Okay, so I wasn’t going to make a blog post about this. I was just going to go, take some pictures, and move on. But then everybody I kept talking to about this town looked at me like I was crazy, telling me it doesn’t exist.

I swear I used to go there as a kid. Summers felt endless, stretching out like something unreal, like a place you could stay in forever if you didn’t think too hard about it. I can still taste the cheap vending machine soda from the gas station, the kind that left your tongue electric blue no matter what flavor you picked. I remember how the cicadas screamed in the heat, so loud that it felt like they were inside your head instead of the trees. There was a motel with faded carpet that clung to your shoes, a blinking vacancy sign humming like it was breathing, a little diner that served pancakes with syrup so thin it might as well have been water. I know these things happened. I can picture them. I can still feel them.

Except, apparently, none of it was real? There's no way since I remember it so vividly right?

I asked my mom about it last week, half-expecting some kind of nostalgia trip, some old story about how we used to go every summer. But she just looked at me like I was crazy. She said we never took trips like that. She had never heard of the place. She even pulled out old photo albums to prove it, flipping through glossy pages filled with birthdays and Christmas mornings and beach vacations that I barely even remember. But that town? Not there. Like it had been cut out of existence entirely.

I tried looking it up. Google Maps? Nothing. Old tourism sites? Blank. Even those weird niche travel forums where people document obscure roadside attractions? Not a single mention. I thought maybe I was just misremembering the name, but no matter what I searched, it was like the place had never existed at all.

But I know it was real. And I found it.

I wasn’t even planning to come here. I just got in the car and started driving, trying to clear my head. But at some point, the turns started feeling familiar, like muscle memory. And before I even realized it, I was here. When I finally pulled up, there it was-the same small houses, the same motel, the same diner, the same gas station where my dad used to fill up the car. Like nothing had changed. And that’s what’s been messing with me the most.

It’s all too quiet. Too empty. Too clean.

No dust on the counters. No weeds growing through the pavement. No birds, no stray cats, no old cars rusting away in forgotten driveways. Just a town that should be falling apart but isn’t.

I took some pictures. I’ll upload them later after I'm fully settled in the motel. If anyone remembers this place- like, even vaguely-please tell me I’m not losing my mind.

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The motel smells the same. That weird mix of old carpet, cheap soap, and something damp that never fully dries. The kind of smell that sticks to your clothes even after you leave. I think the bedspreads are the same ones from when I was a kid—stiff, patterned with these ugly brown and orange shapes that are supposed to look like flowers. They never did. They look even less like flowers now.

I keep expecting someone to recognize me. Not the guy at the front desk, he’s new—I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before. But the place itself. The buzzing motel sign, the flickering hallway light, the vending machine that used to eat my coins every time I tried to get a soda. I keep waiting for something to acknowledge me, for a memory to settle into place, but everything just sits there. Stagnant.

I ran my hand over the nightstand, expecting to feel dust, but it was clean. Was not expecting a place like this. Like someone had just wiped it down. The entire room is like that. Not rundown, not aged, just… frozen. I don’t know why I thought it would be different. I don’t even know what I was hoping to find.

I'll make sure to explore the town before leaving, I'll probably stay here for 3 days.

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I woke up early since I hit the hay at around 9 last night, though it feels like I never really slept. The motel room is quiet and still, both then and now as I'm posting this.

The diner was exactly the same. Same red booths, same chipped counter, same glowing sign outside. Even the same menu taped to the wall. And I mean the exact same one—creased in the same places, peeling in the same corner, as if no one had touched it since the last time I was here.

I slid into the booth by the window. My booth. The one we always used to sit at when we came here for breakfast. It even had the same old tear in the seat cushion, like one I used to poke at with my nails when I was bored.

I ordered pancakes, bacon, and coffee, just the staple food for diner, right? The waitress didn’t write anything down, just nodded and walked away. When she came back, the plate was warm, but the food wasn’t.

the pancakes had no uneven edges, the syrup never dripped off the sides. It was too perfect. Like it wasn’t even real. I took a bite anyway. It tasted like nothing. Like texture without substance. I chewed, swallowed, tried again.

The radio was on behind the counter, but it wasn’t playing music. Just static. The sound filled up the whole space, buzzing against the chrome and vinyl, settling into the silence. The waitress kept wiping down the same already-clean table, moving in slow, steady circles. I watched her hand, the way the rag never quite seemed to touch the surface. Like she was only pretending to clean.

I wanted to ask her something. Anything. How long has this place been open? Do you remember me? Does anyone else ever come here? But I didn’t. Instead, I pulled out a few bills, set them on the table, and stood up. My chair scraped too loudly against the floor. The waitress didn’t look up.

As I walked outside, I glanced back through the window.

She wasn’t there anymore but the rag was still on the table.

I went back to the motel, I'll probably stay here until the afternoon. I feel exhausted right now, I just need to close my eyes for a few.

No one has commented or replied to my post yet, I don't know what make of this experience.

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I had been driving around for a while, just looping through old streets, trying to see what was left. The houses still stood where they always had—quiet, perfectly intact, but with no sign of life. No cars in the driveways, no laundry hanging outside, no flickering TVs through the windows.

It was like a set piece, a town that looked lived-in but wasn’t. I passed the diner again. The sign said it was open still, but there were no customers, no smell of coffee or frying bacon. It seemed like the hum of my car was the only thing alive in this place. I kept going, tracing familiar roads without thinking.

Then I saw the gas station.

I wasn’t planning to stop, but the lights were still on.

The building itself hadn’t changed—same flat roof, same sun-bleached sign, same cracked pavement out front. The air smelled faintly of gasoline, sharp and stale, like it had been sitting there for years. I don’t know why I pulled in. Maybe I wanted to see if the inside had changed. Maybe I just wanted proof that I wasn’t imagining all of this.

I stepped out of the car. The pavement felt too clean. No weeds, no debris, no signs of time passing. A thin layer of dust coated the windows, but the "Open" sign still glowed faintly, flickering like it was struggling to stay alive.

I pushed open the door. The bell above it gave a half-hearted jingle.Inside, nothing was out of place.

The shelves were fully stocked—rows of candy, chips, and soda bottles lined up perfectly, like they had just been restocked this morning. There was no dust. No signs of abandonment. Even the coolers hummed quietly, their glass doors slightly fogged from the cold. I moved deeper inside. The register sat unattended. There was no clerk. No sound, except for the faint buzz of the fluorescents overhead. Then, I saw it.

A rack of postcards. I picked one up. The front showed a picture of the town’s old clock tower. Except—there is no clock tower here. I flipped it over. No writing. No stamp. No place to send it. A sharp creak came from the back of the store. I turned my head slowly. Something shifted behind the counter.

I couldn’t see anyone, but I felt it—like the air had changed, like something was just out of sight, waiting. Then, through the reflection in the glass cooler door, I saw it. A figure. Standing perfectly still behind the counter. Not moving. Not speaking. Just watching. I didn’t turn around. I didn’t breathe. I placed the postcard back. Slowly. Carefully. Then I walked out. Not too fast, not too slow. Just enough to make it seem like nothing was wrong. The bell jingled again when I stepped outside.

I'm writing this in the car right now. My hands are shaking and all I can think of is 'what the FUCK was that?'. I don't think I should be here anymore, this was a bad idea and I don't even want to return to that shitty motel room anymore.

I think I'll just stay inside here for a while, I don't want the guy at the front desk seeing me this freaked out.

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I don’t even remember falling asleep. One moment, I was gripping the steering wheel, staring at the neon motel sign through the windshield, too wired to close my eyes. The next, the sun was already creeping up, bleeding pale light over the parking lot. My whole body ached from sleeping in such a cramped position, and my phone was still clutched in my hand, its battery long dead. I don’t know why I stayed. I was so so sure that I was leaving. But somehow, something in me decided on another 2 days. I don’t remember making that decision. And I don’t even feel weird about it, which is the worst part. Like I’ve settled into it, as if the thought of leaving isn’t even an option anymore.

I keep telling myself that my nerves got the best of me. That what I saw in the gas station was just a trick of the mind, the reflection playing games with me. But there’s something wrong about this place, and it’s not just some creepy late-night paranoia. I’ve been here for a while now. I’ve been in the motel, the diner, the gas station. And I think I just realized—I haven’t seen anyone o̶u̴t̸s̸i̵d̷e̸. There are people inside the buildings. The front desk guy at the motel. The waitress at the diner. But out here? On the roads, in the parking lots, just walking around? There’s no one.

I should be freaked out. I was freaked out. But this morning, I just started driving again I didn’t even question where I was going. And that’s how I ended up at the mall.

I'm just going to go in, take a couple of pictures and get out. I can't leave this place without documenting it when no one has believed me so far.

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I barely recognized it at first. It had always been a little run-down, even when I was a kid, but now, it felt more like a skeleton of itself. The parking lot was cracked, tufts of grass breaking through the pavement. Most of the store signs were sun-bleached and illegible. A few still flickered, weakly clinging to life. And yet—like everything else here—it was still open.

I don’t know why I went inside. Maybe to prove to myself that everything’s normal. That the gas station was just a fluke. That I’m being stupid. Inside, the air was cold and stale, the kind of artificial chill that only half-working AC units can produce. The tile floors were dull, the overhead lights buzzing faintly. Some of the stores were closed, metal grates pulled down tight. But a few weren’t. A clothing store with mannequins frozen mid-pose. A bookstore with stacks of untouched magazines, covers faded like no one had touched them in years. A food court with empty chairs and tables, except for one—where a single tray sat, though it had nothing on it.

I walked deeper in. My footsteps echoed, swallowed by the sheer emptiness of it all. I kept expecting to hear something—muffled chatter, the sound of footsteps, anything—but there was nothing. Just that faint buzzing of lights. And yet, I knew I wasn’t alone.

I passed a store window and stopped. My reflection looked back at me, and behind it, I saw them. Figures. Shapes, standing far down the corridor. Not moving. Not approaching. Just there. Watching.

I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t. My whole b̴̼̂o̶͖͘d̶̰͌ỹ̸͜ locked up, my breath caught in my throat. I took one slow step forward. Then another. I kept walking, heart pounding, gaze locked onto my reflection as more shapes started appearing in the glass, as if the mall itself was filling up with them.

I don’t know how long I've been walking actually. It could’ve been minutes. It could’ve been hours. The halls stretched on forever, turning in on themselves, the same storefronts repeating over and over, the same mannequins staring at me from behind glass. The exit signs were still there, still glowing green, but every time I followed one, it only led me deeper inside.

At some point, I stopped seeing my reflection. At some point, I stopped seeing the figures, too.

As soon as I realized I didn’t know where I was anymore I started writing here. I don't know how to get the fuck out of here so I pray to God that someone is reading this right now.

Please don’t let this be the only thing I leave behind.

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I don’t remember getting out.

One second, I was trapped in that maze of storefronts and mannequins, following exit signs that led nowhere. The next, I was sitting in the driver’s seat of my car, parked outside the mall like nothing had happened. The sun was lower now, dipping toward the horizon. My keys were in the ignition. My hands were on the wheel. I wasn’t breathing hard, I wasn’t shaking, I wasn’t panicking—I was just there. Like I had been there the whole time.

I don’t like this. I don’t like how my memories feel like they’ve been edited, like I’m only being shown pieces of them. I should be losing it, right? A person should notice when chunks of t̶͍͠ḯ̵̧ m̸̞̓e̸̟͝ just vanish. But it’s like my brain won’t let me. Like the moment I try to think too hard about it, it slides away, smooth and effortless. It’s fine, you’re fine, don’t think about it

I don’t know how long I sat there. Eventually, I started driving again, but not toward the motel. I didn’t choose to go anywhere, I just let the car take me, like I was following something just out of reach. The sun was almost gone now, the sky turning that strange, in-between blue. The streetlights flickered on, one by one, casting pools of light onto the pavement

And then, in the rearview mirror—I saw someone walking. The first p̵e̵r̸s̷o̵n̶ I’d seen outside since I got here. I braked, too fast. The car jolted, my seatbelt locking against my chest. I turned around, heart hammering, but the road behind me was empty. No one was there.

I stayed there for a long t̶͍͠ḯ̵̧m̸̞̓e̸̟͝, just staring at the spot where they should have been. I know I saw someone. I know it. But the road was completely still, nothing but the sound of the wind and the hum of the streetlights overhead.

I’m back in the motel now, writing this out while everything’s still fresh. The air in here feels heavier than before, like the walls are pressing in just a little tighter. The front desk guy was still at his post when I came in. Still staring at that same little CRT TV. I think I could’ve stood there for an hour, and he wouldn’t have even looked up.

I should leave. I should leave.

But I won’t.

One more day. Just one more day. Then I’ll go.

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I woke up in my car again.

I don’t remember driving anywhere. I don’t remember turning the key in the ignition, or pulling onto the road, or even coming back and parking. I know I went somewhere but I’m here, in front of the motel just past this hellhole's welcome sign, the car still running.

This is all fucked up and I should leave. I should just fucking leave. But I can’t. and not in a metaphorical way, like 'oh, I’m just drawn to this place, ooooh, how mysterious' No. I literally cannot get out of here.

I tried. I really, really tried.

I don’t even know how long ago it was now - time doesn’t feel right anymore - but I̶̭̟̐ got back in the car, gripped the wheel so tight my fingers ached, and started driving. Straight shot down the road, past the gas station, past the other side of town. I thought I was free.

Then I saw that same flickering neon sign of the motel. I thought that maybe I got turned around? Maybe I wasn’t paying attention and looped back. I tried turning around instead. I tried again. And again. And again.

No matter which road I take, how many turns I make, or how far I drive, I end up back here.

I even tried walking. I grabbed my bag, slammed the car door, and just walked down the road. Didn’t look back, didn’t stop, didn’t even think. I don’t remember turning around. But I must h̵̹̙͋́a̶̻̓v̸̝̖̐̍e̷̱̍͛, right? Because somehow, at some point, I was back at the parking lot.

My legs hurt. My head hurts. I don’t know what’s happening. But here’s the worst part. The part that makes my stomach twist just typing this out. I think whatever this place is, knows I’m trying to leave.

Because I swear t̵̪͐ǒ̵͓ god—the moment I gave up, the moment I dropped my bag, grabbed my laptop and sat down on the curb, exhausted, something changed. The lights in the motel flickered back on, I didn't even realize it was all pitch black until it blinded me. The neon buzzed. The diner’s sign glowed red again. The hum of the vending machines started up.

Like this place was waiting to see if I’d s̶t̷a̶y̴.