The Phonograph in the Ceiling

The Pinewood Lodge sat at the edge of Lake Marrow, a body of water so still it seemed to hold its breath. My family had rented the entire second floor of the west wing, a maze of creaking corridors and floral wallpaper that smelled of mothballs and old wood. My cousin Lena and I shared the last room at the end of the hall, ‘The Bluebell Suite,’ according to the brass plaque by the door. The room was charming enough, with a bay window overlooking the lake and a painting of a ship in a storm that looked a bit too detailed.

We arrived in the late afternoon, threw our bags on the twin beds, and joined the rest of the family for a lakeside barbecue. The evening was filled with laughter, the crackle of the fire pit, and the occasional splash of a fish jumping. By the time we retired, the lodge had grown quiet, the only sound being the settling of old timber and the distant hoot of an owl. I fell asleep quickly, the day’s activities weighing on my eyelids.

At 3:37 AM, I woke to a sound that didn’t belong. It was music, faint but insistent, drifting from above. The melody was a languid Hawaiian tune, the kind you’d hear on a scratchy 78 RPM record from the 1940s. A woman’s voice, dreamy and distant, hummed along, punctuated by the pop and hiss of old vinyl. I lay still, listening, thinking that maybe a worker had left a radio on in an attic. But the resort was a two-story structure; the second floor was the top. I prodded Lena, but she grumbled and rolled over. I grabbed my swim earplugs from the nightstand, stuffed them in, and pulled the pillow over my head. The music persisted, a ghostly needle stuck in a groove, until dawn.

At breakfast, I approached the front desk. A middle-aged woman named Clara with a tight bun and a clipboard gave me a courteous smile. I asked about the attic. She blinked. ‘There’s no attic, dear. The roof is directly above your room. Just beams and insulation. Why do you ask?’ I told her about the music. Her smile flickered. ‘Perhaps it was the wind playing tricks. We’ve had guests swear they heard singing from the lake at night. But nothing above the second floor. No one works up there.’ I thanked her, unsettled, and rejoined my family for a morning hike.

That night, the music returned, this time louder, the static more pronounced. I could now make out fragments of words—’aloha’ and ‘lehua’ appeared in the lyrics. The voice sounded older, worn, as if the singer were weeping between lines. I shook Lena awake. ‘You hear that?’ She sat up, rubbing her eyes. ‘Hear what?’ The music was unmistakable to me. ‘That! The Hawaiian music from upstairs!’ Lena listened, then shook her head. ‘I don’t hear anything, Ellie. You’re just exhausted. Go back to sleep.’ I stared at the ceiling. The music stopped abruptly, as if the record had been lifted, replaced by a faint scratching—like claws on plaster. A voice, raspy and raw, whispered, ‘Let me in.’ My blood ran cold. I didn’t sleep.

The next evening, after my family had gone to bed, I stayed up with a flashlight and a notebook. I decided to investigate the ceiling. I dragged a chair from the desk and climbed up, pressing my ear against the plaster. The surface was cool, and for a moment, all was silent. Then, a faint vibration, a hum. I traced a seam in the wallpaper and noticed a small, almost invisible seam running along the edge of the ceiling—a trapdoor. My heart hammered. I pushed on it, and it gave way with a groan, revealing a dark opening above. A ladder descended. Gripping my flashlight, I climbed.

I emerged into a low, dusty space that smelled of mildew and old perfume. There were trunks, rolled rugs, and a heavy oak cabinet against one wall. On top of the cabinet sat an old wind-up phonograph, its horn coated in dust. The lid was open, and the record on the turntable was scratched and worn. Beside it, a stack of shellac records, all Hawaiian. I picked one up. The label read, ‘Aloha Oe – sung by Maria Kealoha.’ A shiver ran through me. I turned the crank on the phonograph, and the record began to spin. The same music filled the attic, but now it was clear, the female voice rich and sorrowful. As I listened, the voice began to change, layering with a whisper, a hiss—’

‘You shouldn’t have come.’ I spun around. A figure stood in the shadows, a woman in a floral dress, her face hidden. She stepped forward, and I saw her eyes—dark, hollow, and weeping black tears. ‘That was my song,’ she said. ‘I sang it for my lover, who never returned from the war. I waited here, in this room, until I died. They walled me in, you see. My body is behind that wall.’ She pointed to a section of the attic wall that was newly plastered, discolored. ‘They forgot to take my music.’

I stumbled back, but she moved closer. ‘You can hear me,’ she said, a smile stretching her cracked lips. ‘You’re the first in a hundred years. Now, you must join me. Sing with me, forever.’ The phonograph needle skipped, repeating a loop. The woman reached out, her fingers brushing my cheek, cold as ice. ‘Don’t fight it,’ she whispered. ‘The music is eternal.’

I screamed and scrambled down the ladder, slamming the trapdoor shut. I ran to the room, shaking. The music surged from the floorboards above, now loud and chaotic, a cacophony of static and wailing. My family was awake, gathered in the hallway, panicked. ‘What’s happening?’ my mother cried. I couldn’t speak. The lights flickered. The painting of the ship began to sway, and a low, melodic hum vibrated through the walls. The woman’s voice echoed through the corridor: ‘Join me, join me, join me…’

We fled the lodge that night, the staff bewildered. As we drove away, I looked back at the building. In the window of the Bluebell Suite, a figure stood—a woman in a floral dress, waving slowly. The radio in the car began to play, a scratchy old Hawaiian tune, and my sister screamed. It was the same song. I turned the dial, but every station carried the same melody. We drove in silence, the music following us down the mountain, until dawn broke and the song finally faded. But sometimes, when the night is quiet and the wind is still, I hear a faint crackle, and a woman’s voice whispering, ‘Aloha, my dear,’ from somewhere above—just out of reach.

I haven’t slept in a quiet room since. I always wear earplugs now. But I know, one day, the music will find me again. She promised.