The Hollow Between Breaths

Marla had always been a restless sleeper. From the age of thirteen, she’d wake in odd corners of her childhood home, her palms pressed against cold walls, her heart hammering as if she’d outrun something. The episodes faded into adulthood, but the suffocation never truly left—that crushing weight on her chest, the paralysis, the sense of being pinned by an unseen presence. She’d rationalized it as sleep paralysis, a quirk of her overactive mind. But now, at twenty-two, sharing a cramped two-bedroom apartment with an old friend, the strangeness had returned with a vengeance.

The apartment was on the third floor of a converted warehouse, all exposed brick and creaking pipes. Marla’s room faced a narrow alley, and at night, the flickering streetlamp cast moving shadows across her ceiling. Her roommate, Dana, had a six-year-old daughter, Lily, who often played in the hallway between their rooms. It was a week into their stay when Marla heard it—Lily’s voice, high and sing-song, drifting from the open bathroom door. ‘No, you scare me,’ she said, in that way children do when they’re talking to an imaginary friend. Marla paused, towel in hand, listening. The bathroom mirror fogged over from her shower. She leaned closer to the doorway, and Lily’s voice came again, clearer: ‘Don’t sit on her, she won’t like it.’

A cold draft slithered across Marla’s damp skin. She stepped into the hall, but Lily was alone, sitting cross-legged on the worn carpet, her tiny fingers tracing patterns in the dust. ‘Who were you talking to, sweetheart?’ Marla asked. Lily looked up, her eyes wide and unblinking. ‘The lady with the long black hair,’ she said. ‘She lives in your room. She told me to call her Mama.’

That night, Marla couldn’t sleep. She lay in bed, the sheets twisted around her legs, staring at the ceiling where the light fixture swayed slightly, though there was no breeze. Around 3 AM, the weight returned. It pressed on her chest, heavy and cold, as if a body lay atop her. Her limbs went numb. She tried to scream, but only a strangled wheeze escaped. In the darkness, she saw a silhouette—tall, gaunt, with hair that dripped like wet ink. It leaned over her, and she felt its breath, foul as old pennies, on her face. Then, just as suddenly, it was gone, leaving her gasping, soaked in sweat.

The next morning, Marla confronted Dana over coffee. ‘Has Lily ever had an imaginary friend like this before?’ Dana frowned, stirring her mug. ‘No, but she’s been talking about a ‘Mama’ ever since we moved in. I thought it was just a phase.’ Marla hesitated, then told her about the night before. Dana’s face paled. ‘I’ve felt something too,’ she admitted. ‘In my room, sometimes, I feel someone watching me. And last night, I woke up and my door was open, though I’d closed it.’ They decided to investigate the apartment’s history. The landlord, a gruff old man, was evasive, but a neighbor down the hall let slip that a woman had died in the building years ago—a suicide. ‘She had a little girl,’ the neighbor whispered. ‘They found the child wandering the halls for days before someone noticed.’ Marla’s blood ran cold.

That afternoon, Marla tried a séance, just to see if she could make contact. She lit a candle, sat on her bed, and closed her eyes. ‘If you’re here,’ she whispered, ‘please, just tell me what you want.’ The candle flickered. The room grew frigid. And a voice, thin and brittle like dry leaves, scratched at the edge of her hearing: ‘My daughter… she likes your friend. I want her back.’ Marla’s eyes snapped open. The candle had gone out, and on her mirror, written in condensation, were the words: ‘TAKE THE CHILD.’ She backed away, her mind racing. Was this her subconscious, or was something truly there? She’d always been curious about the paranormal, but this was no harmless game.

The next few days were tense. Marla avoided her room, sleeping on the sofa. But the presence only grew stronger. Lily began speaking to the ‘lady’ openly, even in front of adults. ‘Mama says you’re gonna be sad if you don’t leave,’ she’d say matter-of-factly. Then, one night, Marla woke to find Lily standing at the foot of her bed, her face ghostly in the moonlight. ‘Mama says she’s got a present for you,’ Lily said, and held out her small hand. In it was a child’s wooden hairbrush, old and cracked, wrapped with strands of black hair. ‘She wants you to brush her hair,’ Lily continued. ‘She says if you do, she’ll let you go.’

Marla’s skin crawled. She took the brush, her fingers trembling. ‘Where is she?’ she asked. Lily pointed to the corner of the room, where the shadows pooled thick and dark. Marla saw it again—the silhouette, more solid now. It had hollow eyes and a gaping mouth, and it began to move toward her. Marla wanted to run, but her legs were heavy as stone. The brush in her hand was ice-cold. She raised it, almost against her will, and began to stroke the air where the shadow’s hair would be, if it had any. The room filled with a low hum, and the shadow seemed to solidify, its face becoming clearer—a woman, decaying, with a missing child’s bedroom eyes.

‘I remember,’ the woman’s voice whispered, and suddenly Marla saw it: a flash of memory, not her own, of a mother who had lost her daughter to illness and then, in grief, taken her own life. The woman’s spirit had been searching for a new child to love, and Lily, in her innocence, had become the target. But as Marla brushed the phantom hair, she felt a surge of pity. ‘Your daughter is gone,’ Marla said softly, forcing the words out. ‘But Lily is not yours. You need to let go.’ The woman’s hollow eyes widened, and for a moment, the apartment was silent. Then the shadow dissolved, leaving a faint wisp of cold air and the scent of dust. The brush in Marla’s hand crumbled to powder.

Lily blinked, as if waking from a dream. ‘Mama’s gone,’ she said, and smiled. ‘She said thank you for brushing her hair.’ Marla collapsed onto the bed, her heart still pounding. From that night on, the sleepwalking stopped. The suffocation never returned. But sometimes, in the stillness of the apartment, Marla would catch a glimpse of a long black hair on her pillow, or feel a breath on the back of her neck, and she’d whisper a quiet apology to a mother who had only wanted to love someone. She never dabbled in the unknown again. Some doors, she learned, are best left locked.