The Ceiling Light

I was staying at my aunt’s new flat in Edinburgh, a sleek modern place with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the Firth of Forth. My aunt, a former colleague of my mother’s and a fellow enthusiast of all things magical, had secured tickets to a special exhibit at the Royal Museum, and I was to spend the night before we went. The flat was only a year old, all polished concrete and frosted glass, and I found its newness oddly disquieting. There was this peculiar hum in the walls, like the building was breathing, and the lights flickered even when the switches were off.

That night, after a dinner of takeaway curry, my aunt retired to her room, leaving me in the guest bedroom. I read for a while on my tablet, then switched off the bedside lamp, which was one of those touch-sensitive ones, dimming it to a warm orange glow before settling in. I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, and that’s when I heard it: a soft, sibilant whisper, right next to my ear. It was not a voice, more like the rustling of dry leaves, and it was saying words I couldn’t quite catch. I froze, my heart thudding.

I turned over, pulling the duvet up to my chin, and then I heard a whistle from the foot of the bed. It was a clear, piercing whistle, two notes, rising and falling, as if someone were calling a dog. I fumbled for the lamp, touching it to full brightness, and in that sudden glare, I heard two low growls, right beside me. The sound was so deep and guttural, I felt it in my chest. I burst into tears, fumbling for my phone, and called my mother, who told me to stay on the line until I fell asleep.

The next morning, I told my aunt about the incident over tea. She frowned, stirring her drink slowly. ‘You know, this flat has been giving me the creeps ever since I moved in. The previous tenant, a writer, left suddenly. They found him at the bottom of the stairwell. They said it was an accident, but I’ve never felt right here. There’s something about the light in this room. It’s always slightly off. And at night, I swear I hear things.’ She paused, looking at the ceiling. ‘You know, the builder who constructed these flats was a bit odd. He used to install these small, circular mirrors in the ceilings. They said it was for feng shui, but I had this one covered with a plaster rose. But maybe…’ She trailed off.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, and I remembered something. The first night, before I turned off the light, I had noticed a faint, shimmering circle on the ceiling, right above the bed. I had dismissed it as a reflection from some metallic surface. Now, with the lamp on, it was clearly a small, round mirror, embedded in the plaster, and it seemed to be moving. I watched it, and the whisper came again, clearer this time. It said, ‘Come up.’ I felt a cold breeze, and the room darkened, as if a cloud passed over. The ceiling light, which had been off, flickered on, then off. I screamed.

My aunt burst in, and I pointed at the ceiling. She looked up, and I saw her face pale. ‘That’s not the mirror I covered,’ she whispered. ‘That’s a different one.’ In the shaking light of her torch, we saw that the ceiling was covered in a pattern of tiny, dark cracks, like veins, and they were spreading. From the mirror, a thin, dark thread began to descend, swaying gently, as if it were alive. The whisper returned, now like a chorus, repeating, ‘Come up, come up.’ And from the mirror, a face began to appear, a gaunt, grey visage, its mouth stretched wide in a silent scream.

We fled the flat that night, and never returned. But sometimes, when I lie in bed, I touch my lamp to its lowest setting, and I hear that whistle, and I look up, expecting to see a mirror in my ceiling. But there is none. Yet the whisper follows me, a soft, insistent sibilance, and I know that somewhere, in that empty flat, the ceiling light still flickers, casting its grey light on a room that waits for someone to answer the call.