The Fifth of January

My name is Mara, and I’m thirteen. I know that sounds young, but when the walls of your own room start to feel like they’re pressing in on you, age doesn’t matter. It started in early January, right after the holidays. I’d be doing homework or reading, and suddenly the air would get thick, like the pressure before a thunderstorm, but there was no storm. It was just a heaviness, a weight on my chest, and the sensation of eyes on my back. I’d spin around, but there was nothing. I told myself it was just stress, that my imagination was playing tricks on me. I tried to ignore it.

But it got worse. By mid-January, the temperature in my room would spike, even with the heat off. My dog, Gus, who used to curl at the foot of my bed, started refusing to come in. He’d whine at the door, his tail between his legs, and sleep in the hallway. My cat, Whiskers, did the same. That was the first time I felt real fear. Animals know things we don’t. I started saying the rosary every night, clutching the wooden beads my grandmother gave me. It helped, a little. The heaviness would lift for a few hours after I prayed, but it always came back.

A couple of weeks later, I went to a sleepover at my friend Kaitlyn’s house. She lived in a different part of town, in an old Victorian that always gave me the creeps. As soon as I walked in, I felt that same suffocating pressure. I didn’t say anything, but later that night, Kaitlyn confessed that she felt it too. She described the exact same feeling: the weight, the warmth, the being watched. We laughed it off, tried to distract ourselves with movies, but I could tell we were both scared. That night, I woke up at 3:21 AM. The clock glowed red, and the room was freezing cold, despite the heat being on. And then I heard it: a low, rhythmic breathing, right next to my ear.

I froze. I couldn’t move, couldn’t even turn my head. The breathing was wet, like someone with a chest cold, but also labored, as if it was struggling. I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed, my lips moving silently. After what felt like an eternity, the breathing stopped. I finally dared to open my eyes. The room was empty, but the air was so heavy it felt like a blanket. I shook Kaitlyn awake, but she just grumbled and rolled over. I stayed up the rest of the night, staring at the door, my heart pounding.

The next morning, I told my mom, but she said it was just a nightmare. I wished I believed her. But I knew it wasn’t. That’s why I’m writing this. I need answers. I’ve started carrying a small crucifix everywhere, but the feeling follows me. It’s in the corners of my vision, in the creaks of the house, in the way my dog refuses to enter my room. I don’t know what it wants, or why it started. But I know one thing: January 5th, the day I first felt it, is still engraved on my mind. I think it’s connected to that date. I just don’t know how. And I’m terrified that whatever it is, it’s waiting for the next one.