The Room with No Air

When Sam found the house, it felt too good to be true. An old Victorian, tucked away in a quiet neighborhood, and listed at a price far below market value. He figured there had to be a catch, but the realtor brushed off his concerns. “It’s been vacant for years,” she explained. “People just aren’t interested in these old places anymore.”

Sam, on the other hand, loved old houses. He quickly signed the papers and moved in, eager to restore the place to its former glory. But something about the house felt… wrong.

It started with the third floor. The main part of the house was airy and bright, but the third floor felt different. Oppressive. He had planned to use one of the rooms as an office, but every time he went up there, the air grew thick, heavy, as though something was pressing down on him.

After a week, he began avoiding it altogether.

One evening, as he sat in his living room, the silence of the house was broken by a strange noise—a faint scraping sound, like nails against wood. Sam froze, listening carefully. The sound came again, this time louder, from above.

“Probably just the pipes,” he muttered, trying to shake off the unease creeping over him. But the sound persisted, rhythmic and deliberate, as though someone—or something—was dragging something heavy across the floor upstairs.

Sam grabbed a flashlight and made his way up to the third floor. The air immediately felt colder, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. As he reached the top of the stairs, the noise stopped.

He scanned the hallway with the flashlight beam, stopping at the door at the far end—the room he had avoided since moving in. The door was slightly ajar, though he distinctly remembered closing it.

“Hello?” he called out, his voice echoing in the empty hallway. There was no answer.

Sam took a deep breath and pushed the door open. The room was empty. The pale moonlight filtered through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor. He stood there for a moment, listening, but all was silent.

Just as he turned to leave, a soft whisper filled the room.

“Help me.”

Sam’s blood ran cold. He spun around, shining the flashlight frantically around the room. There was no one there.

The voice came again, quieter this time, desperate.

“Help me…”

Heart pounding, Sam followed the sound to the far wall. The wallpaper here was old, peeling in places. He ran his hand over it, and something strange caught his eye—a faint outline, like a door, hidden beneath the wallpaper. His hands shook as he peeled away the paper, revealing a small, sealed door behind it.

He hesitated. Every instinct screamed at him to leave, but something compelled him to keep going. He pried the door open, revealing a tiny crawl space, barely large enough to fit a person.

And then he saw it.

In the dim light, something shifted in the darkness—something small, crumpled, and pale. A human figure, curled up and still, its skin paper-thin and stretched tight over bones.

Sam stumbled back, his mind reeling. How long had this been here? Who—

Before he could process it, the figure’s head jerked up. Its eyes, wide and hollow, locked onto his. Its mouth moved slowly, forming silent words.

But Sam didn’t need to hear them.

The room, once silent, suddenly filled with a gasping, rasping sound, like someone desperately trying to breathe. The air grew impossibly thick, suffocating, as though all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. Sam’s chest tightened, panic flooding his veins.

He staggered toward the door, but the gasping grew louder, closer, as though it was right behind him.

He glanced back one last time, and the figure—now standing—reached out with skeletal hands, lips moving in a silent, eternal plea.

“Stay… with me…”

Sam bolted down the stairs, never looking back. But the gasping followed him, echoing in his ears long after he fled the house. And every night since, in the silence of his new apartment, he can still hear it.

The room that had no air.