The Breathing in the Dark

On the evening of December 14th, the silence of the old farmhouse was broken only by the wind rattling the windowpanes. My parents had left for the city the day before, to be at my grandfather’s bedside in the hospital. My older sister was working late at the factory, and my brother was out with his girlfriend. I was alone, just me and my throbbing headache that pulsed with every heartbeat.

I dragged myself through the rooms, but every light felt like needles in my eyes. What I needed was absolute darkness. My brother’s room, at the back of the house, had thick curtains that blotted out the moon, and a single heavy blanket that wrapped around his bed like a cocoon. I called him, and he agreed to swap rooms for the night. I swallowed two painkillers, crawled under his covers, and let the blackness soothe my aching senses.

I must have drifted off quickly, because the next thing I knew, there was a weight beside me on the mattress. The springs groaned as if someone had settled in. A warm breath, slow and rhythmic, stirred at the back of my neck. I thought it was my brother, maybe home early and too lazy to switch back. I kept my eyes shut, too exhausted to protest.

But the breathing grew louder, deeper, like a bellows pumping air. It filled the room, vibrating through the pillow, through my skull. My migraine intensified, turning from a throb to a sharp spike behind my eyes. I wanted to tell him to be quiet, but my tongue felt thick and heavy.

I tried to shift, to push away, but my limbs wouldn’t obey. Panic rose as I realized I couldn’t move at all. The breathing was now a ragged, guttural sound, right against my ear, so close I felt moist warmth. And then, a voice, dry as dead leaves, whispered: ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

My blood ran cold. That wasn’t my brother. My brother’s voice was younger, lighter. This was old, ancient, and it sent chills down my spine. I wanted to scream, but only a whimper escaped my throat.

The presence behind me shifted, and I felt a cold hand trace the outline of my shoulder. It wasn’t human. It was longer, bonier, with fingers that seemed to bend at wrong angles. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ the voice said, now coming from right beside my ear. ‘I’ve been in this room for years. I just needed someone to listen.’

I forced my eyes open, but it was still pitch black. I could see nothing, but I could feel it – a shape hovering over me, blocking the air. The breathing turned into a slow, deliberate inhale, and I felt my own breath being pulled out of me, as if my lungs were being siphoned.

Suddenly, the door burst open. Light flooded the room, and the presence vanished with a sharp hiss. My brother stood there, phone in hand, a confused look on his face. ‘I got your message,’ he said, ‘but I forgot my charger. What are you doing in my room?’

I couldn’t speak. I could only point at the bed, my hand trembling. My brother frowned, then walked over and switched on the lamp. The bed was empty, but the pillowcase was soaked with my sweat. And on the wall above the headboard, scratched into the wood, were the words: ‘YOU LET ME IN.’

I never slept in that room again. But some nights, I still hear that breathing, right behind me, even in My own bed. And I know it’s never really left.