| Category: | Ghost Stories |
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At the south end of Lewisville, near where the creek winds lazily through thick brush, there once stood the Sunset Lodge Motel. Decades ago, it was a vibrant stop for travelers, its neon sign glowing like a beacon along the dark stretch of highway. But that was before the accidents, the disappearances, and the stories of strange voices in the night. Now, it's just a memory—torn down to make way for the new freeway.
For years, the motel had stood abandoned, overgrown with ivy and weeds, its walls crumbling and windows shattered. Homeless drifters and squatters claimed it for shelter, but none stayed long. They would speak in hushed tones about the eerie presence that seemed to watch them from the shadows, the footsteps in the halls when no one was there, and the whispers from the creek that chilled their blood. Even in ruins, the place had a way of unsettling anyone who dared linger too long.
When the city approved plans to demolish it, some people in town breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, they thought, the cursed ground would be cleared, and maybe—just maybe—the strange happenings would stop. A freeway was planned to cut straight through the site, offering progress and forgetting. They leveled the motel quickly, bulldozers ripping through the decayed wood and crumbling brick. Soon, the debris was carted away, and the stretch of road was paved smooth, lined with fresh guardrails and bright yellow lines. But even then, the land didn't seem right.
The workers were the first to notice. Late at night, when the heavy machinery had gone quiet and only the hum of distant cars filled the air, they heard things. A voice—soft and pleading—echoing faintly from the creek. Sometimes, it would sound like someone calling for help, just out of sight, always leading them closer to the dark water's edge. More than one worker left the job, spooked by the sensation of unseen eyes following them.
The freeway opened without much fanfare, but the strange occurrences continued. Drivers reported seeing figures on the side of the road, fleeting shadows that would vanish as they got closer. Some claimed their radios would suddenly crackle to life with static, followed by faint, unintelligible whispers. And always, always, there was the feeling that something was still there—something tied to that patch of ground by the creek.
Local legend says the spirits of those who vanished at the motel never left, their restless souls disturbed when the ruins were bulldozed away. The freeway might have replaced the motel, but the haunted energy lingered, creeping up from the earth like the overgrown weeds that once covered the lot.
Some nights, if you drive past that stretch of road with your windows down, you might still hear it—a voice in the wind, calling from the creek, urging you to stop. But no one ever does. Not anymore. The ghost of the Sunset Lodge Motel remains, buried under layers of asphalt and time, but alive in the whispers that refuse to fade.