I followed his gaze — and my breath caught in my throat.

I followed his gaze — and my breath caught in my throat.

There, on the ceiling above the corner, was a dark patch. At first I thought it was just dampness, a stain from the neighbors upstairs. But then… it moved.

The blackness rippled, as though something inside was shifting. Slowly, it spread wider, and with it came a faint, sickly odor — metallic, like rust.

The dog barked louder, fur bristling, eyes locked on the spot. My husband grabbed my arm, his voice low and urgent:

“It’s not just a stain. Look closer.”

And I did. My stomach turned.

Through the dim light, we could see something pushing against the plaster from the other side. Not water. Not mold. Shapes. Fingers.

Human fingers.

They scratched faintly, leaving streaks of plaster dust falling down like snow.

I couldn’t breathe.
“There’s… there’s someone up there,” I whispered.

That’s when the sound came — a muffled voice, weak and desperate, from inside the ceiling.
“Help… please…”