I don’t do true crime. I have friends who are into it, create podcasts about it, etc. However, I know too many people who have been murdered not to feel weird about consuming these sorts of things. I also have big feelings about the way the media covers these tragedies. And even bigger feelings about the way ordinary people talk about them over the breakroom donuts. The victims and the loved ones become footnotes while the person who committed the unspeakable crime becomes the main attraction. Watching people celebrate “infamous” serial killers and continue retelling their stories with hotter and younger actors every few months upsets me. I think the facts should be shared, and I get that, unfortunately, humans are the ultimate monsters, and nothing is scarier than us. Yet, the Ryan Murphys glorifying the gory and using Black pain for the most sensationalized serialized content pisses me off. For some reason, I do love a fictionalized murder spree, though. I crack open slashers like sitcom dads open beers. Which is why I didn’t fully understand what was happening with Hell Motel and me.

Hell Motel was one of the best shows of 2025 and had my favorite episode of TV of last year. The series dropped 10 true crime people at the opening weekend of a renovated hotel with a grisly history. Because this is a slasher, guests start getting picked off, and the stranded survivors have to figure out who among them is responsible. There are a lot of fantastic deaths, delicious characters, and the perfect mix of camp and gore. However, the internet wanted Paige (Paula Brancati) to be the killer. It made sense because Paige was an actor who got her big break in the films based on the tragedy that made the hotel famous. She also seemed like the most empathetic character, but also needed to find a way to become relevant again. After all, the industry is not kind to women over 25 years old. Unlike the internet, I had my own sadder reasons for needing it to be Paige.

Hell Motel is the brainchild of the people who brought us Slasher. Co-creators Ian Carpenter and Aaron Martin got most of the band back together for a new series. As someone who won’t shut the hell up about specific seasons of the previous show, I expected a good time. However, even after reading the premise, I didn’t expect this to be what I needed. I thought I was playing the usual game of trying to figure out the whodunnit while avoiding my own problems. I held my virtual Bloody Brunches and assumed I was sad because the world is depressing. Also, a beloved internet friend in my corner of the horror space passed away in November. I don’t remember a virtual hangout where Anthony Jerome didn’t remind us he was the funniest and kindest among us. I had also made peace with the fact that it was well past time to quit the longest job I had ever had and blow up my life (again). So, there were many reasons to be out of it, and I didn’t feel the need to dig too deeply.

I never guessed the killer in my favorite seasons of Slasher, and this tradition followed me to a second location. Hell Motel became my new favorite thing, and I overanalyzed the hell out of it in countless articles. And yet, I was sure Paige was the killer on the quest for revenge, whom I was rooting for. Even when the actual culprit did things that stuck out in my brain, I knew she was the Baphomet dressed slasher doing the good work. Now I can see I was projecting onto her, and that’s why I never stood a chance at figuring out the mystery. I could not be objective this time, meaning logic wasn’t welcome here. The odds of my figuring it out were already slim, but my own baggage was weighing me down from the gate.

With all of the characters profiting off the true crime cycle, Paige seemed to be the only one who at least knew she should feel shame. More importantly, the best slashers are about revenge, and a survivor’s viewpoint was the only thing missing from this bloody ensemble. All of that guilt and rage is the best motive to propel someone to do the unthinkable. I love revenge stories, and I love feminine rage. I knew that POV was coming via the killer. I also needed it to be a woman, and I wanted that catharsis even though it wouldn’t fix anything. I had quiet and selfish reasons that made me suspect her of murder. I couldn’t clock it at the time, but they made it impossible to be objective or rational.

Hell Motel also, weirdly enough, coincided with the most recent (at that time) murderer who stole someone from me, finally suffering a consequence. I belatedly found out he had finally been sentenced (for the life he ended in 2019) in the middle of the season. This murder specifically fucked me up. I wrote a play, I obsessively checked in for updates for over a year, and I refused to deal with it. I eventually had to pause that weird spiral because the world and life demanded my attention. I also proved (again) that I’m a fairly shitty aunt as I (again) lost contact with the nephew who lost his mom. Anyways, it was the middle of the season when, for some reason, I checked in on the case. It was an odd feeling to see that this murderer would actually serve some time in prison. It was even odder to finally have closure and understand this is probably “the best outcome” for “this situation”. At least some form of “justice” was reached. That’s a lot more than all the other family and friends who were victims of violent, unsolved crimes.

This murderer took someone I had a complicated history with. However, she was also the closest thing I had to an older sister, at least until I couldn’t forgive her anymore. He killed her and went on with his life for days before authorities eventually found her remains in what is the most upsetting way imaginable (for me). I grew up in Kansas City, Missouri. So, the amount of women murdered and discarded left a mark on me as a child. It’s part of the reason I can’t do true crime and have thoughts about the way some people discuss real-life murders for entertainment. These articles also left a very specific trigger for me that prevents me from revisiting two movies I fucking adore and cannot stop recommending. So, even while I churned out multiple articles about Hell Motel and got way too into my murder book of suspects, I initially missed what was right in front of me.

After all these abrupt traumas and reading the articles, in the cases that even received press, my baggage was finally demanding my attention. Grief isn’t linear, and the more you push things down, the harder it will bite you in the ass. So, when I figured out I was projecting my own shit onto Paige, I then had the awful task of having to sit with the weight of all the feelings I kept putting off. I lay flat in multiple hotel rooms and rentals last year and just let insomnia win. It seemed right to be sad outside of business hours when I was alone, and no one was looking for me. There weren’t answers in those quiet times; there was also no magical band-aid, but I did finally cry it out a few times. I lost another online friend last September (while I was out of the country) in an arson case. That reopened the wound that I thought was finally going to start scabbing over. I had to think about all of the murder victims I know, who the press forgot. They weren’t the perfect victims. They were Black and in the wrong income brackets. They were regular people and, therefore, cold cases waiting to be filed. It also made me worry about the friend joining too many others as victims who were too kind for this world. I hope her family gets answers and justice because it’s at least better than nothing.

On good days, I darkly wonder if I should alert the Guinness World Records people. I am probably a very grim and niche record holder for a category no one wants to be in the running for. However, most days I wonder what it would be like if the cops weren’t the worst and actually found all of these people who cut so many lives short. I now know that getting some small form of justice doesn’t heal things. Although it’s a hell of a lot better than knowing there are so many murderers wandering the streets. These unseen monsters have taken someone(s) irreplaceable. They have robbed us of the privilege to watch these people grow older and see who they would have become. They have taken away the chance to see how these relationships would have weathered life, and in some cases, mend. I sometimes wonder if this is a low-key part of the reason I have vicious battles with insomnia. I do seem to miss the things that are right in front of my face after all. 

As I said, I cannot get into true crime. I would hate to open a book, film, podcast, etc., and see one of the worst things that happened to me being used for financial gain and attention. I immediately think of the victim, who gets no say, and the survivors who will feel that sting. More so, in this internet age, where people are awful and even blame kids for being murdered. I would hate that and do not think I could take that added layer of hell on top of the loss and unanswered questions. No matter where this journey takes me, I cannot see being okay with my pain on display for others’ entertainment. I try to keep my thoughts to myself and leave the conversations when they come up. To each their own, but that’s not the party I want to attend. However, I can get into fiction that puts up that fourth wall, even if sometimes that wall feels thinner than I would like it to.

The walls definitely didn’t feel structurally safe when watching, and rewatching, the Hell Motel season finale last summer. When it’s revealed that the killer is Andy (Jim Watson), the unassuming professor! Paige’s confidante, who we thought was a red herring, but makes so much more sense as the killer. When he shares his motive in the season finale, it resonated with me and also made me think of my nephew. It is the moment when I started to understand why I needed it to be Paige. I didn’t need the character to get answers and revenge. I was feeling helpless while drowning in all of this grief I refused to address. I needed to sit in it and change the way I handle/avoid things. It set me on this path of finding balance between working too much and actually making time for all these amazing friends I keep collecting. Hell Motel sat with me for months, highlighting the lack of attention I paid to my own baggage. That, paired with yet another sudden and senseless loss in September, made me shift priorities as much as I can in the generation I have been dealt. 

So, while Hell Motel is the fictional murder spree I live for, it did its job too well. It captured the conversations around a trend I cannot get behind, even if I am not ruining everyone else’s fun. This little Shudder series was supposed to hold a mirror up to society’s fascination with true crime. Yet, I caught a stray and realized it was reflecting my avoidance and relationship to the topic. The beautifully chaotic ending also channeled the anger, resentment, and feeling of uselessness in situations like this.

As a woman who gets answers and gets things done, I cannot undead people. I cannot fill the hole left by someone’s absence in the world. Being human is feeling small at the most heartbreaking moments imaginable. That’s why I still side with all of the killers in this show. In this fictional world, they were able to do something many of us cannot. They got to have a moment of unhinged rage and pain while doling out judgment and execution to those who profit from the true crime machine. They made them pay for forgetting human lives were the cost for their 15 seconds of fame. While murder is an extreme way to deal with these personalities, it feels good to watch it in a place like this.