It started as a little brown patch.
Right above the bed. I figured it was just water damage — this old place creaks in the rain like a haunted ship, and the landlord isn’t exactly known for fast repairs.
But then the stain got bigger.
And darker.
And it started to smell.
That was when I called the landlord. He shrugged it off: “Probably just a leaky pipe. We’ll get to it next week.”
But something told me to check myself.
I pulled the stepladder from the closet, climbed up, and pressed my hand to the stained part of the ceiling.
It was soft.
Too soft.
I poked a little harder — and my finger went straight through.
The smell that hit me was immediate. Sour. Rotten. And then something warm dripped onto my face.
I fell off the ladder, grabbed my phone, and called 911.
The fire department had to come. They cut open the ceiling and found it.
A body. Human. Wrapped in plastic. Wedged between insulation and pipes, directly above my bed.
The medical examiner said it had likely been there for months. Maybe longer. Police believe it may be linked to someone who disappeared in the building two years ago.
Two years.
And the only reason it was found?
The smell.
And a stain that just wouldn’t stop growing.
Now every time I look up at the ceiling, in any room, I wonder: What else could be hiding above me?
