The Voice Above the Ceiling

The apartment I rented was small but quiet, which was all I wanted. After years of living with noisy roommates, the silence felt like a gift. The building was old, with thin walls and creaking floors, but it seemed peaceful enough. At least, it did at first.

On my third night there, I heard a soft sound above my ceiling. It was faint, almost easy to ignore, like someone gently tapping from the floor above. I paused and listened carefully. The tapping stopped. I told myself it was just the building settling and went to sleep.

The next night, the sound returned. This time, it was clearer. Slow footsteps moved back and forth above me, even though I knew the apartment above mine was empty. I had asked the landlord about it earlier, and he had confirmed no one lived there. Still, the footsteps continued, followed by a quiet dragging sound.

I stood beneath the ceiling, my heart pounding. “Hello?” I called out, feeling foolish the moment the word left my mouth.

Something above me stopped moving.

Then a voce whispered back.

It was faint but unmistakable. “Hello.”

I stepped back, my stomach tightening. The voice sounded like mine. Same tone. Same rhythm. I didn’t respond. After a long moment, the whisper faded, and the apartment returned to silence.

The next day, I tried to forget it. I kept the TV on, filling the space with noise. But that night, the footsteps returned, heavier now. The ceiling creaked as if someone were standing directly above my bed.

“Can you hear me?” the voice whispered.

I covered my ears and squeezed my eyes shut. “This isn’t real,” I muttered.

A soft laugh echoed through the ceiling. “You always say that.”

Sleep didn’t come easily after that. Every night, the voice spoke more. It repeated things I had said during the day, thoughts I had never spoken out loud. It knew my routines, my fears, my regrets. It spoke gently, patiently, like it was learning me piece by piece.

I called the landlord again, my voice shaking as I explained everything. He was silent for a long time. Finally, he said, “Don’t answer it again.” Then he hung up.

That night, the footsteps were louder than ever. Cracks appeared in the ceiling, thin lines spreading slowly like veins. Dust fell onto my bed. I sat frozen, staring upward.

“Let me in,” the voice whispered. “I’m tired of being alone.”

I grabbed my keys and rushed toward the door. Before I could open it, the voice shouted, “If you leave, I’ll follow.”

The ceiling split open with a sharp crack. A hand pushed through, pale and shaking, fingers reaching downward. The hand looked exactly like mine.

I screamed and ran outside, not stopping until I reached the street. I spent the night in my car, afraid to close my eyes.

The next morning, I returned with the landlord. Inside, the apartment looked normal. The ceiling was smooth and clean, without a single crack. There were no signs of damage.

The next morning, I returned with the landlord. Inside, the apartment looked normal. The ceiling was smooth and clean, without a single crack. There were no signs of damage.

The landlord avoided my gaze. “It doesn’t like being ignored,” he said quietly.

I moved out that same day.

Weeks later, in my new apartment, I heard a soft tapping above my ceiling. A familiar voice whispered, calm and patient, “You forgot to say goodbye.”

Weeks later, in my new apartment, I heard a soft tapping above my ceiling. A familiar voice whispered, calm and patient, “You forgot to say goodbye.”