The Elderglen Hotel was the sort of place people booked out of desperation. Faded carpet, keys on real brass rings, and a front desk clerk who never made eye contact. Clara Hyde hadn’t meant to stop there—her road trip had gone sideways when a rock cracked her windshield, and the next real motel was two towns away. She checked in past midnight, took the key to room 306, and dragged her suitcase down a hallway that smelled like wet plaster and lemon-scented cleaner.
The room was cold. Not icy—damp. Like the cold that came up from the floor instead of down from the vents. She didn’t bother unpacking. I flipped on the bathroom light, pulled back the shower curtain, and froze.
Something moved in the water.
At first, she thought it was a prank. Maybe even a prop. But then it blinked. Yellow eyes, half-lidded, just above the surface. A broad snout. Scaled tail coiled like a python. The tub creaked under the weight of what could only be described as... a crocodile. But not like any she’d ever seen.
This one had ridges, armored plates, and scars older than logic. It looked less like a zoo exhibit and more like something chiseled into the walls of an ancient tomb.
Teeth from Another Time and a Map That Wasn’t There
Clara backed out of the room, heart drumming, nearly tripping over her suitcase. She ran to the front desk. The clerk didn’t flinch. Just looked up slowly and asked, “Was it awake?”
Not what—was.
She demanded someone come look. The clerk just slid a dusty black binder across the counter and opened it to a laminated page. It showed a photo—not a clear one, but enough. Same eyes. Same scutes along the back. Below it, in faded type, were the words: Specimen 6C — Bathing Protocol Required.
Clara stared at the clerk. “You keep it here?”
He tapped the page. “It’s older than this building. Probably older than the town.”
Back in her room, the tub was empty. Water draining. No scales. No splash. Just the faint smell of moss and something metallic.
She didn’t sleep that night. She kept the lights on and checked the tub every ten minutes. She left without a refund in the morning and didn’t tell a soul. Not until months later, when she saw a photo online: someone’s blurry vacation pic from Elderglen. Bathroom mirror selfie. Behind the fogged glass of the shower door, a tail. Curved. Armored.
Just visible enough.
And now, late at night, Clara sometimes wonders if the creature ever really left the tub—or if it’s still waiting in some damp hotel corner, slipping through drainpipes and cracks in the tile. Not gone.
Just bathing.