The House That Breathes

By AliZai

They bought the house because it was cheap.

Nina and Jacob had only been married three months when they stumbled upon the listing — a two-story Victorian with arched windows, ivy-covered walls, and a price far below market value. "Needs some love," the agent had said with a wink. "Old bones, but solid heart."

Nina loved it immediately. The creaky charm, the crooked banister, the wild garden — it felt like a place that could be tamed with time. Jacob was more practical, already listing repair costs under his breath. But they bought it anyway. First home, fresh start.

The first night was quiet. Too quiet.

The second night, Nina heard it.

A slow, deep inhale. Then a pause. Then a long, rattling exhale. As though the house itself were sleeping. Breathing.

She sat up in bed, heart knocking. Jacob snored softly beside her.

She waited. And there it was again — softer this time, but unmistakable. A wet, labored breath coming from inside the walls.

She nudged Jacob. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“That sound. Like—breathing.”

He blinked at her in the dark. “It’s an old house, babe. Pipes. Settling.”

She wasn’t convinced, but nodded and tried to sleep. The breathing continued, deep and rhythmic, until just before dawn.

The days were normal. The kind of normal that made the nights feel like a dream. They unpacked boxes, painted the kitchen, argued over where to put the bookshelf. Jacob worked long hours at the firm. Nina worked from home, editing manuscripts in the dining room while the house creaked around her.

Every night, the breathing returned.

Sometimes it seemed to come from the walls. Other times, from under the floorboards or the attic above. Always the same rhythm: in, pause, out. Like something vast and hidden sleeping just beneath the surface.

Jacob never heard it.

“You’re imagining things,” he said, kissing her temple. “This place is old. You’re alone all day — maybe your brain’s just playing tricks.”

She started recording it on her phone. But when she played it back, there was only silence.

She called an HVAC specialist. He checked the ducts. Nothing. An exterminator checked for raccoons or bats. Nothing. Even a priest — just to be sure — gave the house a puzzled frown and said, “I don’t sense anything here.”

But the breathing continued.

After two weeks, Nina stopped mentioning it.

What was the point? Every time she brought it up, Jacob grew more distant. At first he was sympathetic, then concerned, then… annoyed. Like she was inventing drama. So she stopped talking. Stopped asking. Stopped listening.

Until one night — it stopped.

She lay awake, waiting. Ears straining. Eyes wide.

Nothing.

Just silence.

Relieved but uneasy, she nudged Jacob. “It’s gone.”

“What’s gone?”

“The breathing.”

He blinked at her. “What breathing?”

She stared at him. “The breathing. The sound I’ve been telling you about for weeks.”

He sat up slowly. “You’ve never mentioned any breathing, Nina.”

She laughed. “What? I—Jacob, yes I have. Every night. You said it was the pipes!”

He frowned. “I think you need to sleep.”

The next morning, something felt wrong. The rooms looked the same, but… hollow. Like the air had gone stale. She couldn’t explain it. The floors creaked more. The lights flickered. The house felt heavier.

And Jacob… changed.

He started staying home more. Watching her closely. Too closely. She’d catch him staring — expressionless, eyes glassy. Sometimes he’d whisper to himself when he thought she wasn’t listening.

She found him once in the basement, standing in the dark. Not moving. Not answering her calls.

“What are you doing down here?” she asked, voice trembling.

He turned slowly, eyes wide. “Listening.”

“To what?”

He smiled. “The house.”

That night, she woke up to the breathing again.

But not from the walls. From the bed. From Jacob.

His chest rose and fell in perfect time with the sound she had once heard in the walls. Slow. Deep. Mechanical. Like something not quite human pretending to sleep.

She touched his shoulder. It was cold.

Too cold.

She didn’t sleep.

The next day, she called her sister. Packed a bag. Waited until Jacob went to the store.

But when she opened the front door to leave, the house moaned.

A deep, pained groan that came from beneath her feet. The door slammed shut.

She ran to the back — locked. The windows wouldn’t budge. The air grew thick and hot. The walls pulsed. The house was breathing again — loud and furious now. As though it were waking up.

She stumbled upstairs, heart racing, trying to find another way out. Behind her, the house creaked and shifted, like bones being cracked and reset. Doors slammed. Paint peeled. Her phone was dead. Her bag was gone.

And then she heard Jacob’s voice — not from inside the house, but from the house itself.

“I told you,” it said. “The house is old. It just needs love.”

They found her a week later.

Alone, sitting on the bed, eyes unfocused. Her nails were torn.Her nails were torn. Her feet bloody. She kept whispering the same word over and over.

“Breathing. Breathing. Breathing.”

Jacob was never found.

But the house was sold again two months later — cheaper than before.