The Room That Breathes

The room was not on the map.

Elias knew this because he checked three times—before signing the lease, after moving in, and again on the night the breathing started.

Apartment 3B had one bedroom, one bathroom, a narrow kitchen, and a storage room barely big enough for boxes.

At least, that’s what the blueprint said.

The breathing came from behind the wall.

At first, Elias thought it was plumbing. Old buildings make noises—groans, clicks, whispers of pressure and decay. But this was different. This was slow. Wet. Rhythmic.

Like lungs learning how to use air.

He pressed his ear to the wall.

The sound stopped.

He laughed nervously and stepped back.

Then the wall exhaled.

Dust drifted from the paint. The surface bulged inward slightly, as if something behind it had leaned closer.

Elias didn’t sleep that night.

The next morning, the wall looked normal. Flat. Silent. He almost convinced himself it had been stress. Almost.

Until he noticed the smell.

Warm. Metallic. Faintly sweet.

By evening, the breathing returned—louder this time. Deeper. Accompanied by a soft clicking noise, like teeth tapping together in anticipation.

Elias grabbed a hammer.

“I just need to see what’s inside,” he told himself.

The first strike cracked the plaster.

The second revealed something pink beneath it.

Not insulation.

Not wires.

Flesh.

The wall twitched.

Elias stumbled backward, heart slamming against his ribs. The opening pulsed gently, as if responding to pain. Thin veins ran through it, disappearing into darkness.

The smell intensified.

A whisper slid out of the hole.

“Don’t stop.”

Elias screamed and dropped the hammer.

The whisper became a voice—strained, layered, wrong.

“It’s cramped in here.”

The wall split wider on its own, tearing with a sound like wet cloth being ripped apart. The opening stretched vertically, forming something unmistakably shaped like a mouth.

Teeth pushed through the flesh—human teeth, uneven and yellowed.

The mouth smiled.

“I knew you’d find me.”

Elias ran.

He didn’t make it past the bedroom door.

The floor softened beneath his feet, sinking like mud. Tendrils erupted from the carpet, wrapping around his ankles, his wrists, his throat. The apartment groaned—no, moaned—as if relieved.

The walls began to move.

Breathing faster now.

Hungry.

“You live alone,” the voice said, echoing from everywhere. “No one hears you scream. I checked.”

Elias was dragged back toward the opening. The mouth widened impossibly, stretching beyond the wall’s limits, jaw cracking and resetting with wet pops.

Inside was not a cavity.

It was a room.

A smaller room hidden inside the apartment—lined with muscle instead of drywall, pulsing softly, slick with fluid. Shapes were embedded in the walls.

Faces.

Dozens of them.

Some frozen mid-scream. Others whispering prayers, apologies, names. Their eyes followed Elias as he was pulled inside.

“Previous tenants,” the voice said casually. “You fit better, though.”

Elias thrashed, clawing at the floor, but his fingers sank into flesh. Nails peeled back. Bones bent the wrong way.

Pain became everything.

The mouth closed behind him.

The apartment fell silent.

Inside, the room tightened.

Walls contracted slowly, lovingly, like a hug that never ends. Elias felt his ribs compress, organs shifting, skin stretching thin. The faces around him pressed closer, merging, sharing warmth.

“You’ll help me grow,” the voice whispered from within his skull now. “Apartments like this are rare.”

Elias felt his mouth open against his will.

A new breath joined the rhythm.

Days later, a woman toured Apartment 3B.

“It feels… cozy,” she said, forcing a smile.

The landlord nodded. “People say it has character.”

As she walked past the storage wall, she paused.

“Do you hear that?” she asked.

The landlord frowned. “Hear what?”

She leaned closer.

Breathing.

Slow. Wet. Patient.

The wall pulsed.