In Which I Am Creeped Out

It was our first night in our new apartment, late in October last year.

After a long day of packing, lifting, moving, carrying, sweating, and cursing, I wanted nothing more than to fall into bed and go to sleep. I had made four trips back and forth between our current-yet-soon-to-be-former apartment and our new apartment, and the aching in my joints supported that fact.

The fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling light made a faint tinkling noise as I flipped on the light switch in the bedroom. I slowly peeled off my clothes, leaving them in a pile in the corner. I changed into a fresh pair of boxers, and fell into bed.

The sheets were cool and my eyelids were heavy. I rolled over onto my back and placed one arm over my eyes, shielding them from the light on the ceiling. I sighed heavily, willing the muscles in my back to loosen.

“Long day, huh?” The Boss asked. She entered the room and pulled the door closed behind her.

“You can say that again,” I said. I threw in a low moan, hoping to illicit some sympathy. It didn’t work. I pulled my arm back, reaching over to my nightstand and turning on my lamp. “And you want to know what the best thing is? I get to do it all again tomorrow.”

“Fun!” The Boss said, feigning excitement. She changes into pajamas, and after shutting off the lights, gets into bed beside me. Her nightly routine of shuffling around underneath the covers begins as she searches for the most comfortable position. As customary, I retreat to the far side of the bed, laying on my side until she feels content. Finally still, she pulls the covers up to her chest, and looks at the ceiling.

“Are those fingerprints?” she asked. A slight quiver in her voice catches my ear, so I roll over onto my back again.

“What?”

“Fingerprints. Are those fingerprints on the ceiling?” She points up at the wood paneling on the ceiling. I rub my eyes and focus them on the ceiling above, illuminated by my bedside lamp.

Sure enough, there are dark red fingerprints all over the ceiling. The entire ceiling is covered in them, some in bunches, and others spread out like a handprint without the palm. A chill sets into my spine.

“Yeah, I think they are fingerprints,” I said. “That’s strange.”

“Are they made in blood?” The Boss asks. She turns her face away.

“In blood? No, I don’t think so.” I continue to stare at the hundreds of smudged prints above me. “I think they are just stains. You know, like wood stain. It must have happened when they installed the ceiling.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. How else could they have gotten there?” I said, putting an air of confidence in my voice that I didn’t really feel. I felt uneasy, but pushed away the thought. It’s a new house, and it’s the first night here. This place is bound to feel a little creepy at first.

“I don’t know…” The Boss said. “It’s kind of creepy.” She shivers and, rolling to her side, pulls the blankets up to her chin.

“It is, I guess. Just don’t look at it,” I suggest, and kissed her on the nose. “Whoever installed the ceiling obviously didn’t let the wood stain dry long enough before touching it. I just don’t understand why they wouldn’t have touched it up.”

“Okay.”

We lie there in silence for a few minutes before we kiss each other goodnight.

---

As much as I rationalize how the ceiling got marred with fingerprints, I keep circling back to this one horror-movie image in my mind. You know, where some evil un-dead pre-teenager with a grudge and greasy hair crawls around on the ceiling with bloody hands… Suffice to say, I had a fitful night sleep that night, with all the nightmares.

My overactive imagination, while good for writing fiction, does not help when confronted with situations like this.