The Ceiling Game

In the autumn of 2011, three months after my mother passed away, I was trying to get my four-year-old twins, Maya and Leo, to take their afternoon nap. They had been restless all day, but as I tucked them into their beds, they suddenly burst into fits of giggles, their small bodies shaking with laughter. I tried to shush them, but the more I tried, the harder they laughed. Finally, I gave up and joined in, laughing along with them.

That’s when Maya pointed at the ceiling and said, ‘You see him too, Mommy?’ I asked, ‘See who, sweetheart?’ Leo chimed in, ‘Grandpa! He’s floating up there, making funny faces at us.’ My heart skipped a beat. My mother had always made faces at them to get them to laugh, especially that silly cross-eyed look she used to do. I looked up, but all I saw was the white plaster ceiling with a hairline crack. Yet, at that moment, a soothing warmth washed over me, and I felt an overwhelming sense of love, just like when she used to hug me. It was comforting, but also strange.

That evening, as I was preparing dinner in the kitchen, I heard the twins giggling again from the living room. I peeked in and saw them pointing at the corner of the room, chattering to someone I couldn’t see. They said ‘Grandma’ was playing hide-and-seek with them, disappearing behind the curtains. I smiled, thinking it was just their imagination. But then, the giggles turned into frightened cries. I ran in to find them huddled together, tears streaming down their faces. ‘She’s not smiling anymore,’ Maya sobbed. ‘She’s just staring at us, and her face is all wrong.’

That night, I couldn’t shake off a chill that ran down my spine. I decided to put the children to bed early. As I tucked them in, they both looked at the ceiling with wide eyes. ‘She’s up there again,’ Leo whispered. ‘She has red eyes.’ I looked up, and for a split second, I thought I saw a dark silhouette clinging to the ceiling, with glowing red pinpoints where eyes should be. I blinked, and it was gone. That’s when I noticed the temperature in the room had dropped, and the air felt heavy.

The next day, I tried to brush it off as a overactive imagination, but the children refused to enter their room. They said ‘Grandma’ was angry because they told me about her. I called my brother, who had moved away, and hesitantly told him about the strange occurrences. He laughed nervously and said, ‘You always were too imaginative.’ But then he added, ‘Actually, Mom used to tell me about a game she played as a child, called ‘The Ceiling Game.’ She said angry spirits would try to convince children to play, and if you looked at them too long, they’d follow you. She said her grandmother told her never to look up at night, or they’d come for you.’

That night, I decided to sleep in the twins’ room to keep them calm. They were quietly drifting off when I heard a faint scratching sound above me. I looked up, against my better judgment, and saw a twisted, shadowy figure crawling across the ceiling, its head rotating unnaturally. It had my mother’s face, but contorted into a grotesque mask of hatred. It let out a low, guttural growl. I squeezed my eyes shut and whispered, ‘Mom, if you love us, leave us alone.’ But the scratching grew louder, and I felt a cold presence pressing down on me.

I woke up in the morning, disoriented. The twins were asleep, but both had small, red marks on their necks, as if they’d been pinched. I knew then that this wasn’t my mother’s spirit; it was something evil wearing her face. That afternoon, I packed the kids into the car and drove to my aunt’s house, a hundred miles away. For the first few days, nothing happened. But on the third night, I heard the familiar giggling from their room. I rushed in and found them pointing at the ceiling, laughing. But their eyes were empty, and their laughter sounded hollow. My blood ran cold.

I grabbed them, shaking them gently. ‘What do you see?’ I demanded. ‘You see him too, Mommy?’ they said in unison. ‘He’s floating up there, making silly faces at us.’ I looked up, and there was the same dark figure, but now it wore my mother’s face as a mask, skin hanging loose. It began to descend, and I knew there was no escape. I grabbed the children and ran, but as I reached the door, I heard my aunt’s voice behind me, ‘You see him too?’ But when I turned, it was the creature, wearing my mother’s skin. I screamed.

I woke up in a hospital bed, the twins crying in the next room. The doctors said I’d suffered a breakdown from grief. But I know what I saw. They have me on medication now, but I still hear the scratching at night, and sometimes I catch glimpses of that face in mirrors. The twins refuse to acknowledge anything strange, but they’ve started sleeping with their eyes open. I don’t know how long I can hold back the darkness that came with my mother’s death. It’s still there, floating on the ceiling, waiting for me to look up.