The Girl At Apartment 9 Ep.2 :The Motel & The Call

Eliza didn’t even look back as she wheeled her suitcase out of the building. Apartment 9 was no longer just a place—it was a breathing, watching thing. The hallway lights flickered behind her, one last time, as if it were waving goodbye. Or warning her.

The streets were damp with yesterday’s rain. Grey clouds hovered low, threatening another storm. Her fingers trembled against the suitcase handle. The morning air stung her cheeks as she flagged down a cab, muttering the name of the cheapest place she remembered: “Blue Haven Motel.”

The cab ride was quiet. She sat curled against the far window, watching the city slowly blur into older brick buildings and rundown billboards. Her phone buzzed twice in her coat pocket—unknown number, then silence.

The motel stood at the edge of town like a forgotten relic. Its blue neon sign blinked against the fog: "Blue Haven Motel – Weekly Rates Available". The front desk was manned by a man with tired eyes and an expression that read: Don’t ask, don’t care.

Room 14 smelled of bleach and old cigarettes. The carpet was worn and stained, and the mattress dipped in the middle like it had been cradling sorrow for decades. But it had a door that locked and no shadows whispering her name.

She took a long, cold shower and sat at the edge of the bed in her robe. Her phone lit up again—this time a name she recognized. Mara Quinn.

She hesitated before answering.

“Finally,” came the familiar voice. “Thought you fell off the grid. Or joined a cult or died dramatically.”

Eliza gave a soft chuckle. “Almost, I considered both”

“I heard about the divorce,” Mara continued, gentler now. “And the job... Eliza, I’m sorry. I would've reached out sooner, but you always say you hate sympathy  and I figured you needed space”

“I do,” Eliza said, rubbing her temple. “I just needed space. A lot of it.”

“But disappearing without a word? That’s not like you. So, what’s going on?”

Eliza stared at the ceiling, throat tight. “The apartment I moved into after relocating from dozens of motels … I think it’s haunted.”

A beat of silence. Then Mara’s voice, sharpened with focus.

“Okay, I’m listening.” Mara said, voice shifting. This was the tone she used whenever something truly caught her interest—clinical, composed, and intrigued. “Tell me everything.”

Eliza paused for a beat. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

“I already do. But go on.”

And Eliza did. The icy cold spots. The flickering lights. The way time seemed to bend. The same time—3:07 a.m.—every night. The wet footprints. The whispering voice. The journal she found in the vent. The name "Adeline" scrawled over and over until the ink bled through the pages.

She didn’t notice she was crying until she felt the tear hit her hand.

Mara was silent for a long moment. Then: “Eliza, I’m coming to you. We’re going back to that apartment.”

“What? No. I left for a reason, Mara. I’m not stepping foot in there again.”

“Eliza, you know what I do for a living. I chase leads. I investigate. And frankly, this might be the most interesting thing you’ve ever given me.”

“You’re a detective, not an exorcist.”

“I’m a detective with an unhealthy interest in the paranormal, remember?”

Eliza groaned. “This is why we don’t talk unless I’m having a meltdown.”

“Exactly. And since we’re here—melting down—might as well do it together. I’m packing up my equipment. Bringing the EMF detector, thermal cam, voice recorder, and that weird old divining rod I found in Prague. Oh, and sage. Lots of sage.”

“Fine. But I’m not going back alone.”

“You won’t be. I’ll be there by tomorrow.”

The next afternoon, Eliza stood outside the motel, arms crossed as Mara’s old silver Toyota rolled into the lot. Mara stepped out in her oversized coat and heavy boots, eyes sharp with determination.

“You look like a corpse,” Mara said, popping the trunk.

“Thanks. I feel like one.”

Mara gave her a side-hug, then pulled out her bag of tools. “Got everything. EMF meter, motion sensors, EVP recorder, thermal scope, and my trusty demon-hunting crowbar.”

“Why do you have a crowbar?”

“You never know when a ghost might lock you in a closet.”

They grabbed coffee on the way back to the apartment. At a diner booth, Mara opened her laptop.

“Did some digging. Eliza... no one’s lived in Apartment 9 longer than a few months. Most disappear. Literally disappear. And Mr. Blackwell? No digital records. Like he doesn’t exist.”

Eliza’s fingers tightened around her mug.

“I looked into the building’s history too,” Mara continued. “There were reports in the '70s about strange noises and missing tenants. Then it went dark. Then it was bought anonymously in the '90s. It’s like the building... deletes people.”

They arrived back at the building by sunset. The golden light did nothing to make it feel warm. The second Eliza stepped out of the car, her breath caught in her throat.

The front door creaked open like it had been waiting.

Mr. Blackwell stood behind the desk, polishing keys as always. When he saw her, his eyes widened ever so slightly. “Miss Eliza. Back so soon?”

She squared her shoulders. “I left something behind.”

“And your friend?”

“This is Detective Mara Quinn,” Eliza said. “We’ll be quick.”

Mara smiled politely. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

Mr. Blackwell didn’t respond. He simply handed Eliza the key.

They climbed the stairs slowly. As they reached the third floor, Mara’s EMF detector began to blink.

“Reading already,” she muttered.

Apartment 9 loomed ahead.

Eliza turned the key. The lock clicked open.

Inside, everything looked the same—but it felt worse. Colder. More aware.

Mara moved room to room with practiced efficiency. She placed a voice recorder on the mantle, stuck motion sensors near the bathroom, and slid a thermal cam into the bookshelf.

“I want to provoke it,” Mara said. “See if it reacts.”

“I don’t think you need to provoke anything. It knows we’re here.”

Then came the whisper. Faint. Garbled.

“Did you hear that?” Eliza asked.

Mara nodded, clicking her recorder. “Say that again,” she called aloud.

Silence.

They entered the bathroom. The mirror had fogged despite no steam. One word written in the fog: RUN.

“That’s not ominous,” Mara muttered.

Suddenly, the lights flickered and went black. Something creaked across the ceiling. Heavy. Pacing.

Eliza grabbed Mara’s arm. “This is a bad idea.”

They stood still. The EMF meter was shrieking. Then came a soft tap tap tap from the wall. A pattern. A message?

The lights returned.

“We’re done for today,” Mara said. “I need to analyze everything.”

They walked past Mr. Blackwell, who watched from behind the desk, unmoving.

Back in Room 14 of the motel, Mara plugged in her devices. “Check this out,” she said, playing back thermal footage.

In one frame—there was a figure. A woman. Pale. Standing inches behind Eliza.

“She wasn’t there,” Eliza said, breath hitching.

“No,” Mara agreed. “She wasn’t. But she is now.”