The Wait at the Whispering Pines Motel

Scarborough, Maine, October 1993. I was working the graveyard shift at the Whispering Pines Motel—a low-slung roadside place on Route 1, the kind with flickering neon and a perpetually empty pool. Around 1:17 AM, a man checked in. No luggage. No car in the lot. He paid with a damp twenty-dollar bill and asked for Room 14. He told me he was waiting for a call. He said it would come through the motel phone, not a cell phone, because the person calling didn't own one. He sat on the edge of the bed, the receiver pressed to his ear, for three hours. Then the call came. I heard it ring from the office extension. He picked up, listened, and said nothing. After he hung up, he walked out into the October fog and never came back. The call was for someone who had been dead since 1987. This is a story about waiting—for a voice that only reaches you through the right line, at the right hour, on the right side of silence. #WhisperingPinesMotel #ScarboroughMaine #Route1 #October1993 #GraveyardShift #Room14 #TheWait #DeadLine #Fog #MotelHorror #PhoneCallFromTheDead #Silence #Luna #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #WhisperLines #AnthologyHorror #SwitchboardOperator Keep every episode free: buymeacoffee.com/fexingo