The first time, , you saw it in your sleep.
A hand reaching down from the ceiling fan.
You chalked it up to a dream. Until the scratch marks appeared.
Five lines across your chest. Deep. Fresh.
You started sleeping on the couch downstairs.
No ceiling fan there. Just a plain roof.
But one night, you woke to creaking above.
A pale hand crept across the ceiling.
Its fingers twisted backward. Nails dragging silently.
You held your breath. It stopped — directly above you.
You turned on the light. Nothing.
You stared up for hours. Nothing moved.
But every morning, new scratches.
You recorded the ceiling all night.
At 3:33 AM, the camera cut to static.
When the feed resumed, your face was on the ceiling.
Eyes open. Mouth moving in reverse.
You moved out that day. Rented a cabin.
One floor. No ceiling overhead — just sky.
You slept under the stars. Finally peace.
Until clouds formed a hand that night.
It reached down, shaping fingers from fog.
You woke choking. Fingers down your throat.
But when you gasped, no one was there.
You began to fear the sky too.
You moved back. Installed mirrors on the ceilings.
To watch it — whatever it was.
But your reflection stayed even after you walked away.
Then one night, it reached down from the mirror.
Gravity failed. Your feet left the floor.
You screamed upside down.
The ceiling became the floor. Your room inverted.
Pictures on the walls hung from nails that bled.
Every lightbulb stared back like an eye.
The hand returned. Bigger. Hungrier.
It cradled your head like a lover.
Then dug its nails into your skull.
And whispered, “Now you belong to above.”
You woke — standing on the ceiling.
You crawled across it like a spider.
The floor below was unreachable now.
Family walked in. Looked up. Saw nothing.
You screamed. They just heard creaks.
You were part of the ceiling now.
Tonight, the light flickers.
The hand returns — not to grab you.
Your hand now drops down toward their bed.