The Room That Breathed

My grandmother moved into the old farmhouse when I was eight, leaving behind her cramped apartment in the city for the wide, lonely fields of Nebraska. The house had been empty for years, and it showed in the sagging porch and the peeling paint. The realtor called it ‘a fixer-upper,’ but Grandma saw potential. I saw the way the windows seemed to watch us as we pulled into the gravel driveway, and something cold settled in my stomach.

The layout was strange. The front door opened into a large living room, which led to a narrow hallway on the left that branched off to two bedrooms and a bathroom. On the right, the living room opened into a dining area and then a kitchen. Beyond the kitchen, there was a fourth bedroom, oddly positioned and rarely used. I was given that room.

I hated it. The walls were thin, and the floorboards creaked even when nothing was moving. The window faced a dense thicket of trees that seemed to press against the glass, blocking out most of the light. I asked Grandma if I could sleep on the couch instead, just for a few nights, until I got used to the place. She agreed, but every morning I woke up in that bed, the sheets tucked under my chin, the blankets pulled up to my chest. She would smile and say, ‘You must have walked in your sleep again.’

The first night I actually fell asleep there, I had a dream. I was standing in the doorway of that bedroom, looking into the darkness. There was a shape in the corner, a tall, thin figure that seemed to be breathing in rhythmic wheezes. I couldn’t see its face, but I knew it was watching me. I woke with a start, gasping for air. The room was still dark, the only light coming from the full moon outside. My heart was racing, but I tried to calm myself. It was just a dream.

Then I heard it. A faint, rhythmic sound, like something inhaling and exhaling. It was coming from the closet door, which was slightly ajar. The hairs on my arms stood on end. I tried to scream, but my throat seized up. I squeezed my eyes shut and pulled the covers over my head, praying for morning. The sound continued, growing louder, and then it stopped. I felt the mattress shift, as if someone had sat down on the edge of the bed. I couldn’t breathe. I stayed frozen, feeling a cold presence beside me for what seemed like hours. Finally, the pressure lifted, and I heard the sound recede back into the closet.

When the sun finally rose, I scrambled out of bed. I told Grandma about the noise, about the presence. She just laughed and said, ‘Old houses make all sorts of noises, dear. You were just dreaming.’ But I wasn’t dreaming. I knew it.

The next night, I refused to sleep in the room. I made a fuss, and Grandma finally gave in, letting me sleep on the couch. She tucked me in with a kiss and turned off the light. I lay in the dark, listening to the house settle. Everything was quiet for a long time, and I felt myself drifting off. Then I heard it again, but this time from the hallway. A slow, dragging sound, like something heavy being pulled across the floor. I opened my eyes, and there, in the doorway from the hallway, stood a figure. It was tall and thin, with arms that seemed too long. Its skin was pale, almost translucent, and I could see veins crawling under the surface. It had no eyes, just dark hollows, but I knew it was looking at me.

It took a step forward, and the sound of its foot scraping the floor echoed in my ears. I tried to move, but my limbs were like lead. It came closer, its head tilting at an unnatural angle, and I could hear that wheezing breath again, close and moist against my cheek. It reached out a hand, fingers like bones, and touched my forehead. A jolt of cold ran through me, and I felt a terrible drowsiness sweep over me. The last thing I saw was its mouth opening into a wide, dark grin, and then I slipped into darkness.

I woke up in the bed again, the familiar weight of the blankets pressing down on me. My head ached, and I felt drained, like I hadn’t slept for a week. I stumbled to the kitchen, where Grandma was making breakfast. She looked at me with concern. ‘You look tired, sweetie. Did you have another bad dream?’ I nodded, not trusting my voice. She handed me a glass of orange juice. ‘Don’t worry. It’ll get better. You just need to get used to the new place.’

But it didn’t get better. Night after night, the creature came. Sometimes it stood at the foot of my bed. Sometimes it sat in the corner, watching me. It never spoke, but I could feel its thoughts pressing into my mind, a cold, ancient hunger. I started to lose weight, and my parents, who had been away on a long trip, decided to come back early. They arrived on a Saturday afternoon, and I ran to them, sobbing, telling them everything. They were alarmed, and they confronted Grandma. She looked at me with something like pity. ‘She has an overactive imagination,’ she said. ‘And she’s been staying up too late.’

My parents decided I would sleep in their room for the rest of our stay. That night, I lay on a cot next to the door, while my parents slept in the big bed. I felt safer, knowing they were there. But in the middle of the night, I woke up to the sound of the door creaking open, and I saw the creature in the hallway, looking at me. It smiled, and then it gestured with its long, bony finger for me to come. I shook my head, tears streaming down my cheeks. It took a step into the room, and my parents didn’t stir. It reached out and touched my shoulder, and I felt a cold hand pulling me, dragging me out of bed, dragging me down the hall, into the bedroom, into the closet. I tried to scream, but nothing came out. The last thing I heard was Grandma’s voice, far away, singing a lullaby.

I don’t remember what happened after that. I woke up in my bed at home, with my parents and Grandma around me. They said I had a bad dream and that I had been sleepwalking again. But I saw the look in Grandma’s eyes, something dark and satisfied. I never stayed at her house again. I refused. And my parents, they never questioned it.

Years later, Grandma passed away, and the farmhouse was sold. I didn’t attend the funeral. I couldn’t. But sometimes, at night, I still feel that cold touch on my shoulder, and I hear that rhythmic breathing. And I know the creature is still there, waiting, in the room that breathes.