The Ceiling

I’ve probably mentioned it already, but y’know, it’s that time of year again. And, honestly, I only met him twice. But my buddy Jon got the lowdown — said he spoke to the guy’s boss and everything.
Yeah, the kid’s name was Tom. Thomas Lowman, I think. Worked for one of those property sharks downtown, near the river. Anyway, boss calls him up one night — late, too — spouting some nonsense about this loft, no, this apartment they owned. Something about an electric main — water main — some kinda “main.”

Anyway. He wanted Lowman to go check the place had been cleared out before maintenance showed up in the morning. Wanted a few pics so he could make sure he was being billed right. Yeah. That kinda guy.

So, yeah — Lowman takes the job. Just wasn’t the kind to say no – even at stupid o’clock.

It’s one of those horrible, dank October night’s too. Kind where you’re cold the second you step out the house.

He drove this erm, this old Toyota Tracel. The thing was beige, too. Like I say, I only met him a couple of times, but I remember his car. Sounded like a blender full of screws. Yeah, so he’s driving this thing down to the water, down to the river – that’s kinda where this place was. Kid’s muttering to himself the whole way. About the neighbourhood. About his boss – the lot.

He sees the building, parks up across the street. Sure, it’s late, but he’s not gonna get a ticket — it’s in the ass end of town and honestly, the police probably don’t even step foot there. Right, so he kills the engine. Thing shudders and dies like it’s been waiting for an excuse. It’s a real rollin’ dumpster. And the building — well, that ain’t much better. It’s one of those half-gutted loft blocks. Broken windows, ton of graffiti – really spoke of the neck of the place.

So, he digs into the trash on the passenger seat, fumbles for the keys to the building, and yeah, he steps out into the night.

Streets are bare. Even the hood rats are home by now. He crosses the cobbles and climbs the stoop — remembers what his boss told him: lift the door as you turn the key.

Damp hits him first. The smell. It’s cold — quiet, like the building’s been holding its breath for decades. And there’s something humming somewhere too — low, steady — but he can’t make out where it’s coming from.

He palms the inside wall, scrabbling for the switches. Gets there eventually. Sure enough, the place lights up — a couple of bulbs blink in and out, but for the most part, he’s good.

He checks his hand. He’d made a note of which apartment it was. “5B,” maybe. Or is that a “D”? Smudge, coffee, whatever. Doesn’t matter. He’ll figure it out.

So yeah, he locks the door behind him — this ain’t the kind of neighbourhood where you don’t — turns and walks the hall.

On top of the hum, there’s this dripping sound. I mean, the place is old, roof’s probably shot.
The hall’s a little strange, too. For a second or two, it seems longer than the building.

Anyway. He reaches the stairwell. There’s an elevator next to it, but who in the hell’s gonna ride that when the place is empty? Thing fails — which it could — and you could wind up stuck for days.

Point is, he climbs. First floor. Second floor. There’s a sign on each.

Yeah, so he gets to the third. No sign. No matter. There’s a lot wrong with the place — chances are it fell down, got torn down, whatever. But on the wall, next to the, well — I won’t say clean — patch of paint where the sign was, there’s this newspaper clipping. Headline reads something like “Human Remains Found in Downtown Dumpster.”

Yeah, it kinda shook him. No surprise, though, right? Who’d want words like that when they’re all alone? So, yeah, Lowman turns and carries on.

He climbs another two flights. Sign reads “Floor 4.” Now, I ain’t no mathematician, but three plus two — that’s not four. “Okay?” he thinks. “Kids. Kids must’ve messed with the signs. That, or the super was, erm, y’know, stupid.”

Regardless, he hits the lights and takes the corridor off, but the doors — they read 4A, 4B, 4C, and so on.
Okay, so maybe he didn’t climb two floors. Mind probably drifted. Hell, could be a safety mechanism in this place.

He walks back out to the stairwell and climbs again. His legs are beginning to ache a little now, too. Sure, I could say he was lazy, but I’d be cooked climbing four flights, too.

Anyway, he reaches the next floor, but there’s no sign — just that newspaper clipping again. Yep, same cutting: “Human Remains Found in Downtown Dumpster.” Yeesh. Gives him goosebumps. Gives me goosebumps. He shakes his head — guess he just doesn’t get it — and makes his way out onto the corridor.

He flicks the lights on, but they’re kinda flickering on this floor. There’s even a draft whistling through the hallway. Takes a second, waiting for the lights, but the numbers on the doors — they read 3A, 3B, 3C. He just kinda laughs, wonders what he’s doing wrong.

Eventually, he makes his way back out onto the stairs and starts climbing again — quietly confident he’s just screwed up somehow. Wouldn’t be the first time.

Well. He reaches the next floor, and he’s met by a sign that reads “Floor 6.” He looks at his hand — the note definitely reads “5.” That part’s clear. He shakes his head — part despair, part humorous disbelief. Rubs his legs — they’re starting to really ache now. Double checks — yep, the sign in front definitely reads “Floor 6.” Kid’s flummoxed.

So, he makes his way down the stairs — concentrating, making sure he doesn’t absent-mindedly overshoot it somehow.

And yeah, he reaches the next floor, and the sign reads “Floor 4.” Now he’s just starting to get mad. Doesn’t understand it at all. He looks back toward the stairs, kinda laughs — even considers phoning his boss — before realising how that might sound. Even glances at the elevator, considers taking it, but again — the place is empty, and if the thing fails, he could wind up worse off.

So yeah. He heads back toward the stairwell, drags himself up a flight. Legs burning. And once again, there it is: “Floor 6.” This time he makes his way onto the corridor to check the room numbers. “6A,” “6B.” Man, he can’t believe it. Can’t for toffee understand it. So he goes back out to the stairwell. Just kinda stands there for a good minute or so.

He snaps himself out of it and looks down over the bannister. Starts trying to count the floors between here and the ground. “1, 2, 3, 4,” and something distracts him — his mind wanders. He starts again: “1, 2, 3,” and there’s this huge clatter. He turns, hears a bird squawk. Yeah, must be a problem with the roof — there are birds in the building.

He looks back toward the corridor, but the “Floor 6” sign — it’s gone. Like, gone gone. Just not there anymore. He squints, rubs his eyes. Steps closer but notices something else — just to the right of where the sign should be. Hmm. Yeah, he crosses the landing to get a better look. It’s that newspaper clipping. Same damn one. He can’t understand it. Just kinda scratches his wrist.

“Human Remains Found in…” He stops reading. Reaches for his phone — but slows as he lifts it. He can’t possibly explain it to his boss. Hell, he can’t even explain it to himself.

He makes for the stairs and heads back down.

“Floor 4.” No joke. At this point, he’s not even shocked. He steps out into the corridor and glances down the hall. Sure, this is the fourth floor, but the apartment doors read “3A,” “3B,” “3C.” “What?!” he thinks. “What is actually going on?”

He jolts back out to the stairwell — just about rolls down the next flight, taking two steps at a time. But the sign down here — it reads “Floor 6.”

“Can’t be. Can’t possibly be,” he thinks.

He carries on down the stairs, but they don’t seem to stop. Makes it down six or seven more flights easy, but they just don’t seem to near the ground. At this point he’s breathless, confused, desperate. He leans down, clutching his legs. Breathes slow. Slowly looks up, sees that same newspaper clipping again.

At this point, man, he sighs — gives in. Reads it. “Human Remains Found in Downtown Dumpster.” Same familiar headline, but this time he digs in, reads the article. It tells of a man in his twenties who was found torn limb from limb — arms, legs, head — wrapped and bagged, found inside a skip registered to, wait, this exact address.

Article goes on to say police have no witnesses and are yet to identify a suspect.

Man. I don’t know. Not the kinda thing you want to read past bedtime when you’re all alone. Anyway, he read on.

He reaches the end of the piece, and at this point the victim’s name is revealed. Well, he just freezes — stands completely still.

There it is in print. Article’s dated one year ago, to the day. And the victim’s name?

Thomas Lowman.

Yeah. Thomas. Lowman.

So — that it? What happened next, you ask?

Well, the guy’s stumped. He drops the paper. Doesn’t mean to, but his hands are slick — clammy. Thing just slides out like it wants to hit the floor.

He stares at it a while. Doesn’t blink. Then he kinda laughs — tries to anyway — just a little bark that goes nowhere.
He’s telling himself, “Nah. No, no, no-no-no. Must be a joke. Some kinda typo. Someone else. Right?”

But that laugh, man, it’s got no oxygen to it.

Yeah, he looks around — nothing but still air and shadows. Every hum, every creak of the pipes, feels like it’s aimed at him now.

He crouches down, picks the clipping back up, and yeah — it still says his name. Still that date. Still that address.

And that’s when it starts.

This creeping thing in the back of his skull, whispering that maybe he’s dead already. That maybe this — the stairs, the hall, the smell of damp paint and broken glass — is just the after bit.

He stumbles back toward the steps, muttering again, that same loop about the neighbourhood, the job, his boss — everything that’s been, y’know, pressin’ him down.

His legs are jelly now, chest tight. He hits the first step down, and it’s like the whole building exhales.
Something rattles deep below. Or above. Hard to tell.

“Okay,” he says, psyching himself up, “One floor at a time. One floor at a time.”

Hand on the rail, legs moving, he gets going. First flight’s fine, but the lights — man, the stairwell lights start to flicker. There’s this hum too. He turns, foot slips — catches on the edge of a step slick with rain or rot — and he goes down hard.

Cracks his ankle bad. Hollow sound — the kind that makes you see stars. He yells, one sharp sound swallowed by the place.

He tries standing, but his ankle won’t hold. He drags himself along the wall, breathing fast, that hum now screaming through the pipes.

Can’t get that clipping out of his mind — can’t stop thinking about it. Starts asking himself all these questions. Lying back, just staring into the void.

He laughs again — doesn’t sound like laughter this time. Not a bit. Quits halfway through.

Eventually, he just sits there, leg bent wrong, staring at the concrete, whispering his own name like — I dunno — like he’s checking if it still fits.

And then it all just fades. The lights, the hum, everything. Quiet like someone pulled the plug.

Morning comes slow, grey through broken panes. Cops out front, a couple of EMTs pushing through the doorway.

Jon said they found him on the third floor, half-conscious, ankle ballooned, face cut up like he’d gone three rounds with the stairs.

Didn’t make much sense when they asked what happened. Kept talking about floors moving and dead men walking the halls.

Boss showed up later — all concerned-like. Told the cops he’d just asked the kid to take a few pictures, had no idea how the whole thing got so mixed up.

Didn’t mention the prank — the signs they’d swapped, the clipping printed off the internet, meant as just a little scare.

Yeah. It was a ‘prank’.

Guess that bit didn’t come up.

Lowman’s out of hospital now, sorta keeping to himself. Doesn’t talk much about that night. Still limps, though.

Jon says he quit the job not long after. Went upstate. Warehouse shifts now — quiet work, no late calls.

Anyway. That building — the one by the river.

Say you can hear footsteps on the stairs if you pass after dark.

Could be kids. Could be the wind.

Could be the echo of some poor bastard trying to climb his way out of a life that never once let him touch the ceiling.

Credit: Remy Seltzer