The Ceiling Tiles

I moved into the old apartment above the all-night pharmacy on Thorne Street because the rent was a steal, and my roommate, Elara, and I were both desperate for a place with enough room for our things. We’d been there for about two months when we started to notice little things. Dishes would be in the sink when we were sure we’d washed them, the bathroom mirror would be fogged when no one had showered, and sometimes, in the dead of night, we’d hear footsteps in the hallway, soft as if someone was tiptoeing, even though we were the only ones on the third floor.

We blamed the old building’s creaky joints and our own busy minds. I worked nights as a line cook, and Elara was a veterinary assistant with a schedule that had her up at odd hours. We were always tired, always a little on edge. But then, one quiet Sunday afternoon when Elara was visiting her parents, I decided to catch up on sleep. I drew the curtains against the pale autumn sun, kicked off my shoes, and lay down on my bed, which was tucked into the corner of my room, the wall just a few inches from the mattress.

I must have drifted off quickly, but I was in that weird state between sleep and waking when I heard a sound to my right. It was a soft, rhythmic padding, like someone walking in slippers on the worn carpet. Back and forth, back and forth, right beside my bed. I thought it was Elara, but I knew she was gone. I tried to open my eyes, to see who or what was making that noise, but my eyelids were heavy, as if weighted with stones. I forced them open, just a crack, and the world was blurry, but I could make out the shape of something tall and dark near my nightstand.

I tried to sit up, to speak, but my body was frozen. Panic clawed at my chest as I realized I couldn’t move, not a finger, not a toe. The pressure was immense, like a heavy blanket made of wet sand was crushing me into the mattress. I fought against it, willing my arms to move, but they were dead weights. The pacing stopped. I felt a shift in the air, a cold draft that smelled of dust and old medicine, and I knew, without a doubt, that the presence was now right next to me, leaning over.

My heart hammered against my ribs, and I tried to scream, but only a thin whimper escaped my lips. Then, I felt an impossible sensation: a cool, gentle touch on my shoulder, almost like a hand, and then a soft pressure that spread across my back, as if it was embracing me. A voice, low and raspy, like dry leaves scraping concrete, whispered directly into my ear, ‘Don’t cry.’ It was so close that I could feel the faint breath on my skin. I wanted to sob, but I was too terrified to make a sound.

It pulled away, and I heard the soft padding again, moving away from the bed, toward the door. The pressure on my body eased, and I was finally able to move my head. I turned to see the door slowly swinging shut, as if pushed by an unseen hand. The room was empty, but the air was still thick with that scent of dust and medicine. I lay there, trembling, for what felt like an hour, before I could force myself to sit up.

When Elara returned that evening, I told her everything, expecting her to laugh it off. Instead, she turned pale and told me that she had woken up one night with a similar feeling of being held down, and she had heard a voice whisper, ‘You’re not alone.’ We both started researching sleep paralysis, thinking that would explain it, but nothing we found mentioned whispers or footsteps or that suffocating sense of being watched.

We decided to look into the history of the building. The pharmacy downstairs had been there since the 1950s, but the apartments above had been let out to various tenants over the years. Our landlord, a gruff old man named Mr. Harlow, was surprisingly forthcoming when we asked about the building’s past. He told us that the apartment we were in had been occupied by a reclusive widow named Marta, who had died on the premises nearly thirty years ago. She had no family, and it took weeks for anyone to notice. They found her in this very room, in her bed, with a peaceful expression on her face.

‘But there was something odd,’ Mr. Harlow said, lowering his voice. ‘The only thing out of place was a bottle of sleeping pills on her nightstand, but the pharmacist said she’d never filled that prescription. And there were scattered pages of her diary on the floor, but the only legible entry said, ‘The pacing won’t stop. It won’t let me rest.’ He shrugged and said he didn’t believe in ghosts, but he told us that if we ever felt unsafe, we could break the lease without penalty.

Elara and I looked at each other, our fears confirmed. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening for the sound of padding footsteps. And I heard them, soft and steady, from the corridor outside my room. They stopped right outside my door, and I heard a faint whisper, so faint I almost missed it: ‘Don’t cry.’ I held my breath, waiting, but nothing else happened. The footsteps receded, and the apartment fell silent.

We moved out the next week, but I still can’t shake the feeling that something followed us. Sometimes, in the dead of night, when I’m in my new place, I hear a soft padding outside my bedroom door, and I find myself whispering back, ‘I won’t.’