Many years ago, our family was invited to a destination wedding. Not somewhere magical like the Bahamas. Nope.
Where we ended up staying in:
The Bates Motel
Not the ACTUAL Bates Motel. No. That one was drier and far less disgusting.
We were given instructions to make reservations at this hotel or, more accurately, House of Creepiness, by the family having the wedding.
WHO DID NOT STAY THERE.
Which we didn't find out until the end of the weekend. Nice, right? Did they get a look and go running? Did they get a cut of the rental rates? I don't know, but I don't really talk to them anymore. Had you been there, you wouldn't blame me.
We get to this place and are skeeved out. Seriously. It smelled like dank. My parent's room? Had damp carpeting. Our room? Had the sink that wouldn't stop running. Some cousins were in the room that had super-scary noises.
I ask for extra pillows and am informed that there are none. How is that possible? Are they being used to smother and bury guests from times past?
We spent a LOT of time not in the room. Hotel sex? Yeah, not happening.
I think the icing on the cake was that at the nice hotel across the street, where there was a party for the wedding guests the night before, the room rates were the same. Why didn't we switch hotels? I have no idea - I was for it, but everyone else had been beaten down by the sadness and despair clouding Bates Motel Niagara and figured one more night wouldn't hurt.
Except it did. It hurt my soul. It also hurt my ability to stay in any cheap ass hotel, making our trips way more expensive. But then so was the therapy and the 8,000 loads of laundry I did to wash the stink of that trip out of our clothing.
This is a Studio 30 Plus writing prompt. Yeah, boy. [You have to say that like Flavor Flav. Trust me. It's fun.]