Tuesday

A cotton headband commonly worn by motel attendants. Soft in texture and slightly faded from multiple washes.

"The motel owner's daughter" is a more convenient title than "the motel owner." She uses demureness and conformity to cover up and amplify the horror. This is something she has come to master.

Hair styled like clouds, adorned with an awe-inspiring lotus, though the coiled silver snake deters many from starting a conversation.

When asked why the lotus throne hides a transforming snake, the interviewee smiled and whispered, "Hush, don't tell—it's something you shouldn't have seen."

A blue tear, frozen at the corner of the interviewee's eye.

In the silence of her downcast gaze, the writer lets go of the urge to ask what pigment gives this blue its shade. Even if ultramarine is no longer precious, a mother's tears are worth their weight in gold.

A jingling set of keys, no different from the ones at the waist of every motel owner.

She has memorized each key and its corresponding door in the motel, like a mother knows her own children, or perhaps even better. Sometimes, the keyholes would change position or shape, almost as if a child is playing a prank. But that won't be a problem for the mother.

Jade and silver beads form a shimmering web that sways with every step and passing breeze. It gathers the worldly loves and hates of each believer, as well as their briefest glimpses of fear.

A headscarf that should be soft and white, adorned instead with sharp, black thorns—their lines like the marks left by a lash.

Its maker believes a mother should teach her children the shape of thorns early, even if it might prick their fingers.

Wrapped snugly in a white cotton cloth, it is silent most of the time, except for the occasional wiggle or cry.

Raising this "baby" is easy for her; she gives it all the love and affection it needs. There's no doubt that she's a qualified mother—the interviewee claims, smiling.

A jade-green vial brimming with life, with lush willow branches and nectar sweet as honey. "Why mind the trivial details of appearances? For now, just savor its sweetness," the interviewee urged. "Come, don't be afraid, it's well-behaved."

A bundle, gently soothed without end. The key resting on it trembles with each touch. "It really is a good child—insisting on keeping my key safe in its own way."

A mother always accepts her child's kindness, and the interviewee is no exception.

It has always existed.

From the haunted stables and outhouses of the Middle Ages to the ghost-plagued castles of Gothic literature, it constantly changed forms, waiting for more visitors—more nourishment. A ship then carried it across the ocean to the flourishing New World.

In this land, there was never a shortage of legends, both old and new. It became an abandoned manor or a cabin in the woods, joyfully devouring every visitor from the wilderness, along with their screams and cries.

The 20th century ushered in a new wave of stories. No one knew exactly where they came from—a friend of a friend, a transfer student, local oddities in the corners of newspaper. Their themes vary from cars, ovens, videotapes, sewers to cities and the impending new millennium. These tales gained their own names in modern culture: urban legends. In them, it sensed something familiar—the taste of fear and the need for fear.

And so, It quietly laid its foundations in the dim morning light, growing a simple wooden porch and a flickering sign, laying down its creaking stairs. At dawn, drivers on Route 77 suddenly noticed a motel that was a little out of date.

Now the motel needed a manager, of course.

16th Edition: Marriage Announcement

We are overjoyed to announce that Christine (some letters seem to have been crossed out) and (some other letters have been crossed out here as well) will soon be exchanging their vows.

The wedding will be held at Dallas Church on August 15 at 4 PM. All friends and family are welcome to join them and witness this sacred moment.

May the betrothed live in happiness and peace, for now and always.

Headline: Farm Tragedy

On the evening of July 30th, a farm south of Fifteen Oaks became the target of a brutal attack. Four were killed on the spot, and one victim died en route to the nearest hospital.

Police investigations at the scene are reported to believe that the perpetrators are highly likely to be the two fugitive prisoners who escaped from Warwick Prison on July 19, Patrick Jensen and Fidel Bello. Police Inspector Mendoza reminded county residents that Jensen and Bello are armed and extremely dangerous, and should anyone come to know of their whereabouts, please call the police immediately.

14th Edition: Route 77 Oddities

Last weekend, Green Bear resident Margaret Jones claimed to have seen a ghost on Route 77, sparking a wave of discussion throughout the town.

Meanwhile, an anonymous reader from Fifteen Oaks wrote in, claiming to have encountered "unbelievably strange events" while staying at a motel on the same highway ...

Pandora Wilson: It seems as though, more often than not, you prefer to present yourself in the role you play. What do you think role play has to do with fear?

Tuesday: Oh, role play ain't no part of fear. It's merely laying a foundation for the stories.

Tuesday: People will write the bulk of it themselves. They give it a plot and indulge in it. My role is just a guide ... a waitress guiding her guests.

Pandora Wilson: And your motel? It's playing a role too, isn't it?

Tuesday: Actors can always use a proper stage. When people step onto it, they naturally play the roles assigned to them. It is just a stage, nothing more.

Tuesday: Like how people expect to see a simple, hardworking country girl in every farmhouse, or to see multiple rooms inside a suitcase ...

Pandora Wilson: Is that some kind of metaphor? I'm afraid it's not an easy one to understand.

Tuesday: Oh, I'm just describing a motel, or a stage, or maybe a cute little suitcase.

Tuesday: To me, it is just a tiny little dollhouse, a dollhouse that you could pick up with one hand.