“The House That Breathed” The old house loomed like a corpse in the fog—its windows hollow eyes, its doors a gaping mouth. Ellsworth, a seasoned carpenter with concise hands and nerves of steel, had seen his share of decrepit buildings. But this one… this one felt wrong. The moment he stepped inside, the air thickened. Not with dust or mold, but with something unseen watching. As he unpacked his tools in the foyer, the first sound came: A slow, dragging scrape—like fingernails across rotting wood—echoed from the floor above. He froze. No one else was supposed to be here. Then, a whisper, barely audible, slithered through the air: “Heeeelp meee…” He spun around. Nothing. Just the creak of the chandelier swaying, though there was no breeze. In the hallway, every step he took was answered by a second set of footsteps, just behind him—always just behind. When he stopped, they stopped. When he turned, silence. From the walls came a rhythmic thudding, like a heartbeat—slow, deliberate, and far too loud to be human. Pipes, he told himself. Just old pipes. But then came the laughter. Childlike. Giggling. From inside the walls. It danced from room to room, mocking him, always just out of reach. In the basement, the air turned icy. His breath fogged. The lightbulb flickered as he reached for the fuse box. Click. Click. Click. Not the bulb. Something else. Like claws tapping on metal. Then, a scream—not loud, but close. Right behind his ear. He dropped his wrench. It clattered to the floor, echoing like a gunshot in the silence that followed. And then, the worst sound of all: Breathing. Not his own. Deep, ragged, and wet. Coming from the shadows. The house was breathing. And it was breathing him in.