Note to readers: I don't own Adrian Monk, Natalie Teeger, Captain Stottlemeyer, Lt. Disher, Dr. Kroger, and other recognized names, but I made up the other characters, heehee. Enjoy. And review.


It is a decent hour of the morning, and I am to pick Monk up at eight to bring him to his appointment with Dr. Kroger. All of a sudden my cell phone is buzzing on the kitchen counter, its vibrations making the same eerie sound that a small chainsaw might make, and I jump from my spot on the couch to grab it. Opening the little gadget, I answer to find it is Captain Stottlemeyer, with the most ridiculously absurd phone call I'll ever get in my life.

"Hello, Natalie, is Monk there?"

"Um, no, he's not," I say quickly. There is a brief pause on the other line. Doesn't anyone call me anymore, to talk to me?

"Well, the mayor has asked me to get a hold of him, to investigate the stupidest case ever." It sounds like he is going to laugh.

"What is the case?" I ask, dying to know.

"Okay, I'll tell you, but you can't laugh…. At least not until I'm done talking," he says. I don't respond, hoping he'll continue speaking, which he does.

"Well, there is this motel, the "Fantas-E," near Death Valley—" he begins to chuckle. "The motel owner claims that his guests have seen the victims of several recent deaths, before the victims died." He abruptly stops talking, and I'm assuming he's attempting to keep from laughing. I still don't see what's so funny. Maybe the punchline is next.

"The—guests see pictures of the victims flash across their TV screens, and then the victims die, wherever they are. Now, believe it or not, this has been going on for a while, but after the guests realized that their 'visions' did actually die, they decided to call us in."

I am astounded. "You mean—like ghosts?" I say. I can hear muffled laughter, and figure he is covering the receiver with his hand.

"Just—" he can't help but crack up –"have Monk get out here, as soon as possible. We're on—" He pauses momentarily "—Wood Canyon Road, about a half a mile east of Wildrose Road, in Death Valley. It's really out in the boonies…"

"He has an appointment with Dr. Kroger today at eight," I say, reminding him of the schedule.

"He's gonna have to cancel. He just has to see this, before it's too late…. See you soon…." Just like that, and he's gone.

I figure on meeting Monk at eight anyway, and not telling him about the case until he's in the moving vehicle. I know he probably hates to skip his appointment, but instead of making a huge deal of it over the phone, I'll just drop it on him as we head towards our destination. I had already arranged for Julie to spend the day at her grandparents', so a new adventure is in the books for today for Monk and me.

He had left a suitcase full of clothes at my house the last time we had went on a case, so I throw it into the vehicle, along with a bag of my own, and some wipes and Sierra Springs water for him. Maybe it'll pacify him once he realizes I thought of him. Maybe.

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The cheap white stucco of the motel can be seen coming into view, as the man sitting next to me in the Cherokee shifts uncomfortably. The motel is obviously one of those cheap ones you happen to see on the outskirts of poor towns, and in the middle of nowhere, which is where we are now. The sign, with horribly-painted yet fairly new blue lettering, spells out "Fantas-E Motel." It's obviously a play on what the motel is famous for, and has been for quite some time now: predicting the death of people in the form of ghostly images flashing across the guests' TV screens at night. Sounds stupid, right? It is stupid, and I feel like I've lost respect for myself in allowing myself to actually show my face here. I guess fantasma means ghost in Spanish, but who the hell cares? I sure don't.

My attention is diverted off the building, as I notice the passenger of my vehicle, sighing exasperatingly at the motel, gesturing briefly with palms upturned at something imperfect he has noticed about the state of this motel.

"Oh…." He groans to himself. "With all this public notice and fame, you'd think they'd fix the s—"

"Mr. Monk," I interrupt, "nothing at this motel is going to be perfect, or even nice for that matter. You'll be lucky to see anything that is even partially to your satisfaction."

"But can't you see? They left the 'No Vacancy' sign lit up, and half the bulbs are burnt out….then there's others that are… flickering…." He's extremely agitated, and I have to admit, it is annoying. I always hated those creepy flickering signs in horror movies; they always reminded me of the Bates Motel in the movie Psycho. It's not so scary right now at 3:30 in the afternoon, it's just irritating. I then realize the magnitude of what he has just said.

"Did you just say the 'No Vacancy' sign? How can a dump like that, in the middle of nowhere, be so packed?" I motion at the eyesore.

He gives me the look a parent would give a naïve child. "The reputation it's earned," he practically tsks at me. "Everyone flocks to mayhem. Haven't you ever heard of this place?" I feel like I'm being condescended every time I ask a simple question.

"No I haven't, Mr. Monk," I pout. "I never assumed you were worldly enough to know about something as stupid as this."

He flashes me a look of irritation. Oh well, I figured he'd be annoyed. He actually was quite decent in the car on the way here, aside from threatening to jump out of the vehicle at EVERY red light we stopped at, and assuming an arm-crossing, pouty stance the whole way. I was happy that most of our trip consisted of Interstate 5, so there'd be no sudden stops or intersections. Monk even attempted to contact Dr. Kroger on his beeper, several times, in fact, but I yanked it off of him early on. Thank goodness I had looked over the map first, and didn't have to hear his continuous complaints at my actual usage of the badly folded paper….

As we pull into the dusty lot, a billow of powdery dirt particles swirls up around the vehicle, allowing more time for Monk and me to sit and stare at the ugly building as we wait for the dust storm to subside. I can see that his disgust with me is growing as we remain in the vehicle, and so, at the instant the cloud has subsided, I get out and walk towards the building. He hesitantly follows, shutting the door loudly with an elbow.

We stand impatiently at the desk of the concierge, if you could really call him that. The pot-bellied T-shirted man is reclining on a plastic lawn chair with feet propped up on his desk, muddy shoes dripping all over the cheap woodwork and various papers strewn haphazardly. Monk notices this filthiness immediately and manages to grab a wipe from my pocket, and he places it under the shoes.

Stottlemeyer, Disher, and a few other officers are wandering down the hallway as we wait for the motel owner to notice us, knocking on the occasional door for a short series of questions. I sigh at the absurdity of it all. A motel's TVs, haunted with ghosts of the soon-to-be dead…. Ooooooooo...

At the forward motion from Monk the man looks up from his newspaper, and eyes the detective up. "What do ya want?" he says, seemingly a bit agitated.

"We—would like to ask you a few questions," he mumbles, and the motel owner moves his feet, rumpling up the wipe with his shoes in the process. I can see Monk staring at it, wanting to fix it. A drip of mud falls onto the wood, and Monk is now over the edge. He leans once more towards the wipe. I push him away with an outstretched arm.

"What kinda questions?" the gentleman (har har) asks. "And what are ya touchin' my table for?"

Monk has to correct him. "Questions about…" he finds it so hard to say, and I can see precisely why, because it's totally stupid. "—the ghosts, and that's a desk," he manages to blurt.

"Awww, ya wanna find out about the ghosts?" He smiles to himself as he reaches for a greasy hamburger swarming with house flies. "Well, they're only seen by guests that have stayed at the motel for more than one night. You police people won't be seein' 'em."

My companion is revolted. "Oh, please don't—" he watches as the man raises the fly-infested hamburger to his mouth, and bites into it. "—eat that…." He covers his face with his hand, shielding his eyes from the sight.

"So, you're saying we'll see the ghosts if we check in here?" the detective says, gulping, looking towards the motel entrance.

The concierge puts the hamburger down on the desk, and Monk sighs with relief.

"Yup, but only if you stay for more than one night. And even then, you're not guaranteed to see one, because—"

Monk speaks up, with a tone of annoyance. "Sounds like a marketing ploy to me," he murmurs, shifting his feet.

The concierge removes his feet from the desk and stands up in defiance. "You really think I'm killing people to make money on this here motel? How dare you accuse me of somethin' so horrible! The deceased ain't even from around here!" he yells, and a cloud of bad breath follows. Monk flinches, turning his head and making his disgust so obvious that it's amazing he hasn't been punched yet.

I sigh with frustration. Captain Stottlemeyer has heard the racket, and appears behind me, touching me on the shoulder and leaning in towards the motel owner.

"What do you think this is, buddy, some kind of game? People are dying! And your guests are claiming to have seen them before they did!"

The motel owner is obviously taken aback by the big, intimidating man with the deep voice. He puts his hands up. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, I've never even seen the ghosts. The guests have been telling me, and apparently they told you guys too."

Stottlemeyer pulls Monk and me aside, and speaks with us in private outside the motel. "Well, if you guys want to get any leeway on this case, you're going to have to do as he says. You'll get to see if it's true or not, and we will be on call for whoever you happen to see, if you happen to actually see someone." He stifles his laughter.

"Is this some kind of practical joke, Captain?" I ask. Two nights in this garbage heap of a motel with Monk is going to be a one-of-a-kind, and hopefully once-ever, experience.

"Do I look like I'm la—" he is cut off by the betrayal of his own humor. He clears his throat and assumes the 'serious concerned police officer' face, and replies.

"People are actually dying. And nobody knows how it is possible that the televisions could be displaying it. All the motel televisions that have revealed these apparitions were off at that time of night, and only get local cable anyway when they are on. All of the victims are at least 250 miles away from the motel, so it wouldn't be some kind of area station that is transferring this information."

Monk is simultaneously revolted by it, yet curious. "And the visions, were they pictures of the victims, or video?"

"Guests have claimed that the television turns on, and there's a picture of the deceased with a time of death that flashes several times on the screen, like a countdown. It's supposedly a really creepy sight."

I suddenly get a cold chill. "I'll agree with that one," I say. I cross my arms, rubbing the goosebumps on my upper arms with my hands.

I can tell Monk is affected too. "So disturbing, and yet, the motel is booked. I'll… never understand… people," he says. I nod at him.

"So are you two going to spend those two nights here?" the captain seems to state more than ask.

Monk shakes his head quickly. "No," he says quietly. "No…." He looks up inquisitively at the captain.

The captain sneers at him, putting his hands on his hips. "Well, why not, Monk? The mayor is depending on you."

The detective looks at his feet, continuing to shake his head. "This… isn't the mayor's vicinity. You, however, seem to be in the right mindset to do this sort of thing."

Stottlemeyer unexpectedly grabs Monk by the shoulders, making him lift his head to look at him again. He grips Monk in this way as he tries to convince him to listen.

"Monk, you know that you solve every case I throw at you. Cops— countless numbers— have already stayed here. They've seen the images as well as the other guests, but they can't figure it out. You are the only one who has the mind to figure this out." He pokes Monk in the side of the head as he says the last line.

"I-I… can't…." the detective blurts more loudly, as the captain releases his grip. "I don't have wipes, or clothes, or pillowcases, or food, or Sierr—"

I interrupt him. "Actually, Mr. Monk, I grabbed the suitcase you left at my house to bring along with us. I even packed a few Sierra Springs bottles. So now you have clothes and water and your pillowcases."

Stottlemeyer smiles, but I can tell that Monk is still not going to back down.

"I don't want those clothes here. Those are for—they aren't the clothes that I would have brou—"

"You're all set for a visit, Monk," the captain says, patting Monk on the chest. "You're even more prepared than I a—"

"Well, you can wear my—No…" He changes his mind very quickly in regards to a strange man wearing his suits and underwear, but still is going to attempt to convince him again. This is getting really annoying, and the constant dust blowing all over the place is bothering my eyes.

Now he's going to plead with the captain, I can tell by his change in stance. This has never worked before; doesn't he realize that?

"Captain, please, you can't make me stay here. You ca—It's not going to work. It's filthy and fly-infested and… haunted."

The captain begins to laugh. He doesn't stop.