The Tin Roof Psalm

The boarding house in Dumaguete wasn’t much to look at—a squat, two-story structure with peeling paint and a corrugated tin roof that sang with every rain. My room, shared with three other students, faced a narrow alley that smelled of damp earth and fried fish. We had a cramped kitchenette, a single bulb that flickered, and a window that didn’t quite fit its frame, letting in a persistent draft that whispered through the gaps. In the backyard, a gnarled acacia tree leaned over a broken fence, its roots cracking the concrete. There was no garden, only a patch of dirt where a neighbor’s dog sometimes dug for bones. We had a pet gecko named Bruno, who lived behind the fridge and was the unofficial guardian of our leftovers.

I was an insomniac. At two in the morning, the house had its own rhythm—the hum of the refrigerator, the occasional creak of wood as the house settled, the distant bark of a stray. But that night, the rhythm was off. A new sound, faint and tinny, like a muffled bell, came from somewhere behind the kitchen wall. I thought it was the water heater, but it was too irregular. It would ring three times, pause, then ring once. I tried to sleep, but the pattern repeated for an hour. Curiosity got the better of me. I slipped out of bed, barefoot, and padded to the kitchen. The sound seemed to come from the wall where the pipes ran up to the second floor. I pressed my ear against the cold plaster. It was clearer now—not a bell, but a single, high-pitched note, like a distant flute, but wrong. It had a buzzing quality, like a mosquito trapped in a jar.

I remembered reading about the house’s history. The landlord, an old man named Uy, had told us that the place was built on what used to be a cemetery for the town’s early settlers. He’d laughed it off, saying the ghosts were friendly. I’d dismissed it as a joke. But now, I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the draft. I decided to knock on the wall, just to break the pattern. Three quick knocks. The sound stopped. I counted thirty seconds of silence. Then, from the wall, came three knocks in reply—deliberate, echoing my own. My heart hammered. I knocked once. A single knock answered. I ran back to my room, slammed the door, and didn’t sleep until the sun rose.

I told my roommates the next morning. Our group was a mix of skeptics and believers. My friend, a lanky engineering student named Carlo, laughed it off. ‘It’s just pipes,’ he said. But our housemate, a quiet nursing student named Rosa, turned pale. She said she’d felt something ‘watching’ her from the kitchen window at night. We decided to test it. That evening, we sat in the kitchen, the bare bulb buzzing overhead. Carlo was teasing me, tapping his glass. ‘Like this?’ he said, tapping three times. The response came from the wall—three taps, sharper. Carlo’s face went blank. We all froze. Then Rosa whispered, ‘There’s something in the wall.’

We contacted Uy, who reluctantly admitted that the previous owner had a son who died young—a boy who supposedly loved to play a homemade flute. He’d died in the 1950s, and his bones were said to be buried under the kitchen floor. The stories had faded, but the previous tenants had reported ‘tapping’ noises. Uy had never found a body. He offered to call a priest, but we were determined to discover the truth ourselves.

That night, I had a dream. I saw a small boy in muddy shorts, sitting on a wooden crate, playing a flute made of bamboo. He looked at me with hollow eyes and pointed to the corner of the kitchen, where the floorboards were loose. When I woke, I knew what I had to do.

The next afternoon, I pried up the loose floorboard. Underneath, I found a tin box, rusted and half-eaten by termites. Inside was a child’s flute, a few marbles, and a yellowed photograph of a boy with a gap-toothed smile. On the back was written: ‘For Samuel, my son, who loved the rain.’ I felt a sudden pressure in the air, and the flute in my hand grew cold. Then, from the wall, came the same melody I’d heard in my dream—a sad, looping tune that seemed to call me.

I didn’t tell the others about the flute. I kept it in my drawer, hoping it would stop. But that night, I woke to the sound of the melody coming from beside my bed. In the dim glow of the streetlight, I saw the silhouette of a small figure sitting on my window sill, playing a flute. In the darkness, I could not see a face, but I heard a whisper, like dry leaves: ‘You found it. Now play with me.’

I tried to scream, but my voice was stuck. The figure slowly turned, and where its face should have been, there was nothing but darkness. And then, from the tin roof above, I heard a patter—not rain, but tiny footsteps, as if someone was dancing across the metal. The footsteps moved down the wall, past my window, and stopped right beside the kitchen. Then, a voice, soft and clear: ‘Let me in, friend.’

I grabbed the flute and, without thinking, flung it out of the window. I heard it clatter into the yard. The figure vanished. The house was silent. But in the silence, I heard a new sound—a gentle sobbing, coming from under the floorboards. It went on for hours, until dawn.

The next day, we found the flute outside, snapped in two. I told the others everything. Rosa suggested we bury it in the backyard, near the acacia tree, with a small prayer. We did. That night, for the first time in a week, there was silence. I thought it was over.

But a week later, I was studying alone at the kitchen table when I felt a tap on my shoulder. No one was there. In the corner of my eye, I saw a shadow dart behind the fridge. And from the tin roof, I heard a faint flute melody, starting again. It was the same tune, but now it sounded almost cheerful, like a child’s play song. And I swear, in the melody, I could hear my name.

I moved out at the end of the semester. I never told anyone the full story, but sometimes, when it rains, and the tin roof over my apartment begins to sing, I catch myself holding my breath, waiting for a knock.