The Breathing in Room 14

In the summer of 2009, I was twelve, staying with my cousin Mia in the small mountain town of Pineshadow. Her family ran a modest bed-and-breakfast called the Sleepy Fox, and we had the run of the place during the off-season. That particular week, her parents had left us with a sitter, Mrs. Gable, who was ancient and deaf as a post. Mia and I spent the day swimming in the quarry, then came home to eat leftover pie and watch old VHS tapes in the den. By midnight, we were exhausted, but we dragged our sleeping bags to the ‘Blue Room’ on the second floor—the one with four-poster bed and a view of the pine forest. We talked about silly things until sleep took us.

At around three in the morning, I was yanked from a dreamless sleep by a sound: heavy, rasping breathing, like someone with a lung infection or a large animal panting. The noise was close, right by my ear. My heart hammered as I forced my eyes open. The room was lit by a pale moonbeam that slanted through the window, casting long shadows. I turned my head to the right, where Mia lay on a cot she insisted on using, though the big bed was empty. There, standing at the foot of her cot, was a figure. It was tall—over six feet—and wore a long, dark raincoat that dripped with what looked like pond water. Its face was hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat, but I could see a pale chin, and I felt that it was staring directly at Mia.

I was paralyzed with fear, but instinct made me reach out and shake Mia’s shoulder. She woke with a gasp, and her eyes locked onto the figure. It did not move, did not speak, just breathed—each exhale a wet, rattling sigh. Mia’s face went white, and she reached out to grab my hand. We stayed that way, the three of us frozen, for what felt like an eternity. Then, as if by silent command, Mia and I moved at the same time. We scrambled off the cot, hit the floor, and bolted for the door, not daring to look back. The breathing grew louder behind us, but we didn’t stop until we burst into Mrs. Gable’s room. She was snoring, but we shook her awake, screaming that there was an intruder. She grabbed her brass candlestick and shuffled down the hall with us, muttering about ‘vandals.’

When we reached the Blue Room, the lights were on—someone had switched them on. The room was exactly as we left it: the empty bed, the sleeping bags, the window open a crack, the curtains swaying. The figure was gone. I rushed to the window and leaned out, but the yard below was empty, only a puddle of moonlight on the grass. The breathing had stopped. Mrs. Gable laughed it off as a nightmare, but Mia and I knew better. We spent the rest of the night locked in Mrs. Gable’s room, not sleeping.

The next morning, we inspected the room in daylight. There was a faint, muddy footprint on the floor by the window—size twelve, maybe. And on the windowsill, there was a single, wet leaf from a birch tree. But what chilled me most was that the window, which we had closed and latched before bed, was now unlatched. Someone had opened it from the inside. We told Mia’s parents when they returned, but they dismissed it as a prank. The police found nothing. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the figure had been waiting for something, and that it had recognized Mia.

Months later, I learned from my mother that the Sleepy Fox had a troubled history. In the 1980s, a drifter had been found dead in a room upstairs—Room 14, which was later converted to storage. He had drowned in the quarry, and they said his ghost wandered the halls, searching for the girl who had spurned him. Mia’s mother had changed the room numbers to avoid the bad luck, but the Blue Room had previously been Room 14. I never slept over again. To this day, I cannot hear heavy breathing without my blood turning cold, and I always check the window before I sleep. But sometimes, when the night is still and the moon is full, I swear I hear that wet, rattling breath coming from the wall beside my bed, as if it never truly left—it just found a new room to haunt.