"Apartment 9C is locked from the inside."

That was the first thing Maya heard when she arrived at the building. A small, wrinkled woman in a grey cardigan said it like a warning — or maybe a confession.

Maya, a fearless investigative journalist, had moved into the crumbling apartment complex after hearing rumors: unexplained disappearances, whispers behind the walls, neighbors avoiding one specific unit. And always the same number. 9C.

Her first night, Maya heard the sound of tapping — slow and deliberate. Coming from behind her bathroom mirror. She dismissed it as pipes... until she saw a single word form in the condensation:

"RUN."

Each day, the hallway grew darker, even in daylight. The elevator skipped her floor, and the neighbors refused to speak about 9C. One of them even dropped his groceries and mumbled, “There is no 9C.”

But Maya lived there. And every night, the same pattern of knocks began:

3 knocks.

Silence.

2 knocks.

Silence.

1 knock.

It was a code. And she was determined to break it.

On the seventh night, Maya removed the mirror from the bathroom wall. Behind it, she found a hidden crawlspace... and inside, an old tape recorder still playing static.

As she pressed PLAY, a child’s voice echoed:

“Don’t trust the one who smiles. They locked us in here... and they keep us quiet.”

Suddenly, her apartment door slammed shut. The lights went out. The tapping started again — this time from inside the walls.

When police later arrived, Apartment 9C was found empty. No sign of Maya. No mirror.

And the tape?

It played one final message:

“Another voice for the silence...”