The Floor Above

The old boarding house on Racecourse Road had a history that clung to its walls like damp. It had been a sanatorium in the 1920s, then a nursing home, and now a warren of cramped rooms for students and migrants. The wooden floors creaked with the memory of gurneys, and the stairs seemed to breathe a stale, medicinal air. I moved into the top floor with two others, but the moment I crossed the threshold, I felt an unwanted presence, a cold weight in the air, as if the building itself was watching me. My roommates, Rhea and Tomas, had lived there for two years. They were practical, no-nonsense people, but before they left for the long weekend, Rhea grabbed my arm. ‘Be careful alone here,’ she said, her eyes darting to the ceiling. ‘It’s not just us. You’ll see.’ I laughed it off, but after they drove away, the silence of the building settled around me like a shroud.

Determined to ignore the unease, I locked myself in my room, switched on the air conditioner, and turned the TV to a loud action movie. I pulled the blanket up to my chin, trying to drown out the occasional creaks and groans of the old structure. But as the hours wore on, the noises became less random. There was a rhythmic thumping from the ceiling, right above my bed, as if someone was pacing. The floorboards in the hallway, which I knew were bare, produced soft, shuffling footsteps that stopped at my door. I turned up the volume, but the sounds grew bolder. A faint, high-pitched whine began to emanate from the corners of the room, like a kettle about to boil. I pressed my hands over my ears, but the whine seemed to come from inside my skull. Then, the TV flickered, and the picture warped into static, and through the static, I saw a blurred face. It was pressed against the window of a hospital room, staring in at me. The face was gaunt, with hollow cheeks and eyes that were like dark pits. I screamed and threw the remote at the screen, which shattered with a crack. The room plunged into silence and darkness, except for the faint glow of the AC’s standby light.

Breathing heavily, I fumbled for my phone and turned on the flashlight. The beam swept across the room, revealing peeling wallpaper and old stains. The AC unit hummed, but the air grew colder, and my breath began to fog. Then I realized the whine had started again, but now it was a low, mournful dirge, like a distant funeral hymn. I stood up, shaking, and crept to the door. The hallway was pitch black, but I could hear the sound of water dripping, a steady plink, plink, plink, from the bathroom further down. I had checked earlier that all taps were closed. My heart hammered as I eased the door open and stepped into the hallway. The light from my phone cast long, dancing shadows. The stairs at the end of the hall creaked, as if someone was slowly ascending. I wanted to run, to lock myself in any room, but my feet were rooted. The dripping stopped, and in its place, I heard a soft, guttural whisper, ‘We see you…’

I spun around, but there was no one. The whisper seemed to come from all directions. Then the ceiling above me began to bulge, the wooden boards bending downward as if a great weight were pressing on them. A fine dust trickled down, and the boards splintered. I looked up and saw, imprinted in the wood, the shape of a face. It was the same face from the TV, but now it was pressing through the ceiling, the wood stretching like skin over a shin. I screamed and ran for the stairs, but the door at the top of the landing slammed shut, and the lock clicked. I was trapped. The face pushed further out, a hand following, long and skeletal, reaching down for me. I swung my phone, but it passed through the limb. It felt like ice.

I stumbled back into my room and locked the door, pressing my back against it. The hand, now fully formed, was crawling across the ceiling, its fingers leaving wet trails. The walls began to weep a black, viscous liquid. The TV, though shattered, flickered back on, showing a grainy image of a hospital corridor. At the end of the corridor, a figure in a soiled gown stood. It was the woman from the ceiling, but now she seemed more and less solid at once. She took a step forward. I felt a pressure on my throat, as if invisible fingers were squeezing. I tried to scream, but no sound came. I fell to my knees, gasping, and the last thing I saw before the world went black was the woman’s face inches from mine, her mouth opening wide, wider than any human mouth should, and a sound like a thousand scratching claws filled the room.

When I woke, it was morning. The sun streamed through the grimy windows, and the room was normal again. The TV was off, the bed was neatly made, and there was no sign of the previous night’s horror. I rushed out, checking every corner, but the building was peaceful, humming with the distant noise of traffic. My roommates returned the next day, and I tried to tell them what happened, but they just exchanged a knowing glance. Tomas said, ‘You get used to it.’ Rhea added, ‘Just don’t go upstairs to the attic. That’s where they keep the old equipment.’ I looked at the ceiling, and for a moment, I thought I saw a faint dark smear, a shape, then it was gone. I moved out a week later, but I never shook the feeling of being watched, and sometimes, in the dead of night, I swear I hear that same low dirge, and the floor above me creaks, as if something is still pacing, just out of sight.