The Ceiling Fan’s Lullaby

The apartment on Magiting Street had always been a place of transient lives. I, Elara, shared the cramped two-bedroom unit with my cousins, Marco and Lianne. The compound, a tight cluster of seven units, buzzed with the noise of families, dogs, and the occasional karaoke session. Across from us, unit 4 had been vacant for months, its windows like vacant eyes staring into our living room.

I worked nights at a call center, handling complaints from customers across the Pacific. Marco, fresh from the province, had come to stay for a while. That evening, as I slipped on my sneakers and grabbed my backpack, Marco was sprawled on the living room mattress, scrolling through his phone. ‘I’ll be back by nine,’ I said. ‘Lianne should be home from school soon. Don’t wait up.’ He grunted, already half-asleep.

The night shift was uneventful, but a strange unease clung to me as I rode the jeepney home. The streets were quiet, the streetlights casting sickly yellow pools. As I approached our compound, I noticed the light in unit 4 was on. A flicker, like a candle, then a steady glow. I shrugged it off; perhaps the landlord had finally found a tenant.

Inside, the apartment was still. Marco was on the mattress, but he was sitting up, staring blankly at the ceiling fan, which spun lazily despite the cool air. ‘You’re up,’ I said, tossing my keys on the table. He didn’t respond. I called his name, and he slowly turned his head. His eyes were bloodshot, but he smiled. ‘Just couldn’t sleep,’ he said. ‘The fan is humming a lullaby.’ I frowned. The fan was old, creaky, but it made no discernible sound. I told him to get some rest and headed to bed.

The next morning, Lianne, who had arrived late from school, complained of a headache. She said she’d had a nightmare about a woman in a white dress standing in the corner of the room, singing. Marco, who usually laughed off such talk, nodded solemnly. ‘I saw her too,’ he whispered. ‘She was standing over me, humming.’ I felt a chill. I had seen nothing, but the vacant unit’s light had been on again.

Days passed. The unease grew. Marco became withdrawn, often found muttering to himself. Lianne started sleeping with the lights on. I, too, felt a presence, a weight in the air, as if the apartment was holding its breath. One night, I came home to find the curtains billowing, though the windows were shut. The ceiling fan spun in reverse, casting shadows that danced like figures.

Then Marco disappeared. His bed was empty, his phone left behind. Frantic, we searched the compound. The neighbors had not seen him. The only lead was the vacant unit. Its door was ajar. I pushed it open, and the smell of dust and decay hit me. Inside, the room was bare, but on the wall, scrawled in what looked like dried blood, were the words: ‘She sings me to sleep.’

Lianne and I called the police, but they found nothing. A tenant had moved out months ago, leaving behind a tragic tale: the previous occupant, an old woman, had died of a heartbreak after losing her son. Her only comfort was an old music box that played a haunting lullaby. The unit had been sealed ever since.

That night, we sat in our living room, the ceiling fan whirring above. Lianne was crying softly. I held her hand, trying to be strong. Then I heard it: a faint humming, coming from the fan, growing louder, harmonizing with the creak of the blades. The fan began to spin faster, its shadows casting grotesque shapes on the walls. In the center of the room, a figure materialized, an old woman in a tattered white dress, her eyes hollow, her lips moving in a silent song. She reached out a bony hand toward Lianne.

I screamed, grabbing Lianne, and we stumbled out of the apartment, out of the compound, onto the cold street. We never went back. The landlord later told us that the vacant unit had been rented out again, but the tenant moved out within a week, claiming they heard a woman singing from the ceiling.

To this day, whenever I hear the hum of a ceiling fan, my heart races. And sometimes, in the dead of night, I swear I can hear that lullaby, drifting from the vacant unit, calling me back to the apartment on Magiting Street.