The Walls are Breathing

I never meant to hurt anyone. Truly, I didn’t. But they don’t understand me, no one ever has. They think I'm crazy, but I’m not—I know what I see. You have to believe me. The walls breathe. I’ve been watching them, studying their rhythmic rise and fall, for weeks now. It’s subtle at first, almost like they’re sighing. But when you sit here long enough, when you really pay attention, you can see it—the walls expanding, contracting, like lungs full of air.

I wasn’t always this way. Once, I was just like you—normal, going about my business. I had a job, friends, and even went out sometimes. But then… the walls started moving. At first, I thought it was a trick of the light. Maybe the shadows from the streetlamp outside or the flicker of the television. But the longer I stared, the more I knew. They were alive. It wasn’t just in my head. I could feel it in my bones.

It started in my bedroom. Late at night, I’d lie in bed and watch the ceiling. It would ripple, slowly at first, as if something beneath the paint was shifting, stretching. I told my roommate, John, but he just laughed. He always laughs. He told me to “chill out” and get more sleep. But how could I sleep with the house itself breathing down my neck?

I tried to ignore it. I really did. I went to work, made small talk at the office, even smiled when I didn’t want to. But the breathing—it followed me. Everywhere. In the break room, I’d catch the walls flexing out of the corner of my eye. In the bathroom stall, they would press in, just slightly, like they were curious about me. Like they were watching.

One night, John came home late, drunk, stumbling through the front door like a buffoon. I told him again—told him about the walls, about how they were alive, how they were watching us. He laughed, as usual, slurring something about needing a therapist. But I didn’t need a therapist—I wasn’t crazy. The walls were alive. They were listening to us.

I think that’s when things started to get worse. I began hearing voices—not in my head, mind you—but from the walls themselves. Whispering, soft, almost soothing, like the gentle hum of a distant conversation. I’d press my ear to the plaster, trying to catch the words, but they’d slip away, always just out of reach. They were talking about me. I know they were.

One evening, I sat John down. I told him we needed to move. The house was sick. He brushed me off, called me paranoid, told me to take a sleeping pill and calm down. But I knew better. I couldn’t trust him anymore. Not when the walls were telling me things. Dark things. About John.

I don’t know why they chose me. Maybe because I was willing to listen. Maybe because I was open to understanding. But they showed me things, things John was hiding. They whispered his secrets to me late at night when he was asleep in the next room. Lies he’d told, people he’d hurt, things he’d done. The more I listened, the more I knew—John wasn’t who he pretended to be.

One night, I woke up to a sound. A low, almost imperceptible thud, like something heavy hitting the floor. I got up, heart pounding, and followed the noise to the living room. There was John, standing in the dark, staring at the wall. No, not staring—talking to it. His lips were moving, but no sound came out. I knew then that he was in on it. He was conspiring with the walls, betraying me. He wasn’t my friend. He was part of them.

I couldn’t let him hurt me. I couldn’t let him turn me in. So, I waited. I waited until he fell asleep, sprawled out on the couch like he didn’t have a care in the world. I crept to the kitchen, grabbed the knife. It wasn’t hard. A quick slice, a little blood—more than I expected, honestly—and it was done.

The walls told me it was okay. They thanked me, said they were safe now. Said I was safe now. I wrapped John in a sheet and dragged him to the basement. The walls didn’t stop me—they didn’t breathe as heavily down there. I figured they’d leave him alone. He didn’t deserve their attention anymore.

The police came a few days later, asking questions. I told them I hadn’t seen John in a while, that maybe he’d left town. He was always talking about needing a break, about getting away. They believed me, of course. Why wouldn’t they? I’m not the type to hurt anyone. Not intentionally. They didn’t check the basement. No one ever does.

Now it’s just me and the walls. They don’t breathe as much anymore. Sometimes, they’re silent for days, like they’re resting, waiting. But I know they’re still watching, still listening. They’ll tell me if anything else needs to be done. I trust them. They’ve never lied to me.

You don’t believe me, do you? You think I’m mad, just like John did. But I’m not. You can come see for yourself. I’ll show you. We can sit here together, in the quiet, and you’ll see the walls breathe. You’ll hear them whisper. They’ll tell you the truth, just like they told me.

All you have to do is listen.