The Caller From Apartment 9B

The Wilcox Apartments were old, their paint peeling and windows warped with age. Tenants had long whispered about creaks in the night, but recently, something more sinister had begun. Around midnight, phones rang. Those who answered heard a trembling, terrified voice: “Help me… he’s here.” The first few dismissals called it a prank, but the calls persisted, each more desperate than the last. Residents began marking the time, noting that the voice always came from the same number—Apartment 9B. Only problem was 9B had been sealed for decades after a gruesome murder that left the entire building unsettled.

Those who dared investigate the source of the calls reported strange phenomena. Footsteps echoed down empty halls. Doors creaked open on their own. Some claimed the faint smell of decay lingered in the air. Shadows darted in the corners of their eyes, always gone when looked at directly. One tenant swore she saw a faint silhouette in the window of 9B, though lights had long been removed. Police were called, but even officers felt uneasy. They examined the apartment—boarded, dust-laden, untouched—but no one could explain the origin of the voice. The apartment seemed frozen in time, yet alive with malice.

Rumors circulated among tenants. They spoke of a woman, young and beautiful, who had once lived in 9B. Her name was never officially recorded, and official records seemed to vanish from city archives. Stories told of a jealous lover, a man who had cornered her one rainy night. Neighbors recounted screams muffled by walls, banging that echoed through the corridors. No evidence ever linked anyone to her disappearance, yet her presence lingered. The apartment’s doors were bolted shut, windows nailed, yet the cries persisted. Late-night wanderers claimed they could feel her desperation, her terror, as though the walls themselves were pleading for help.

The phone calls became more specific over time. “He’s here… don’t let him take me!” one whisper shrieked. Another tenant reported the voice describing exact positions in the apartment: a chair overturned, a lamp dangling from its cord, a shadow in the corner. Police questioned each caller, trying to determine if someone had rigged a sophisticated prank, but the stories always matched—down to the most minute details. No technology explained it. Electronic traces led nowhere. Apartment 9B existed as an empty tomb, yet the cries carried through the lines as if the apartment itself were speaking, begging someone, anyone, to intervene.

One night, a curious tenant, Mark, decided to trace the origin. Armed with a flashlight and courage fueled by skepticism, he crept toward 9B. The hallway stretched, warped under the flickering lights. Each step seemed heavier than the last. Reaching the door, he pressed an ear to the wood. Footsteps sounded behind him, slow, dragging, though the corridor remained empty. Cold seeped into his bones. He nearly dropped his flashlight when a voice hissed through the door: “Don’t come in… he’ll know.” Trembling, Mark stumbled back, heart hammering. Somehow, he knew the warnings were genuine. The apartment wanted to stay undisturbed.

Despite warnings, others became obsessed with 9B. Teenagers dared each other to peek through the cracks, expecting a thrill. They found only dust, broken furniture, and the faint smell of decay, yet at night, the phones rang, each call repeating the same plea. Authorities tried to install a lock system, thinking the building’s old wiring caused the anomalies. But the locks failed mysteriously. CCTV cameras captured fleeting shadows and sudden blackouts. One frame showed a fleeting figure in a white dress, her face turned toward the camera for a moment, but when enhanced, the details were gone—smudged as if erased by fear itself.

A retired police officer revealed he had visited 9B years prior. He remembered the smell first—a cloying stench of rot that made him gag. Then the sounds began: muffled crying, faint whispers pleading for mercy. He swore the air grew heavier as if the apartment inhaled him. He left, shaking, and never returned. Yet the phone calls persisted. His account gave the tenants chills, validating their fears. The legend grew, whispers of a ghostly presence that haunted the building. People began avoiding 9B, speaking of it only in hushed tones. Curiosity became danger, the past reaching into the present.

Police eventually discovered hidden recordings inside 9B. Among the dust and debris, a small, outdated tape recorder whirred faintly, as if waiting. Officers played the tapes and froze. Screams pierced the speakers, muffled threats, and the unmistakable voice of a woman begging for her life. The recordings were old, grainy, yet unbearably real. Experts attempted to date them, but their analysis yielded no conclusive timeline. It was as if the apartment itself had recorded the trauma, preserving it endlessly. The realization struck everyone present: something unnatural was keeping the horrors alive, refusing to let the woman’s story fade into silence.

Some tenants tried reasoning with the phenomenon, leaving notes under the door, whispering into the phone, even praying. Each attempt resulted in a more desperate response. The calls intensified. “He’s coming back… don’t let him!” The apartment seemed to anticipate interference, responding as if it had memory. Investigators speculated about residual energy, a psychic imprint left from the murder. But the experience was visceral, tangible—the hair standing on their arms, the air thickening, the lights flickering with invisible fingers. No rational explanation sufficed. Residents began moving out, fearing that mere contact with 9B could invite the horrors into their own lives.

A journalist, eager for a sensational story, spent a night recording in the building. He set up cameras, audio devices, and an extra line. Midnight arrived. The phones rang simultaneously, the voice shrieking, “He’s here… he won’t stop!” The journalist captured everything—the shadow moving across the hallway, the faint glow from a window, the floorboards creaking though empty. Later, playback revealed impossible details: reflections of a figure in glass that no camera could have caught, whispers continuing even after the phone line was cut. He left the next morning pale, muttering that 9B had eyes, ears, and memory.

New tenants ignored the warnings, dismissing the story as folklore. Within weeks, they reported the same haunting experiences: phones ringing at midnight, doors creaking, and shadows flickering. One tenant awoke to a cold hand on their shoulder, no one there. Lights in 9B pulsed in rhythm with the ringing phones. Calls grew frantic, describing the exact location of every furniture item in the room, even broken remnants from decades ago. The apartment seemed to communicate through terror itself, luring anyone curious enough to investigate. Word spread that answering the phone was dangerous—yet fascination drew people back, night after night.

Historians later dug into city archives, uncovering the story of a woman who vanished from 9B in the 1970s. A man with a violent history had been suspected, but insufficient evidence left the case unresolved. The apartment was sealed, condemned, yet its legacy endured. People claimed to feel her presence lingering in the hallways—a sorrowful weight that pressed against their chests. Phone calls, shadows, and faint sounds became the modern echoes of her terror. The story spread beyond Wilcox Apartments, a cautionary tale of unresolved violence and restless spirits, a reminder that some pasts refuse to remain buried.

Visitors reported hallucinations, though doctors attributed them to stress and sleep deprivation. Yet the patterns were too consistent: voices repeating identical phrases, shadows moving with impossible timing. Even technology failed to explain the phenomenon. Phones rang when unplugged, cameras captured fleeting figures invisible to the human eye. Locals began leaving protective charms by the hallway entrance, but the apartment seemed to shrug them off, persisting in its haunting. Curiosity, it seemed, was the only true threat. Apartment 9B had a memory, a will, a consciousness shaped by decades of fear. The past was active, and the building’s walls whispered, warning all who dared to listen.

One brave historian spent nights documenting every call and shadow, piecing together a timeline. Each midnight call corresponded to a significant moment from the night of the murder: screams, doors slamming, footsteps across the floor. Patterns emerged—calls increasing on anniversaries, lights flickering in sync with long-dead clocks. Attempts to remove the apartment’s wiring or phones were futile; the phenomenon persisted. Eventually, even the historian fled, haunted by the experience. Locals whispered that the apartment had trapped the woman’s essence and her fear, preserving it eternally, ensuring that anyone who entered—or answered the phone—would bear witness to a horror that refused to die.

The legend of 9B became infamous. Police avoided answering calls after midnight, tenants moved away in waves, and the building became infamous among ghost hunters. Some skeptics tried to rationalize, citing wiring anomalies, psychological contagion, or hallucinations. But even they admitted an unsettling truth: something was wrong in Apartment 9B. Lights flickered at random, shadows appeared on recording devices, and the voice continued to call, whispering warnings, reciting pleas, recounting her terror. The apartment was more than haunted—it was sentient, aware, waiting for those foolish enough to listen. Many feared that the moment you picked up the phone, it might never let you go.

Today, the Wilcox Apartments remain partially abandoned. Some tenants report seeing a figure at the end of the hall, a woman in tattered white, silently staring from 9B. Phones sometimes ring at midnight, though the number is unlisted. Neighbors swear the flickering lights are her heartbeat, the cries her breath. Urban explorers speak of the cold, of the weight pressing against their chest, of the whispered, desperate “help me” that chills the soul. The legend is clear: answer the phone, and the past reaches out. Apartment 9B does not forgive. Apartment 9B does not forget. It waits. And it remembers.

September 4, 2025 0

The Singing Locket

In the spring of 1924, the town of Mill’s Crossing celebrated the wedding of Eleanor Gray, a young woman known for her beauty and her silver singing voice. But joy turned to tragedy. On her wedding night, a storm swept through the valley, and the carriage carrying Eleanor and her husband overturned while crossing the river. Her husband crawled free, but Eleanor was swallowed by the current. Days of searching turned up nothing—until a fisherman found her locket, still clasped shut, lying on the muddy riverbank. The groom insisted it be buried with her, but it vanished before the funeral. The locket reappeared years later in a pawnshop two towns over, its chain tarnished but intact. The shopkeeper claimed he purchased it from a drifter who found it “singing” near the old river bridge. Inside was a faded photograph of Eleanor, though her eyes seemed blurred, as though the image resisted being captured. In 1931, the Mill’s Crossing Historical Society purchased the locket for their collection. They displayed it in a glass case, proud to preserve a piece of local history. But it didn’t take long before guards began to notice something peculiar—soft humming coming from the sealed case at night.

Night guards insisted the sound wasn’t imagination. Each swore the melody matched a lullaby popular in the 1800s—a song mothers once sang to calm their children. The sound grew faint whenever lights were switched on, but in the darkness, it carried through the empty halls. Visitors dismissed it as creaking pipes or drafty walls. But one winter evening, a curator lingered late and heard her own name whispered through the hum. She fled the museum, resigning the next day. Since then, stories spread: the locket doesn’t simply sing—it calls. And those it calls rarely enjoy a peaceful end. In 1947, a young couple visited the museum. Witnesses claimed the woman pressed her hand against the glass of the locket’s case, joking it was “romantic.” Days later, her body was found near a reservoir fifty miles away. She had no reason to be there, and no sign explained her drowning. Stranger still, the locket was discovered in her palm, though the museum swore it had never been removed from its case. The next morning, it was back inside the glass, fogged with condensation as though it had been underwater all night. Fearful, staff covered the display with black cloth.

In the 1950s, a night keeper named Harold Reeves began documenting his experiences. His diary describes the locket humming more loudly near anniversaries of Eleanor’s death. On some nights, the sound grew so strong the glass case vibrated. Reeves wrote of footsteps echoing near the display, though he was alone in the building. His final entry chilled readers: “The case was open when I arrived. The locket was gone. I can still hear the lullaby. It’s inside my head now. If this is my last entry, I know where I’ll be found.” Three days later, Harold’s body surfaced in the river. Over the decades, at least four museum employees vanished under suspicious circumstances, each one assigned to monitor the artifact. One was found drowned in his bathtub, though his lungs contained river water. Another disappeared on her walk home, her shoes and purse discovered neatly arranged beside the riverbank. Each case left behind one disturbing commonality: the locket was present at the scene, damp and gleaming, only to return mysteriously to its museum case the next day. By then, even skeptics admitted the object defied explanation. The town began whispering a new belief: Eleanor Gray’s spirit had never stopped searching.

Local historians uncovered a darker truth in the archives. Eleanor’s marriage may not have been as blissful as the town believed. Letters revealed her groom had a mistress, and on the day of the accident, Eleanor intended to confront him. Some speculate her death was not an accident at all, but a curse—her grief and rage binding her spirit to the locket. Folklorists argue the humming is her voice, endlessly calling out to her unfaithful husband, pulling others into the river as stand-ins for the man she lost. Whether revenge or despair, her spirit seems unable—or unwilling—to rest. In 1978, a group of college students broke into the museum on a dare. They filmed themselves mocking the display, daring one another to open the case. In the surviving footage, the camera captures a hand reaching toward the glass—then a loud crack. The screen fills with static, and the film abruptly ends. Weeks later, two of the students drowned during a lake party, their bodies clutching the locket. The third vanished completely, though his camera was found at the river’s edge. The museum strengthened its security, but locals still whisper that the locket chooses when and how it leaves.

By the 1990s, the Singing Locket became a magnet for paranormal groups. Investigators reported electromagnetic spikes around the case, recording devices filled with faint whispers. Some claimed the locket shifted position when no one touched it, tilting toward certain individuals. A psychic who examined the artifact refused to return, insisting the spirit inside was not Eleanor but something far older, using her grief as a mask. Whatever the truth, visitors often described the same sensation when near the display: the sudden smell of river water, cold against the skin, as though they’d stepped into the current themselves. Few lingered long. Despite mounting tales, museum officials publicly dismissed the stories, fearing the reputation of their institution. Press releases insisted the locket was “a harmless artifact,” and drowned victims were tragic coincidences. But staff whispered otherwise. Employees rotated shifts to avoid long nights near the exhibit. Some resigned outright, claiming the lullaby grew louder each time they ignored it. One former employee later admitted the case’s lock often appeared tampered with, though security footage showed nothing. The official stance remained denial, but within Mill’s Crossing, locals knew better. They avoided the museum altogether, leaving only tourists to wander too close to the locket’s call.

One of the most unsettling mysteries of the Singing Locket is its ability to return. No matter how often it is taken—stolen, lost, or carried to a grave—it always reappears in its display, dripping water across the glass. In 2006, thieves broke into the museum and stole several artifacts, including the locket. The next morning, police found the burglars drowned in a nearby creek, their loot scattered. The locket had already returned to the case before investigators arrived, as though it had never left. Even the boldest thieves now leave it untouched, unwilling to risk the curse that follows. Eyewitnesses describe the lullaby in different ways—some say it’s soft and mournful, others claim it turns sharp and commanding. Recordings have been attempted, but playback produces only static. One folklorist swore the lyrics changed depending on the listener, calling them by name, offering comfort, or whispering warnings. Survivors of close encounters often describe the same phrase repeated in Eleanor’s fading voice: “Come with me.” Whether it’s a plea for company in her watery grave or a demand for eternal companionship, no one can say. What is clear is that once the song finds you, it never truly lets go.

In 2012, folklore professor Linda Murray began researching the locket for a lecture series. She interviewed staff, studied police reports, and even spent nights near the case. Her students noted she became increasingly pale, claiming she hadn’t slept. During her final lecture, she stopped mid-sentence, humming softly to herself. She left the hall abruptly and was never seen again. Two days later, her car was found parked by the river. On the driver’s seat lay her notes, damp, the ink bleeding. The last line was nearly illegible, but one word remained clear: “listening.” The locket hummed louder that week than ever before. Desperate, the museum attempted to neutralize the artifact. Clergy performed blessings, psychics conducted rituals, and paranormal researchers set up protective wards. None succeeded. The humming continued, sometimes muffled, sometimes piercing, always present. Eventually, curators sealed the case with chains and draped it in black cloth, hoping concealment would weaken its influence. Still, visitors claim the cloth shifts on its own, pulsing in rhythm to an unseen breath. On stormy nights, the lullaby grows so strong it can be heard outside the building. Locals cross the street rather than walk past the museum doors when the sky turns dark.

Today, the Singing Locket remains the museum’s most infamous exhibit. Some visitors travel from far away, eager to test the legend, pressing their hands against the chained case. Most walk away unharmed—at least at first. Online forums track reports of accidents, drownings, and disappearances linked to those who mocked the artifact. The legend spreads through digital age whispers: videos of fogged glass, recordings of faint humming, even live streams that cut to static when the case is approached. Whether skeptic or believer, one rule emerges again and again: never let the locket sing your name. For those it chooses, water always follows. The Singing Locket rests where it always has—in its glass case, chained and cloaked, glowing faintly in the museum’s darkened hall. It waits for the curious, the skeptical, the daring. Some say the humming has grown louder in recent years, as if Eleanor’s spirit grows restless, or whatever inhabits the locket grows stronger. Perhaps one day it will leave its case entirely, no longer bound to fogged glass. Until then, the lullaby continues, soft and sweet, promising comfort. But those who hear it know the truth: the song is not an invitation—it’s a snare. And the river is always waiting.

August 23, 2025 0