Psycho night.

We're in a motel that used to be a hospital. It still smells like one. The only people we've seen, since checking in more than 6 hours ago, are the owners, and the cleaning lady who's working late. They were full over the weekend she says, but I think we may be the only earthly souls here tonight.

We had leftover curry for dinner in the kitchen.

Followed by a slice of homemade pie from under that cloche in the picture. No one else dropped by.

While we were eating, I saw an old lady walk into one of the rooms. Cushion didn't and there's been no sound or sight of her since. I'm sure I saw her. She must just be very quiet.

It's not even 8pm.

David Bowie is playing. Before him, Dean Martin.

Down the corridor, I can hear the telly in our room and Cushion coughing. From somewhere further away, a tumble dryer. There is no other sound.

I'm typing on this couch.

Wondering about the people who used to stay in these rooms and shuffle along these hallways.

 I don't want to use the D word, but I'm thinking it. 

Even the cat on the wall looks nervous.