The Inhalation of Empty Rooms

Maya had never wanted to leave their old apartment, but her mother had been insistent, claiming the draft was unbearable, though she never elaborated. Their new home was a modern duplex on the outskirts of a city that seemed perpetually overcast. The previous occupants had left after only six months, but the realtor had been vague about why. From the moment they moved in, the house felt off. The light in the living room never quite reached the corners, and the air was always still, as if holding its breath.

On the third evening, Maya sat alone in the living room, trying to lose herself in a cooking show. The silence of the house was oppressive, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator. Then, without warning, a gust of warm, moist air exploded against her right ear. It was a single, heavy breath, so close it felt like someone had leaned in to whisper, but there was no sound. The shock sent a jolt through her spine; she sprang up, heart hammering. The room was empty. She stood there, ears ringing in the silence, and then she fled to her bedroom, leaving the TV on to keep some semblance of normalcy.

In her room, she tried to calm herself with a book, but her eyes kept drifting to the door. Ten minutes later, the lights flickered in the hallway, and she heard the faint murmur of the television coming from the living room. She was certain she had turned it off. Cursing her own cowardice, she crept back down the hall, her bare feet cold on the hardwood. As she reached the archway, she saw the TV displaying static, the white noise crackling. Then the static cleared to show a grainy image of a woman standing in a bedroom, her back to the camera. It took Maya a second to realize the room in the image was her own bedroom. She spun around, but her room was empty.

She turned back to the TV, and the image had changed. Now the woman was in the living room, facing Maya, but her features were blurred, like a smudge on the lens. The woman raised her hand and pointed directly at Maya. Then the screen went black. A wave of cold air washed over Maya, and she felt a foul odor, like rotting meat and stale sweat. She stumbled backward, tripping over a rug, and landed hard on the floor. As she scrambled to her feet, she saw a faint outline of a figure in the corner of her eye, but when she looked, it was gone.

She ran to her mother’s room, but it was locked. She pounded on the door, but there was no answer. She tried calling her mother’s phone, but it went straight to voicemail. Panic set in. She grabbed her keys and ran for the front door, but when she tried the knob, it wouldn’t budge. She rattled it, but it was as if something on the other side was holding it tight. She screamed, a raw, guttural sound that seemed to be swallowed by the house.

Suddenly, the television clicked back on, and the static returned, but now it formed words: ‘You should have left with her.’ Maya’s blood ran cold. She knew she was not alone. Something in this house had been waiting for her, and it had no intention of letting her go. She sank to the floor, hugging her knees, as the lights began to flicker in a rhythmic pattern, like a heartbeat. And from the depths of the house, she heard a low, guttural breathing, growing louder, closer, until it was right behind her, breathing down her neck.

Months later, the police would find the house empty, with no sign of Maya or her mother. But the neighbors would complain of a strange odor and the sound of heavy breathing coming from the duplex at night, especially from the room that used to be the living room. The new tenants never stayed long, and they always reported hearing a single, deep breath right by their ear, just before the lights went out.