It was late 2019 when the narrator’s younger sister—just twelve years old at the time—began to fall ill. At first, it seemed like a regular sickness, something treatable with rest and medication. But the situation soon spiraled into something no one in the family could have expected.





Medical tests revealed nothing. Every doctor who examined her said there was no clear diagnosis—no virus, no autoimmune condition, no explanation for the symptoms that were slowly draining her life away. And yet, despite the medical mystery, she required blood transfusions three times a week to survive. It made no sense.


As the calendar turned to 2020, and the world slipped into the throes of a global pandemic, the family found themselves in an increasingly desperate situation. Around April of that year, as hospitals began making room for COVID patients, she was discharged. The medical staff, overwhelmed and uncertain, believed her condition stable enough to be treated at home.


At first, there was relief. She seemed better physically—more alert, able to eat, even laugh. But that sense of peace was short-lived. Something about her had changed.


She had always been sweet—soft-spoken, caring, especially close to her siblings. But now? Now she was... cruel. Angry. She lashed out without warning. One day, she slapped their mother across the face during what began as a simple conversation. Another time, she unleashed a torrent of insults toward their father—words no child should know, let alone use.


And then, just as suddenly, she would return to her old self. Apologizing through tears, hugging her parents tightly, whispering that she didn’t mean any of it—that she didn’t know what came over her.


No one knew what to make of it. It was like two completely different people lived within her. The emotional toll on the family was immense. Fear, confusion, guilt—they all began to seep into the atmosphere of the house.


With nowhere else to turn, the parents invited the paternal grandparents to stay with them. Deeply religious and strong in their faith, the grandparents proposed something outside the bounds of medicine. They suggested prayer.


And more than that—they suggested spiritual intervention.


Soon, a priest arrived at the home. A quiet man, older, with a calm but heavy presence. He didn’t spend long inside the house before he made his diagnosis.


He told them something dark was residing there.


He claimed an entity—something malevolent and non-human—had attached itself to the girl. He didn’t elaborate on what it was, only that its presence was strong, oppressive, and harmful to her. According to him, the only path forward was simple but drastic: the family needed to leave the house. Only then would she have a chance to heal.


The narrator's parents, skeptical and worn thin from months of anxiety, dismissed the priest’s claims. They believed in science, in doctors. Ghost stories and demonic possession were the stuff of movies, not real life. Offended by the suggestion, they sent the priest away without another word.


But the moment he left, things got worse.


Her aggression escalated. Her apologies faded. She began speaking in ways that chilled the room. It was as if the small flickers of their daughter—the sweet girl they knew—were being smothered one by one.


Eventually, the parents had no choice but to take her back to the hospital, despite lockdown restrictions that made travel nearly impossible. They were granted special permission, but they couldn’t return home afterward. Instead, they left the children—now watched over by the narrator’s older sister—at home while they stayed at the hospital with their youngest daughter.


The mood in the house during that time was one of deep, choking tension. None of the siblings slept well. Most nights were filled with hushed whispers, the glow of phone screens, and an unshakable feeling that something was off. Even when the house was quiet, it didn’t feel quiet.


The night before their sister passed, the narrator—sixteen at the time—was the only one awake. Everyone else had finally drifted into sleep. He was lying in bed, scrolling through TikTok, trying to distract himself from the fear and fatigue that had built up like layers of dust over the past few weeks.


And that’s when he heard it.


A dragging sound.


Not like furniture being moved or footsteps in the attic—but something heavier. More unnatural. It came from the ceiling above, slow and deliberate, like someone—or something—was trying to drag a heavy object across the beams overhead… and failing. The noise scratched and thudded, over and over, sending a cold wave through the room.


For a moment, the narrator thought he might be hallucinating. After all, he hadn’t slept properly in days.


But then, his sister burst from her room. She was pale, wide-eyed, her expression somewhere between terror and panic. Without a word, she gathered everyone—every single sibling—and rushed them out to the shed behind the house.


No one argued. They all felt it—that something was wrong inside that house.


The eldest sister immediately called the security guard who watched over the property. He checked the house from top to bottom, even the attic. He found nothing. Not a single thing was out of place. No signs of rodents, no loose boards. No explanation.


Later that morning, the phone rang.


It was their mother.


Her voice was broken. Shaking.


She told them the news.


Their youngest sister—the twelve-year-old whose illness had defied science, whose moods had spiraled into darkness, whose final months had been plagued by unexplainable torment—had passed away in the night.


The narrator stood there frozen, the earlier sounds replaying in his mind like a cursed recording.


What was that sound in the ceiling?


Why had it happened in the same hour she died?


Was it the entity the priest had warned them about—leaving the house after her death? Or was it something darker—something taking her with it?


In the days that followed, the family tried to move on. Grief wrapped itself around them like thick fog. The house felt emptier, but in a strange way, also lighter. The atmosphere had changed. The tension that had plagued the walls seemed to lift.


But the questions never left.


The narrator, now older, admits he still thinks about that night often. He prays for his sister’s soul, hoping she found peace. But a part of him—buried deep beneath logic and reason—still wonders whether the family ignored something they shouldn’t have.


They dismissed the priest’s warning. They stayed in that house. And they lost her.


Was it fate?


Or something more?


The truth is, no one really knows what happened to that little girl, why her illness had no diagnosis, or why her personality fractured so violently in the end. No one knows what made those sounds in the ceiling. But for the narrator, the memories are etched deep in his mind.


Memories of a house that grew darker with each passing day.


Memories of a sister who changed in ways he couldn’t explain.


And a final night marked by a dragging noise from above—followed by the worst phone call of his life.


What do you think happened in that house?


Was it illness? Possession? A coincidence wrapped in grief?


Or was it something... else?