The Last Breath of Room 37

It wasn’t the crumbling facade of the old Mercy Falls Sanatorium that unsettled me; it was the silence around it. The building squatted on a hill above the town of Ashford, its windows like empty eye sockets staring at the moss-covered trees that had long since reclaimed the grounds. My brother, his wife, my partner, and I had joined a night tour, drawn by stories of forgotten patients and the lingering scent of old medicines. The guide, a wiry man named Elias, warned us to stay close, but his eyes had a glint that suggested he enjoyed our fear.

As we crossed the threshold, the air changed. It was colder, thicker, and carried a faint, sweet smell, like rotting flowers. The others in our group chattered nervously, their flashlights cutting through the dark hallways, but I found myself drifting to the back, drawn to a staircase that spiraled down into the basement. A faded sign read ‘Isolation Ward – Level B’. The main tour moved on, but I hesitated. My partner, Sam, noticed and squeezed my hand. ‘Let’s catch up,’ she said, but my feet felt rooted.

That’s when I heard it: a soft, rhythmic sound, like someone breathing slowly. It came from the staircase. I told myself it was the wind, but Elias had said the building was sealed tight. Against my better judgment, I pulled out my phone, turned on the flashlight, and descended the stairs. Sam followed, her voice a whisper of protest. The steps were slick with grime, and the light barely penetrated the darkness.

At the bottom, a long corridor lined with doors greeted us. Most were closed, but one stood ajar, number 37. A cold draft seeped from the crack. I pushed it open, revealing a room that seemed frozen in time: a metal bed, a chair, and a small table with a cracked mirror. The breathing grew louder, more insistent. I moved closer to the mirror, and in its fractured surface, I saw not my reflection, but a face—pale, gaunt, with hollow eyes that seemed to plead. It opened its mouth as if to speak, but only a wisp of vapor escaped.

I stumbled back, dragging Sam with me. We ran up the stairs, nearly colliding with Elias, who was coming to find us. He looked at our pale faces and nodded. ‘Room 37,’ he said. ‘The tuberculosis ward. That’s where they kept the ones who couldn’t be saved. They say the last patient who died there, a woman named Clara, never left.’ I wanted to laugh, but the memory of that face was too vivid. For the rest of the tour, I stayed in the middle of the group, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was following me.

On the drive home, I couldn’t stop thinking about that mirror. When I finally fell asleep, I dreamed of a hospital room, and in the mirror, I saw my own face, aged and gaunt, with the same hollow eyes. I woke with a start, gasping for air. The bedroom was dark, and in the corner, a faint shape seemed to linger. I blinked, and it was gone, but I heard the same rhythmic breathing, coming from the closet. I lay frozen, and in the darkness, I heard a whisper, not in my ears, but in my mind: ‘You saw me. Now I see you.’

Weeks passed, but the breathing never left. It was there when I brushed my teeth, when I lay in bed, when I sat at my desk. I returned to the sanatorium alone during the day, hoping to find answers. The main doors were chained, but a side window was broken. I climbed through and made my way back to Room 37. The mirror was still there, but now it showed my reflection clearly. I reached out to touch it, and the glass grew cold under my fingers. I saw a flicker of movement behind me, and in the reflection, a figure in a white gown stood at the foot of the bed, its face hidden. I turned, but no one was there.

I fled, but the presence followed me home. It began to manifest in more terrifying ways: whispers at night, objects moving on their own, and a growing weakness in my body, as if something was draining the very life from me. My family grew worried, but I couldn’t explain what was happening. I sought help from a local priest, a woman named Father Delgado, who specialized in hauntings. She performed a blessing, but as she did, the breathing grew louder, and a cold hand seemed to press against my chest.

That night, I had a dream more vivid than any before. I was in Room 37, lying on the bed, while Clara stood over me, her face finally visible—it was my own face, wrinkled and corpse-like. She leaned down and whispered, ‘You will take my place.’ I woke screaming, and in the mirror across the room, I saw my reflection age decades in an instant: hair graying, skin sagging. The breathing was now inside me, in my lungs, in my chest. I knew then that Clara had attached herself to me, and I was slowly becoming the ghost I had glimpsed.

Now, I write this from my bed, weak and pale, my family hovering at the door. They don’t see her, but I do. She stands in the corner, waiting. The doctors are baffled by my sudden decline, but I know the truth. The sanatorium is hungry, and it guards its secrets. If you visit, beware Room 37. And if you hear breathing, don’t follow it. Because once you see the face in the mirror, it won’t stop until it wears yours. I only hope that by leaving this account, someone will understand not to go there alone. The last breath of Room 37 is mine now, and it’s only a matter of time before it becomes yours.