Ellsworth and the Haunting of Room 319

The Haunting of Room 319 - Chapter Two

Chapter Two
Dayz to Nites Motel
7 A.M.


Chelsea kicked the door shut with her heel and dropped her bags like they weighed a hundred pounds. The room smelled faintly of microwave popcorn and stale carpet, but after eight hours of thunder, strangers’ sleep cycles, and one rogue call light, it felt like a five-star resort.

After a long, hot shower, she slipped into clean pajamas, grabbed the motel remote, and flopped onto the bed. She dug her phone from her purse and FaceTimed Al—the only thing she wanted more than sleep was his voice, still tinted with a faint German accent. His great-great-grandparents immigrated after WWI, settling first in Kentucky, then Colorado.

After a few seconds, Al appeared on-screen, lying on his bed with Salem, his tiny black kitten, curled on his chest.

Chelsea: “You won’t believe how many times the call light in 319 went off last night. Five. And the room’s empty.”

Al: (raising an eyebrow, scratching Salem’s head) “That’s one more than spooky. You sure you're not in a Scooby-Doo episode?”

Chelsea: “I even checked under the bed like a weirdo. Nothing. Just uneven floors and a crow with yellow eyes staring through the window.”

Al: (mock-serious) “Yellow eyes? That’s not a crow. That’s a harbinger.”

Chelsea: “What's that?”

Al: “It's a type of omen. Birds with yellow eyes usually mean someone’s hiding something. Or haunted land. Or both.”

Chelsea: (laughs) “Thanks, babe. I feel so much better now.”

Al: “Hey, if it gets worse, I’ll come down there with Salem and a bundle of sage.”

Chelsea: “Mmm…”

Al: “Still alive?”

Chelsea: “Barely. I think the storm fried the wiring. That call light kept going off all night. I can’t explain it—it was just... wrong.”

Al: “That’s the rehab center you said was built, like, five minutes ago?”

Chelsea: “Exactly. No one in their right mind would build a rehab center in a field like that. But now I’m wondering—what was there before?”

Al: “Sounds like a research mission. Want me to check property records from here?”

Chelsea: (laughs) “You might find a long-lost cemetery.”

They drifted into easy conversation about cats, weather, and books. After a few minutes, Chelsea’s eyelids began to droop. Al must’ve noticed too. He signed off with an I love you and told her to message him tonight.

She clicked out of the app, plugged her phone into the charger, and rubbed her eyes. But the image of room 319 flickered in her mind like static. She needed a distraction. Something familiar. As Chelsea leaned back on the ugly bed, a memory flooded in—Englewood, the geocaching convention, and the man who’d changed everything with a half-smile and a GPS tracker.

It was fall, the air crisp and pine-scented. Chelsea was crouched over a patch of needles in Belleview Park, squinting at a vague clue and grumbling at her uncooperative app.

“Try two feet west,” said a husky voice behind her.

She turned. A guy about her age—lean, blue-eyed, shaggy brown hair—stood holding a GPS tracker and a tin of cinnamon rolls from a local vegan bakery.

“What makes you think it’s west?” she asked.

He pointed to a tree etched faintly with the letters J.A.M.

“Old-school geocachers had weird humor,” he said. “That’s got to be a clue—initials, maybe?”

Together they dug around the tree’s base until they uncovered a tiny, weatherproof box wrapped in duct tape. Inside was a silver ring, and a folded-up note that read, For the next pair of curious souls.

Chelsea laughed. “That’s either adorable or serial-killer weird.”

“Could be both,” he replied, grinning. “I’m Al, short for my German name of Almorine. It means "work ruler," but please don't call me that.”

They grabbed coffee afterward, then spent hours walking and talking—haunted places, cemeteries, veganism, true crime, 1980s music, Victorian architecture. A week later, they were inseparable. Chelsea was crashing at Al’s rented 1940s bungalow four nights out of the week, and Al at her Denver loft apartment for the other three.

As the memory faded, Chelsea slipped under the motel’s thin sheets. She would have to use some money from her first payment to purchase a new set from the local Target. On the muted TV, a flicker caught her eye—a local news teaser scrolled silently across the bottom:

“One Hundred and fourteen years later, the Mysterious Disappearance of Ellsworth Pioneer, still fascinates the town!”

Her breath caught. Ellsworth, as the name of the town she was staying at for the next two weeks.

Before she could grab the remote, the screen went black. Just static. Then, from behind the motel wall—faint, but far too close—came the unmistakable sound of running water.