Chapter 2 — Footsteps On The Ceiling

After that night, the whole building knew. Knowing that the "midnight dance" that Chu Thanh denounced for three months, when he finally lifted the blanket - on the bed was a woman with no legs. I also know that my house is clearly the highest floor, but there are footsteps on the ceiling. The next morning, a few more steps appeared outside my house, deliberately walking lightly. Through the cat's eyes, at the beginning of the hallway there were two women standing there, carrying food but not leaving yet, whispering in low voices:

“Do you really hear that?”

“The police and management are both present, can you still fake it?”

“So in her house is…”

They didn't finish the next sentence. But their eyes spoke for them. Not clean. I gently closed the lid and went back to boiling water. The kettle boiled and the phone vibrated twice. It's a message from the manager: the police will be back this morning and want to check the roof structure. Please coordinate. I answered with one word "yes". Then delete the sentence that I almost sent: Last night when you forced me to expose myself to everyone's eyes, did you ask me if I wanted to cooperate? At half past nine, the police arrived. It's the same two people from last night, plus a technician. Chu Thanh was also there, holding a bag of medicine, dark eye circles, looking like he had been tormented all night. Seeing me, he sighed first.

“Miss Lam, I was impatient last night, I'm sorry.” He spoke very sincerely. "But you heard it too, that sound is real. My child is about to take an exam, my wife has a nervous breakdown, she can't sleep every night. I'm just helpless."

I looked at the medicine bag in his hand. Translucent plastic bag, inside there are sleeping pills, and also stomach medicine.

“Isn't your wife not at home?” I asked.

Chu Thanh paused for half a second, then smiled naturally:

"Before that, I went to my mother's house, but I just came back yesterday. Being treated like that one night, I was very scared."

He spoke smoothly without a gap. But last night, I clearly heard the sound of his downstairs door opening and closing. Only once. He returned. After that, no one came in or out anymore. The police did not pay attention to these details and started to go to the rooftop to check. This old apartment complex is nearly thirty years old. The hallway is narrow, the walls are peeling layer by layer, the handrails are covered in dust when touched. The iron door on the roof is locked all year round, technicians have to use tools to pry it open. The hinge made a dry "creaking" sound, like an old person's throat. The terrace is empty. A few rusty water tanks, a row of abandoned solar water heaters, the ground is littered with cement chips and old cigarette butts. The wind blew, the plastic tarp made a rustling sound. There are no people. There is also no place to hide people. The technician used a device to measure a few echo spots, then checked the ceiling position corresponding to my apartment, and finally shook his head.

“For the time being, no unusual structures have been detected.”

After hearing this, Chu Thanh seemed relieved, but immediately frowned and pretended to be more confused.

"So where did that sound come from? Could it really be..." He didn't finish, just glanced at me meaningfully.

I don't look at him. I stared at a crack in the old cement floor. In that slot was stuck a very small white piece, as thin as a piece of foam rubbed off from somewhere. Old buildings of this type often have insulation on the roof. If there is no one above... Then the sound may not come from "above". Call The results of the tests were inconclusive, giving the police a headache. Before leaving, the old policeman said to me:

"Miss Lam, we have recorded the situation last night. Don't be psychologically pressured. If anything is unusual, report it to the police immediately."

He tried to speak gently. But I could still hear the hesitation in his pause. They believed the scene last night. But don't believe me yet. Or more accurately, they still don't know who to trust. By noon, the group of residents in the area had exploded. Someone sent a voice message, saying there was "definitely a problem" at my house. Someone shared a spiritual video, seriously analyzing that old houses are prone to things happening. There are also people who pretend to be kind, saying "she is disabled, everyone don't get excited". I looked at those lines, my fingertips were cold. Poor. Don't provoke her. It sounds like I'm not the one being falsely accused, but an emotional bomb that could explode at any time. I don't explain in groups. Explanation doesn't work. Before they saw the truth, they were sure it was me. After hearing footsteps from the ceiling, they began to think it was me "calling". Once labeled as an abnormality, innocence becomes a useless excuse. In the afternoon, I took out the tape recorder I used to draw, checked the battery, and placed it in the corner of the living room closest to the bedroom. I propped the phone up on the bookshelf, the camera pointed straight at the ceiling and the noise meter. At 11:57 p.m., I turned off the big lights, leaving only a table lamp on. The room was silent. It was so quiet that I could clearly hear my own swallowing. Painkillers were right next to me, but I didn't take them. Drinking it will make you sleepy. I couldn't miss any more details. Eleven fifty-nine. Just as the minute hand touched twelve, I heard a very light rubbing sound. Like something was being pulled away in the wall. The next second, the noise meter in the living room lit up. The red light flashes violently. Ninety-two. Ninety-six. Ninety-nine. Footsteps fell from above. More clearly than last night. First there are two steps, rushing, heavy. Then stop. Then there was the sound of dragging. Like someone was dragging something very heavy. Or dragging a leg that cannot be lifted, struggling to move in narrow spaces. My back immediately broke out in a layer of cold sweat. Not a ghost. Ghosts will not get tired. But that sound carried a very real feeling of heaviness, very real pain, as if each step was stepping on bones. I pressed the record button and forced myself to raise my head. The ceiling was white, with a thin crack in the middle. I didn't pay attention last night, but now I discovered that the crack stretched into a line, just neatly cutting across the top of the living room. The dragging sound lasted more than ten seconds. The number on the noise meter slowly decreased. The room returned to a suffocating silence. I tightened my grip on the tape recorder, my palms drenched in sweat. Just as I was about to call the police, I suddenly heard three very soft knocks in my ear. Not footsteps. Nor is it the sound of the wall expanding. That sound has a clear rhythm. Short. Light. The distance between each is almost identical. It's like someone is tapping on a hard object. More like... It's asking for help. My whole body stiffened in the wheelchair, even my breathing became lighter unconsciously. Ten A few seconds passed. There is no fourth sound. There were only vague sounds coming from the house downstairs — I don't know who turned on the TV, the voices of people in the distance made reality more distorted. I bowed my head and looked at the tape recorder in my hand. The red light is still flashing. Those three knocks… I recorded them. And at this moment, I finally confirmed something. In that ceiling… There's more than just sound. It's very possible... There really is one person.