Vorakov Motel (Part 1)

Elsa Fox had perfected the art of talking to a lens as though it were an old friend.
She leaned toward her camera, elbows on the desk, chin on the backs of her hands, her long blonde hair falling like a curtain toward the keyboard. The ring light painted her face in soft white, erasing the shadowy corners of the cramped apartment behind her.

"Okay," she said, eyes narrowing at the live chat. "You guys think you're clever, right? You think you can come up with something I won't do?"
Her smile curled, the one her subscribers had learned to expect before she did something reckless. "Let's find out. Comment. Go nuts. Give me your most impossible challenge."

The chat box exploded on her second monitor, a scrolling blur of usernames, emojis, and dares. Elsa read a few aloud, snorting at some, rolling her eyes at others.
"Skydive into a volcano—yeah, right."
"Eat twenty ghost peppers—not after the chili incident."
"Sleep in a morgue—hard pass."
The messages flew faster than she could read, the counter in the corner ticking upward past 50,000 comments.

Then she noticed a pattern. A cluster of usernames, unconnected but strangely insistent, repeating the same idea: stay overnight in a haunted place.
She leaned closer, brow raised. "You guys are boring. Haunted houses? Really?"
But the suggestions became oddly specific.

An abandoned hospital.
The Red House on Birch Lane.
And then, one name stood out.

PurpleShell1991: If you're serious, there's a place in Vorakov. Vorakov Motel. One night there and you'll never livestream again.

The chat caught fire with the name—dozens of new messages repeating it, as though the room had suddenly agreed.
Vorakov Motel. Vorakov Motel. Vorakov Motel.

Elsa tilted her head. "Vorakov? Where is that? Never heard of it."
She opened a new tab, typing quickly. The search returned almost nothing—a stub of a Wikipedia entry about a rural village with fewer than thirty residents. No tourism photos. No articles. No official site for the motel.
The only image she found was a blurry street view from years ago: a squat, weather-stained building with shuttered windows.

"That's... creepy," she murmured, and the chat loved it.
They spammed dare emojis, ghost GIFs, and bets on how long she'd last.
"You're all insane," she laughed. "But fine. One night. I'll even do it live."

Her fingers flew, a booking form appearing on screen: Room 213. Payment required in advance. Non-refundable. She hesitated, then shrugged. "Guess I'm going to Vorakov," she told the camera, hitting the 'Confirm' button.

The confirmation blinked onscreen: We look forward to your stay. Please arrive before sundown.

The road to Vorakov narrowed until it was barely wider than Elsa's rented hatchback. The GPS signal had dropped miles ago. Her phone screen showed only a frozen blue arrow and a blank map.

The village of Vorakov emerged without warning. No welcome sign, no gas station. Just a scattering of sagging houses with roofs hunched like old men, shrouded in a thin layer of mist.
Elsa slowed the car, holding up her phone to film.
"This is it, guys. Vorakov. Population... what, twenty? Thirty?" she narrated. "Feels like I drove into a postcard nobody wanted to send."

People were out, but they didn't wave.
A woman carrying a basket of laundry turned away, covering her face with the edge of her shawl.
Two boys playing near a fence dropped their ball and darted inside when Elsa's camera lens swung toward them.

The motel stood at the far end of the main street, a low, rectangular building of pale brick streaked dark by rain. The sign above the entrance read VORAKOV MOTEL in faded gold paint, the letters peeling.
Elsa parked and stepped out, her boots crunching on the gravel lot.

Inside, the air was warmer but carried the faint smell of something—metallic, maybe?—beneath the scent of floor polish. The lobby was small, dimly lit, and entirely empty except for a desk with a bell and a single framed painting of a dark forest.

A woman appeared soundlessly from a back door, her hair in a tight bun, her face expressionless.
"You must be Miss Fox," she said. Her voice was polite, but each letter felt carefully weighed. "I'm Ms. J., the manager. Room 213. Follow me."

They passed a dining room with neatly set tables and a door that swung briefly to reveal a kitchen. Elsa caught a glimpse of a man in a chef's coat—tall, broad-shouldered, staring straight at her until the door shut again.
In the hallway, another man in a dark suit stood waiting with gloved hands folded: the butler, Ms. J. introduced him as Harvy. He inclined his head slightly but did not speak.

Room 213's door opened with a reluctant groan.
The room itself was old but spotless—fresh linens on the bed, polished wooden furniture that gleamed as though oiled daily. Elsa swept her camera across it for her viewers.
"See? Not creepy at all. You guys hyped this place way too much."

The manager set her key on the dresser.
"Dinner is at seven. We prefer guests remain indoors after dark."
Before Elsa could respond, the woman and the butler had already gone, closing the door behind them.

She sat on the bed, scrolling through the chat. Comments alternated between teasing her and begging her to get out while she could. She laughed, brushed it off. Outside, the sun was slipping toward the horizon, and the hallway beyond her door was utterly silent.

By seven, the sky outside Room 213 had deepened to a bruised violet.
Elsa sat in the dining room alone; the only sound was the muffled clink of cutlery from the kitchen. Mr. Joseph, the chef, emerged with a plate of thick stew, bread, and a side of something she didn't recognize. He didn't speak, just placed it in front of her and waited until she picked up her spoon before turning away.

Her viewers were restless.

That guy's eyes >>> nightmare fuel.
Why's no one else eating??
Stew looks... redder than usual.

Elsa chuckled, shook her head. "You guys need to stop watching horror movies."

After dinner, she wandered back to her room, streaming the walk. The hallway smelled faintly of lavender polish, and the carpet muffled her steps. Room 213 was just as she'd left it, though her backpack now sat a little further from the bed than before.
She told herself she must have kicked it earlier.

She set the phone up on her small tripod by the nightstand.
"Alright, I'm leaving you guys on all night. You get the exclusive Elsa Fox sleep-cam. If I snore, you clip it—you hear me?"
A flood of laughing emojis scrolled by.

The lights went out. The only light came from the faint glow of the streaming phone. Elsa lay on her side, her breathing steadying, her features softening into sleep.

It was nearly an hour later when a creaking sound came.
Not loud. Just enough to make the mic pick it up. A slow, deliberate groan of wood.

did u hear that??
under the bed! check under the bed!
this is all scripted lol

Elsa didn't move.

Another sound followed: the faint click of something metallic, as though a switch had been touched. The stream chat exploded with warnings.

And then—there it was.
A shadow stretched along the floor, impossibly tall, bending at angles that didn't match any human frame. It drifted toward the bed, paused near her head for the length of three breaths, then seemed to dissolve into the darkness.

NO NO NO
OMG replay that
look behind her pillow!!

But Elsa didn't stir. She remained asleep, unaware that tens of thousands of strangers had just watched something they couldn't quite name.

By morning, light seeped through the curtains. Elsa sat up, yawning, and reached for her phone. The comments flew past too quickly to read fully, but she caught phrases—"shadow figure," "cupboard," "seriously get out."
She rolled her eyes. "You guys will do anything to scare me," she muttered.

She shut off the stream, dressed, and headed to breakfast.

The dining room was colder than the rest of the motel, which she already noticed last night. A long table stretched the length of the space, set with mismatched porcelain cups and dull silverware that looked older than the building itself.

Mr. Joseph, the chef, appeared from the kitchen without a sound.

"Good morning, Miss Fox," he said, placing a plate in front of her. It was a simple breakfast: eggs, toast, and something that looked like sausage, but the smell was... off. Metallic.

She tried a bite of toast instead. It was crisp, almost too crisp, as if it had been toasted hours earlier and reheated. But the eggs were fine. The sausage, however, was ice-cold in the center.

Mr. Joseph stood at the end of the table, watching her chew.

"Everything to your liking?"
The question was mild enough, but the way he asked it—soft, slow, savoring the words—made her throat tighten.

She set the fork down. "Yeah, it's fine. Just not very hungry this morning."

He nodded once but didn't move. She realized his hands were clenched behind his back, knuckles bone-white.

Trying to break the tension, she asked, "You've been here long?"

A flicker of something—pride? suspicion?—passed over his face. "Long enough to know that guests sometimes... don't appreciate what's made for them."

Elsa decided then she'd take her lunch somewhere else. Anywhere else.

When she finished her coffee and stood to leave, she caught him still watching her, head tilted, as if measuring her for something she couldn't name.

On her way out, she stopped at the reception desk and said to Ms. J., "If it's alright, I'd rather have lunch in the dining room later. Around one?"

The manager didn't look up from her ledger. "Of course," she said flatly, as if the request barely registered. Although Elsa noticed the pen pause, just for a second, over the paper.

After breakfast, Elsa decided to get some daylight footage. She clipped her collar mic in place, checked her phone battery, and stepped out into Vorakov.

The air was sharp and cold, scented faintly of damp earth and smoke. The village looked like it belonged in the 19th century—muddy lanes, houses with leaning chimneys, sagging fences patched with wire. Chickens picked at the ground, their owners nowhere in sight.

Elsa waved at a woman hanging laundry. "Hi, I'm Elsa Fox—just wondering if I could ask you a few questions for my channel?"
The woman froze mid-peg, shook her head without meeting Elsa's eyes, and turned her back.

The next few attempts were the same. People covered their faces, ducked inside, muttered in voices too low for the mic to catch.

Her viewers were typing furiously:

They're avoiding you.
This is creepy af.
Find someone who is not afraid of us!

She did.
An old man with a crooked cane stood by the edge of the lane, staring at her as though he'd been waiting. His coat was too thin for the weather, his eyes watery but unblinking.

"You're staying at the motel," he said—not asked. His voice was oddly formal, each word precise.
"Yes, room two-thirteen. Just for one night. Why?" she asked, half-smiling for the camera.
The man's jaw tightened. "You'd do well to keep to your room tonight."
Elsa laughed nervously. "Why? Are there wolves or something?"
He didn't answer—just turned and walked away, his cane striking the frozen ground in measured beats.

By the time she returned to the motel, her stream chat was a mix of jokes and frantic warnings.

He's telling you to stay in because it's not safe.
Maybe they have like... night bandits??
or ninja vampires lol

She went back to the motel.