The Thing in the Vents

Rachel had only lived in her new apartment for a week when she started noticing it.

At first, it was small things. A soft scratching sound at night. The feeling of being watched when she walked past the air vents. She told herself it was just an old building settling, maybe mice in the walls.

But then came the breathing.

It started around 2:48 AM every night. A slow, raspy inhale… then a long, wheezing exhale. Coming from the vent above her bed.

Rachel would lie there, frozen, staring up at the dark slats of the vent.

Sometimes, she swore she saw something shift inside.

3:07 AM

Tonight, the breathing was louder. Closer.

Rachel sat up slowly, heart pounding. The vent was slightly open. Had it always been like that?

She grabbed her phone and turned on the flashlight.

A faint glint of something wet shone from inside the vent.

She leaned forward.

And then—

Something moved.

Rachel yelped and scrambled back, nearly falling off the bed. Her breathing was ragged.

Then she heard it.

A voice. From inside the vent.

“I see you.”

Rachel’s stomach dropped. No. No, this had to be a prank. A sick joke.

Slowly, she reached for the nightstand drawer, pulling out a screwdriver with shaking hands. If something was in there, she needed to see it.

With a deep breath, she climbed onto the bed and reached up, unscrewing the vent cover.

The metal creaked as it came loose.

The air inside smelled rotten.

Her flashlight flickered.

Rachel hesitated. Then, summoning every ounce of courage, she lifted the phone and shined the light inside.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Eyes.

Sunken, glistening eyes. Staring back at her.

Then, it smiled.

A wide, gaping grin stretched across a face that wasn’t human.

Rachel screamed, stumbling backward.

The thing moved.

A hand shot out, pale and bony, fingers bending the wrong way as it reached for her.

Rachel grabbed the vent cover and slammed it back in place, screwing it in frantically, her hands slick with sweat.

The thing inside laughed.

Soft. Breathless. Almost… excited.

She backed away, heart hammering, and grabbed her phone to call 911.

Then she heard it.

A new sound.

The closet door creaking open.

Rachel’s blood ran cold.

Her phone screen flickered—then died.

And from the darkness of the closet came a whisper, raspy and eager:

“You opened the wrong one.”

The lights flickered—

And the door slammed shut.