The Ceiling Fan’s Breath

October 25, 2011

by Hailey

3 min read

Story Premise 3 min read (465 words)

"The night was suffocating, a wet blanket of Mississippi heat that clung to my skin. I lay in bed, a thin sheet my only defense against the oppression of the summer dark. The ceiling fan whirred above, its blades slicing the thick air into a futile breeze that barely stirred the curtains. I was eighteen, […]"

The night was suffocating, a wet blanket of Mississippi heat that clung to my skin. I lay in bed, a thin sheet my only defense against the oppression of the summer dark. The ceiling fan whirred above, its blades slicing the thick air into a futile breeze that barely stirred the curtains. I was eighteen, home for the summer, and sleep felt like a luxury I couldn’t afford.

I had been tossing and turning for what felt like hours, my mind racing with the mundane worries of a teenager on the cusp of leaving home. Just as I began to drift, a prickle of unease crawled up my spine. I was about to roll onto my other side, but my body froze, as if some ancient instinct commanded me to stay still. I kept my eyes closed, but my every sense sharpened.

It was then I felt it: the air from the fan was being blocked, my skin feeling a strange stillness from the missing breeze. Something was leaning over me, a presence so vast and silent it seemed to swallow the very sound of my breathing. My heart hammered against my ribs, and I knew, I just knew, that a tall, cloaked figure stood beside my bed, its unseen eyes boring into my back.

Fear clawed at my throat, but I forced my hand to move, to find the lamp on my nightstand. The click was a gunshot in the silence, and light flooded the room. I snapped my eyes open, my body trembling violently, and saw… nothing. Just my familiar bedroom, the fan spinning, the shadows in the corners stretching long and dark.

I didn’t sleep that night. I sat with my back against the headboard, the lamp burning until dawn, my eyes fixed on the empty space where I swear I had felt a presence. The next morning, I tried to convince myself it was just a night terror, a trick of a tired mind. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had been there, that it had been watching me with a hunger I couldn’t comprehend.

A week later, my grandmother called, her voice trembling with urgency. She said she’d had a dream: a tall, hooded man standing at the foot of her bed, his hand reaching out, and she woke with a terrible chill. She asked if I had felt anything strange. I lied, saying no, but my skin prickled with the memory.

Years have passed, but I still wake in the dead of night, my body rigid, straining to hear the whisper of that silent presence. The fan still spins above my bed, but sometimes, when the air grows still and the darkness thickens, I feel its breath blocked once more, and I know I am not alone.

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