The Breathing in the Attic

I was nine when I first heard it, the breathing that would define my childhood. It came from the attic above my room, a low, rhythmic sound like something large and ancient inhaling and exhaling in the dark. My father had sent me to bed early, and I lay there, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster. My mother was out, visiting her sister who lived alone on the edge of town, and I always found it hard to sleep when she was gone. I was just beginning to drift off when I heard it: a soft, steady breathing, as if someone were standing just overhead, right above my bed.

At first, I tried to rationalize it. The house was old, and the wind could make strange sounds through the attic vents. But this was too rhythmic, too deliberate. It was like the quiet, heavy breathing of a person trying not to be heard. I called out for my father, but my voice came out as a whisper. I didn’t dare get up, fearing that if I moved, the sound would stop, and something worse would begin. So I lay there, frozen, listening to the breath of something that should not have been there.

When my father came to check on me hours later, I tried to tell him, but he just chuckled and said it was the house settling. He turned off the light and left, and I was alone again. The breathing continued, growing louder, until it filled my room. It was as if the attic itself were alive, drawing breath in the dark.

The next morning, I told my mother, but she dismissed it too, blaming my imagination. But I knew what I heard. And over the years, whenever my mother was away, the breathing would return. It became a part of my bedtime routine: I would lie in bed, listening, waiting for the sound to begin. And it always did, as if it knew my mother was gone and it could claim my attention.

I learned to live with it, to fall asleep with the sound of that unseen presence. But when I turned thirteen, things changed. My father passed away suddenly, and my mother, overwhelmed by grief, began to retreat into herself. She started spending more and more time away, leaving me alone in the house for days at a time. The breathing grew more urgent, more anxious, like a caged animal.

One night, I decided to investigate. I couldn’t take it anymore. I crept up to the attic, flashlight in hand, and pushed open the door. The air was thick with dust and the smell of old wood. The breathing was directly above me, here, in the attic’s narrow space. I swept the light across the room, but there was nothing but boxes and old furniture. Then, I noticed a trapdoor in the ceiling, a small hatch leading to the roof. The breathing seemed to come from up there, muffled.

I climbed a ladder and pushed open the hatch, stepping out onto the roof. The night air was cold, and the stars were hidden by clouds. And there, crouched on the peak of the roof, was a figure. It was a woman, or what had once been a woman, with long, matted hair and a tattered dress. She was breathing deeply, her chest rising and falling, and her eyes were black, empty sockets. She turned her head toward me, and a sound escaped her lips, a low moan that seemed to come from the earth itself.

I stumbled back, losing my footing, and fell through the hatch, crashing onto the attic floor. I scrambled to my feet, but she was already there, crawling through the opening, her movements unnatural, like a spider. Her breath was on my face, rancid, and I felt her cold fingers wrap around my throat. I struggled, but she was impossibly strong. ‘You should never have come up here,’ she hissed, her voice like dry leaves.

Then, just as I felt consciousness slipping away, I heard my mother’s voice from below, calling my name. The creature’s grip loosened, and she looked toward the door with something like fear. In that instant, I broke free and ran. I flew down the stairs, past my mother, who stood in the hallway, looking up at the attic with a strange, knowing expression.

‘It’s her,’ my mother said quietly. ‘I’ve always known.’

I never asked what she meant. I never wanted to know. But after that night, the breathing never returned. My mother’s sister, the one who lived alone on the edge of town, was found dead in her bed the following week, her face frozen in a mask of terror. And I knew, somehow, that she had been the one breathing in my attic all those years, waiting for me to come to her.

That was my last summer in that house. I moved away, went to college, and never looked back. But sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, when I’m alone and the wind is still, I still hear that breathing, just above my head, as if the attic of my childhood is never far away.