The Breath at Seven-Forty

I am Marisol Vega, nineteen, and this account is the truth as I know it. It began on a Tuesday, the twelfth of October, during my second semester at the Martinez Institute of Technology. I was in the basement computer lab, the only one left after the evening session, debugging a C++ assignment that was due at midnight.

At 7:40 PM, the air shifted. It was a subtle change, like a barometric drop before a storm, but I noticed because the lab was windowless and climate-controlled. Then, I felt it: a warm, steady breath on the back of my neck. The fine hairs on my arms stood up. I spun around, expecting a classmate, but the room was empty. The only sound was the hum of the server racks and my own racing heart.

I rationalized it as a draft from the HVAC system, but the breath was too precise, too rhythmic, like someone standing close behind me, inhaling and exhaling. I gathered my things and left, but as I walked to the elevator I saw the cleaning crew, old Mrs. Alvarado and her son, Jimenez. They looked at me oddly, and Jimenez asked, ‘Did you feel it too?’ I stopped, my heart dropping. ‘Feel what?’ I asked. Mrs. Alvarado crossed herself and muttered about ‘the exhale of the dead’ that was known to wander the old campus. They refused to elaborate.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I live alone in a small apartment near the campus, and every time I closed my eyes, I felt the phantom breath on my neck. I checked my room, under the bed, in the closet—nothing. The next day, I tried to shake it off. But at 7:40 PM sharp, while I was in the laundry room of my apartment building, it happened again. The room was empty, save for the washing machines. I felt the breath, warm and moist, against the back of my neck, as if someone was standing impossibly close. I whirled around, but there was no one. The dryers were tumbling, but I felt a cold spot on my neck where the breath had been.

I started to keep a log. It happened every day at exactly 7:40 PM, regardless of my location. At the library, in the cafeteria, even in the shower (where I felt it on the back of my neck, causing me to slip and nearly fall). I began to dread that time. My friends noticed my jumpiness. My roommate, Clara, started to tease me, calling it ‘the seven-forty ghost.’ But then Clara experienced it too, while we were studying in my room. She felt a breath on her neck and screamed, knocking over her coffee. After that, she refused to stay in the apartment with me after dark.

I searched the campus history. The Martinez Institute was built on the grounds of an old tuberculosis sanatorium. Many patients had died there, and some records hinted at unethical experiments. One name kept appearing: Dr. Aurelio Ramírez, a physician who had died of tuberculosis in the very building that now housed the computer lab. According to a memoir by a nurse, Dr. Ramírez had a peculiar habit: he would lean in close to patients, checking their breath, but he would also ‘steal a breath’ as a form of treatment, believing he could absorb their sickness. The memoir described his ‘warm breath on the neck’ as a sign of his presence.

I became obsessed. I found an old floor plan of the sanatorium and realized that the spot where I had felt the breath in the computer lab was exactly where Dr. Ramírez’s office had been. I also discovered that he had died on October 12, which was the same date as my first experience. I began to think that Dr. Ramírez was trying to ‘take my breath’—not to heal me, but to sustain himself in some parasitic afterlife.

Determined to confront him, I decided to stay in the computer lab on the anniversary of his death, a week later. At 7:40 PM, I was alone, my laptop open, and a voice recorder running. The air grew cold. I felt the breath on my neck, but this time it was stronger, almost a whisper. I didn’t turn around. I spoke into the darkness, ‘Dr. Ramírez, I know you’re here. Why are you doing this?’ The breath ceased. I waited. Then I heard a faint, raspy voice, like a man who hadn’t spoken in decades: ‘I need… a breath… to finish… my work.’

I felt a hand, impossibly cold, press against my shoulder. I screamed and ran, but as I reached the door, I felt a sudden rush of air, and the door slammed shut. I turned, and for a moment I saw a translucent figure—a tall man in an old-fashioned suit, with hollow eyes and a gaping mouth, as if he were suffocating. He reached out, and I felt my own breath being drawn from my lungs. I clawed at the door, but it wouldn’t budge. I felt myself collapsing, my vision growing dark.

Just as I was about to black out, the fire alarm blared, and sprinklers erupted, drenching me. The figure wavered and vanished. The door swung open. Jimenez, the janitor’s son, stood there, wide-eyed. He had been doing rounds and had seen the strange mist enveloping the lab. He pulled me out, and I gulped air, sobbing.

After that, the breath never came again. I later learned that Jimenez had also felt it years ago, but his grandmother had taught him a prayer to keep it at bay. She said the dead who ‘steal breath’ linger until they are acknowledged and then, they can be released. By naming Dr. Ramírez and confronting him, I had somehow broken his hold, or maybe the fire alarm frightened him away. I don’t know. But I still check the clock at 7:40 PM every day, and I hold my breath for one full second, waiting. So far, nothing has happened. But sometimes, in the dead of night, I feel a faint whisper of air on my neck, and I wonder if he’s still waiting, patient, for me to forget.