The Night the Walls Breathed

I’ve never told this to anyone, not fully. The memories are like splinters under my skin, working their way deeper with every passing year. It started when I was six, in the cramped apartment above my aunt’s bakery. I remember the smell of yeast and sugar, and the way the floorboards creaked even when no one walked. I had a window seat where I’d watch the moon, and one night, I saw them: two glowing embers, like coals, moving from one window to the next on the floor above. They weren’t animal eyes; they were too deliberate, too knowing. I screamed, but by the time my aunt came, they were gone.

From then on, I never felt alone. In my room, at school, in the playground—it was like a cold breath on the back of my neck. I’d turn around, and nothing. My aunt said it was my imagination, but I knew better. When I was ten, I woke up to find myself being dragged out of bed by unseen hands. The blanket was still tucked in, but my body was being pulled across the floor, my fingers scraping against the wooden planks. I remember the absolute silence, the way the air thickened, and the sound of my own heart pounding in my ears. I was dumped in the living room, and for a moment, I swear I saw a tall figure in the corner, all angles and void, before it melted into the dark.

Now I’m twenty-eight, living in a basement apartment in a city that never sleeps, but I still feel it. It’s moved with me, like a shadow stitched to my own. A few nights ago, at 3 AM, I woke up with a jolt. There was a face hovering inches from mine. Not human—pale, elongated, with no mouth, but eyes that were bottomless pits, and in those pits, I saw stars and void. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. It stared into me, and I felt my thoughts being sifted, like it was reading my very soul. Then it was gone, and the room was empty.

Since then, the world has changed. Objects move on their own: my keys relocate to the fridge, my shoes appear on the ceiling fan. I hear tapping on glass, but there’s no window in my room—only cement walls. The tapping comes from the walls themselves, rhythmic, like something trying to get in. I lie in bed, covers pulled to my chin, watching the corners. The silence is the worst; it’s a presence in itself.

Last night, I saw it again. Not in the corner, but in the mirror. I was brushing my teeth, and the reflection showed a figure behind me, taller than the room. I spun around, but nothing. Only in my reflection did it remain, its head tilted, as if curious. I’ve stopped using mirrors. I cover them with sheets. But I still feel it, watching.

I’m terrified to sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see that face. I hear the tapping, faster now, like a heartbeat. I think it’s growing impatient. It’s been waiting all these years, and I don’t know what for. All I know is that this thing isn’t a ghost or demon from a storybook. It’s something ancient, something that feeds on fear, and it’s found a well in me. I can’t shake it, and I don’t think it wants to be shaken.

I’m writing this in a coffee shop, trying to be around people, but I know that won’t help. It’s not bound by walls or distance. It’s bound to me. And tonight, I’ll have to go home. I’ll have to walk into that dark, breathing space, and pretend I’m not terrified. But I am. I’m more terrified than I’ve ever been, because I know that eventually, it won’t just watch. It will reach out, and I’m not sure I’ll survive its touch.