The Persistent Sleeper

When I was thirteen, I spent most of my summer in the basement of our split-level house, hunched over a hand-me-down laptop playing flash games on a site called SpeckleQuest. My parents, both engineers, had converted the basement into a den with a pull-out couch we never folded out, a fridge full of off-brand soda, and a sliding glass door that opened to the backyard. That afternoon, the house was empty for the first time I could remember. Mom and Dad had taken my older sister to a college visit, and I’d begged off, citing a need to ‘train my virtual sprite’ for a tournament. The sun was bright, casting long rectangles on the carpet, and the only sound was the click of the trackpad and the hum of the fridge.

Then, a sound cut through: a low, rhythmic breathing, like someone in a deep sleep. It came from behind me, from the direction of the pull-out couch. I froze, my hand hovering over the touchpad. I turned my head slowly, but the couch was empty, its cushions pristine. The breathing continued, steady and rough, as if the sleeper had a slight congestion. I told myself it was the fridge, or maybe a water pipe, but the pattern was too organic. It would pause, then resume, with the deep regularity of REM sleep.

I stood up, my legs shaky. The sound seemed to get louder as I approached the couch, so I pulled the release and unfolded the bed. The mattress was bare, with a faint musty smell. I knelt down and put my ear to the mattress. The breathing was directly beneath it, as if someone were lying on the concrete floor underneath the bed frame. I yanked the mattress off and peered into the dark space. Nothing but dust bunnies and a lost pen. When I stood back up, the breathing was gone.

I spent the next hour walking the entire house, from the basement to the attic, checking every closet, under every bed, inside the shower. My own breath was loud in my ears, but I heard nothing else. I called my dad’s cell phone, and he answered with the sounds of a highway. I tried to explain what I heard, but he just laughed and said it was probably the neighbor’s dog outside. I hung up, feeling foolish. I returned to my game, but I couldn’t concentrate. The silence now seemed heavy, expectant.

That evening, my parents came home. My sister, Maya, was sullen about the college. My mom asked if I had a good day. I said I did, not wanting to sound crazy. But for weeks afterward, I would randomly hear that breathing. It wasn’t always in the basement. Sometimes it was outside my bedroom door at night, or in the hallway when I got up for water. Every time I would stop, hold my breath, and listen. It would always cease, as if it knew I was listening. Then it would return, a ghostly respiratory rhythm, always at the edge of my perception.

When I was fifteen, we moved to a two-story colonial in a different suburb. I assumed the breathing would stay behind. But a week after we moved in, I was in my new room, unboxing books, when I heard it again. The same deep, slow breaths, coming from inside the closet. I stood perfectly still, and the breathing matched mine for a moment, then diverged, slower, deeper. I opened the closet door; it was empty, but I felt a draft. I slammed it shut and never opened it without leaving the door wide and a light on.

Now I’m twenty-two, and I’ve just moved back into my childhood home after my parents passed away. I inherited the house. I’m sitting in my old room—the same room I lived in when I was thirteen—setting up my laptop. The afternoon sun slants through the window, just like it did that day. I haven’t heard the breathing in years, and I’d convinced myself it was a teenage delusion, a product of too much screen time and horror movies. But as I reach for the power cord, I hear it again. Slow and deep. It’s coming from the hallway, just outside my door. I stand up, my heart pounding. I step into the hallway and look toward the stairway. The breathing is coming from downstairs, from the basement. I walk down the stairs, and the sound grows louder. I reach the basement door, and it’s coming from behind it. I open the door. The basement is dark, the only light coming from the small window. I take a step down, and the breathing stops.

I hold my breath. Nothing. Then I feel a warm exhale on the back of my neck. I spin around, but there’s no one. The breathing starts again, now coming from directly behind me, in the stairwell. I run upstairs, out the front door, and onto the lawn. I’m shaking. I look at the house, and I see a shape in the upstairs window—a dark silhouette of a person, but it’s too tall, and its shoulders are too broad. It’s just a shadow, but it’s blocking the light from the window. I blink, and it’s gone.

I haven’t moved out. I’m writing this tonight from my childhood bedroom. The breathing is back, but now it’s constant. It’s as if whoever or whatever it is has decided to finally reveal itself. I’ve done research. I found an article about the house’s previous owners—a family who had a son with a severe respiratory illness. He died in this house, in the basement, in his sleep. They say he was a peaceful boy, but his breathing was always labored. I think he’s been sleeping here all along, waiting for someone to acknowledge him. But I don’t know why he chose me. Maybe because I was the only one who ever noticed him, the only one who ever listened. And now, I can’t stop listening. The breathing is all I hear, even when I’m not in the house. It’s in my car, in my office, in my head. Sometimes I wonder if I’m the one who is still breathing, or if I’ve just become part of his long, endless sleep.