He patted the mattress with one hand, before lifting it onto its side. I gasped. A large tear ran down the bottom.

“Same with the bed in the other room,” another officer came out of the room behind us, lugging my son’s mattress, “Bottom is torn to shreds.”

“Find out who the last visitors were,” one of the men was saying into the phone, “Check all the surveillance cameras. I’ll need a copy of the tape.”

I watched them, dumbfounded. What were the police doing in our room? Why did they need to know who the last visitors were? There hadn’t been anyone here, aside from my son and I, and my ex-husband. Had we done anything wrong?

They excavated the mattresses right in front of me, ripping the foam innards away until the room was covered in specks of white dust. The officers never stopped talking, using terms like ‘asphyxiation’ and ‘homicide’, but I barely heard them. All I could focus on were the contents.

My body. And my son’s.

TT