The Breathing in the Cold

In the autumn of 2009, at seventeen, I moved out of my mother’s house for the first time. My best friend, Dana, and I rented a tiny flat in the old mill town of Blackwood, a place where the brick buildings seemed to sweat dampness even in summer. Our flat was on the third floor of a converted textile mill, and my bedroom was a narrow, quirky space that had once been a storage closet. It was always cold, no matter the season. Even in July, I’d bundle up in three layers of blankets, my breath forming small clouds in the air. I had a pet hamster named Peanut, and I kept her cage on my dresser, near the only window.

One night, I went to bed around eleven, while Dana was still up watching TV in the living room. I curled under my quilts, trying to ignore the chill that seeped through the walls. The window was frosted, and the streetlamp outside cast a pale, milky glow through the glass. I must have drifted off, because I woke with a start about twenty minutes later. Something was off. I lay still, listening. And then I heard it: breathing. It was loud, steady, and slow, like someone or something taking deep, deliberate breaths. The sound was coming from inside my room.

My first thought was Peanut, but her tiny breaths would never be that deep. I sat up, my heart hammering. The breathing continued, a low, rhythmic rasp that seemed to vibrate through the cold air. The curtains were sheer, almost transparent, and I could see the faint outline of the window. There was no shadow, no silhouette. The breathing was definitely coming from within the room. I flicked on my bedside lamp, and the light flooded the space. The room was empty, as I knew it would be. But the breathing didn’t stop. It was coming from under my bed.

I froze, my mind racing. I didn’t want to look, but I had to. Slowly, I leaned over the edge of the mattress, my eyes straining into the dark gap between the floor and the bed frame. There was nothing there, just dust and an old sock. The breathing continued, unaffected. Now it seemed to come from the corner near the wardrobe. I pulled the covers up to my chin, my eyes darting around the room. The breathing was everywhere and nowhere. It was as if the room itself was alive, inhaling and exhaling.

I called out for Dana, but my voice came out as a croak. I tried again, louder. I heard her footsteps in the hallway, and the door creaked open. Dana stood in the doorway, her face groggy. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. I pointed at the room, my hand trembling. ‘Can you hear that?’ I whispered. She listened, a frown on her face. ‘Hear what?’ she said. ‘I don’t hear anything.’ The breathing was still there, but Dana couldn’t hear it. She shook her head and went back to the living room, leaving me alone.

I decided I couldn’t stay in that room. I grabbed Peanut’s cage and my pillow and went to the living room, where Dana was sprawled on the couch. I curled up on the floor, trying to sleep, but the breathing followed me. It was in the living room too, now, a soft, insistent sound that seemed to come from the vents. Dana was asleep, snoring lightly, oblivious. I spent the rest of the night with my eyes wide open, watching the shadows play on the ceiling.

The next morning, the breathing was gone, and I rationalized it as a draft or my imagination. But the following night, it was back. And the night after that. It became a constant companion, a presence that I grew to dread. Peanut started acting strange, too. She would huddle in the corner of her cage, trembling, her tiny nose twitching at something I couldn’t see. I tried to find the source, checking for leaks, appliances, anything that could make that sound. Nothing. The cold in my room grew more intense, as if the breathing was drawing the warmth out of the air.

Dana began to notice my haggard appearance. ‘You look like hell,’ she said one morning. I told her about the breathing, and she laughed, saying it was probably just the old building settling. But I knew better. That night, I decided to record it. I set my phone on the nightstand, the voice memo app running. In the morning, I played it back. All I heard was static, but beneath the static, there was a rhythm. A faint, rhythmic rasp that was too regular to be random. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature.

A few days later, I woke up to find Peanut dead in her cage. She had died of fright, the vet said, though there was no obvious cause. I was devastated. Dana helped me bury her in the small patch of grass behind the mill. That night, the breathing was louder than ever. It seemed to come from all around me, filling my head. I couldn’t take it anymore. I packed a bag and went to my mother’s house, leaving Dana to handle the flat. I told her I needed a break.

I never went back. I ended up breaking the lease, and Dana moved out shortly after. But the breathing followed me to my mother’s house, then to the next apartment, and the one after that. It’s with me now, as I write this, a constant, rasping sound that never stops. I’ve seen doctors, therapists, even a priest. They all say it’s in my head. But I know the truth. That cold room in Blackwood was a doorway, and something came through. It’s been with me ever since, breathing in my ear, waiting for the moment when I finally stop and listen.