It started with the sound.
Not loud.
Not obvious.
Just… breathing.
At first, I thought it was mine.
Late at night, when everything is quiet, your own breathing can sound strange—too loud, too close. So I ignored it.
Until I held my breath.
And it didn’t stop.
The first time I noticed that, I laughed.
Nervously, sure—but still laughed.
“Old apartment,” I told myself. “Pipes. Air vents.”
That’s what it had to be.
Because the alternative didn’t make sense.
Walls don’t breathe.
But it kept happening.
Every night, around the same time.
2:30 a.m.
I’d be lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, when I’d hear it.
Slow.
Steady.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Not mechanical. Not hollow like air moving through pipes.
It sounded… wet.
Close.
Alive.
I started tracking it.
Testing it.
I’d sit up and stay perfectly still.
The breathing would continue.
I’d walk across the room.
It would shift.
Follow.
Always just behind the walls.
Like something was moving inside them.
I called maintenance.
They came, checked everything—vents, pipes, insulation.
“Nothing there,” the guy said. “Probably just the building settling.”
“Buildings don’t breathe,” I said.
He smiled like I was joking.
I wasn’t.
That night, I tried something different.
I pressed my ear against the wall.
The sound stopped.
Instantly.
Silence.
I frowned and pulled back.
The breathing resumed.
Slower now.
Careful.
Like it knew I was listening.
“…hello?” I whispered.
The breathing paused again.
Then—
Right where my ear had been—
Something inhaled.
Sharp.
Deep.
Right against the other side of the wall.
I stumbled back, heart slamming against my ribs.
“That’s not funny,” I said, even though no one was there.
The wall creaked softly.
Like it was adjusting.
Like something inside it had just moved closer.
I didn’t sleep.
I sat in the corner of my room, watching the walls like they might split open.
They didn’t.
Not that night.
The next day, I bought a small drill.
I don’t know why.
Maybe I just needed proof.
Something real.
Something I could point to and say, this is what’s making the noise.
That night, at exactly 2:30 a.m., the breathing started again.
Right on time.
I walked to the wall.
Marked a spot.
And drilled.
The sound stopped immediately.
The bit punched through the drywall with a soft crack.
Dust fell to the floor.
For a second, everything was silent.
Then—
Air rushed out of the hole.
Warm.
Wet.
And something on the other side…
Breathed in.
Hard.
The drill slipped from my hand.
I stepped back slowly, staring at the small hole in the wall.
Darkness filled it.
Not empty darkness.
Dense.
Thick.
Like something was pressed right up against the other side.
Watching.
Waiting.
“…I know you’re in there,” I whispered.
Silence.
Then—
A whisper came through the hole.
Not loud.
Not clear.
But close enough.
“…I know you are too.”
My blood ran cold.
The breathing didn’t stop after that.
It got louder.
Closer.
It moved between the walls, circling my room.
Sometimes fast.
Sometimes dragging slowly, like it was learning the shape of the space around me.
And then…
It started at different times.
Not just 2:30 anymore.
Morning.
Afternoon.
Whenever I was alone.
I tried covering the hole.
Tape.
Cloth.
Even a piece of wood nailed over it.
It didn’t matter.
Because the breathing wasn’t just behind that wall anymore.
It was behind all of them.
Last night, I woke up to something new.
Not breathing.
Not at first.
Scratching.
Soft.
Careful.
From inside the wall behind my bed.
I didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
The scratching continued.
Slowly forming a line.
Then another.
Then another.
Like something was carving its way out.
I wanted to run.
But I couldn’t.
Because the breathing started again.
Right behind that spot.
Closer than ever.
Excited.
The scratching stopped.
For a moment, everything was still.
Then—
The drywall cracked.
A thin line split open.
And from that darkness—
A finger pushed through.
Long.
Pale.
Bending the wrong way.
Reaching.
I don’t press my ear to the walls anymore.
I don’t try to listen.
Because now…
I don’t have to.
The breathing isn’t behind the walls anymore.
It’s in the room.
Somewhere.
Close.
And when I hold my breath—
It matches me.
Waiting.
For me to forget… and breathe again.
Write by : Endomarfa
