Whispers from Room 7

Two years. My spirit has been tethered to the rotting wood and peeling paint of the Starlight Motel. They told everyone I died here-a self-inflicted wound, the 'problem child' finally snapping. All I felt was a hollow ache, a desperate longing for them to finally see me, to see the truth.

Then, a chilling shift. My parents, Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins, their voices tight with feigned distress, and my 'perfect' brother Mark, his tone smooth with false concern, were making plans. They'd invited Leo Maxwell, the host of "Legend Trippers," a ghost hunter, to the Starlight. Their aim: to livestream "proof" that I'm a malevolent, vengeful spirit haunting them.

The livestream started, and I watched, helpless, as Mark orchestrated his performance. He painted me as a drug-addled, violent monster, choking back fake sobs as he claimed I "turned the weapon on myself." Leo found "evidence"-a rusty hunting knife and a photo with a chilling message in "my handwriting," clearly planted. The online comments flooded with sympathy for my 'poor' family, condemning me.

My spirit burned with a silent, furious injustice. I wanted to scream, to expose the lies piling up, a suffocating wall I couldn't push through. They wanted to paint me as a monster, again, and I was voiceless. If only they knew what really happened that night. If only they knew who the real monster was.

But then, away from the staged theatrics, Leo's curiosity led him to a dusty old Wurlitzer jukebox in the forgotten diner. Inside, nestled among the wires, he discovered a small, battery-operated cassette recorder. He pressed play, and from the static, my voice, my real voice, hesitantly began to speak.

Two years.

Two years I've been tethered to this rotting wood, this peeling paint, this smell of dust and forgotten things.

The Starlight Motel.

My family's once, now just mine.

They say I died here.

A self-inflicted wound, they told everyone.

After a fight.

Always the fight with Sarah, the problem child.

Mark, he was never the problem.

Mark was perfect.

My spirit, or whatever this is, aches.

Not with pain, not anymore.

It's a hollow thing, a longing for them to see.

Just once.

To see me.

Then, I feel a shift.

Not in the motel, but in the connection I still have to them, a thin, frayed wire.

My parents, Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins, their voices tight with feigned distress.

And Mark.

His voice, smooth as ever, dripping with concern that isn't real.

"She's tormenting us, Leo," Mom says, her voice cracking on cue.

"In our new house. Things moving. Mark is terrified."

Mark adds, "It's Sarah. I know it is. She was always... volatile."

They're talking to someone new.

Leo Maxwell.

"Legend Trippers," his show. I remember seeing it, flickers of it when I was alive.

He's a ghost hunter.

Or says he is.

"We need you to come to the old motel," Dad says, his tone firm, business-like. "The Starlight. That's where... where it happened."

"We want you to livestream it, Leo," Mark cuts in, his voice earnest. "Show everyone what she's become. A vengeful spirit. We need to expose her, stop this haunting."

My haunting.

I don't leave the Starlight. I can't.

The lies stack up, one on top of the other, building a wall I can't seem to push through.

They want to paint me as a monster.

Again.

And I just want them to know the truth.

What really happened that night.

Who the real monster is.

Leo Maxwell arrives when the sun bleeds orange over the desert highway.

His van looks almost as tired as the Starlight.

"Legend Trippers" is painted on the side, the letters faded.

He's alone, hauling gear into the lobby, dust motes dancing in the single beam of light from the boarded-up window he pries open a crack.

The livestream starts.

His face, tired but with a showman's spark in his eyes, fills the small screen of a tablet he sets up.

"Alright, trippers, we're live at the infamous Starlight Motel, Route 66. The Jenkins family claims their deceased daughter, Sarah, is maliciously haunting them."

The video call connects.

Mom and Dad, faces grim, sit on a plush sofa I've never seen.

Mark is beside them, looking pale and drawn.

Good actor.

"She was troubled," Mom begins, dabbing her eyes. "Drugs... a violent temper. She ruined so much."

Dad nods, "Always fighting, always angry. That last night... she threatened Mark."

Mark's turn.

He chokes back a sob.

"She came at me. Raging. I... I tried to calm her down. Then she... she turned the weapon on herself."

His voice cracks. "I saw it."

Liar.

The online comments scroll past on Leo's tablet.

"So sad for the family."

"She sounds awful."

"Hope Leo can help them."

Sympathy, all for them.

Leo soaks it in. "We're here to find out what's really going on. The family believes Sarah's spirit is trapped, vengeful. We're going to explore the room where she died."

He looks around the lobby. "Creepy place, folks. Definitely got a vibe."

My vibe, apparently.

The narrative is set.

Sarah, the monster.

Again.