Officer Mark Holloway had been on the force for ten years, but nothing in his career had prepared him for what he encountered one cold October night.
It started with a call from a remote neighborhood. A woman’s voice, frantic and trembling, had whispered through the radio:
“He’s in my house… I can hear him breathing.”
Mark and his partner, Officer Riley, responded immediately. They sped down the empty roads, sirens blaring. But as they neared the location, the dispatcher radioed back with confusion.
“There’s no house at that address.”
Mark frowned. He double-checked the location. It was a cul-de-sac, but the only thing there was an old abandoned house. The windows were broken, the door barely hanging on its hinges. It had been condemned years ago.
Still, they got out, flashlights cutting through the dark.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and something else—something rotten. A broken phone lay on the floor, the old rotary kind, its cord severed. Riley pointed at it.
“How did she call us?”
Before Mark could respond, a noise creaked from upstairs. Footsteps.
They moved cautiously, guns drawn. The second floor was darker, colder. At the end of the hallway, a door stood slightly ajar. Something moved behind it.
Mark pushed it open.
Inside, a woman stood with her back to them, her long black hair tangled and matted. She was whispering something, over and over.
“He’s in my house. I can hear him breathing.”
Mark stepped closer.
“Ma’am, we’re here to help.”
The woman stopped whispering. Her shoulders twitched. Then, slowly, she turned.
Mark’s breath caught. Her face was a black void. No eyes, no mouth. Just smooth, stretched skin.
Then, behind him, Riley gasped.
Mark turned just in time to see something—someone—in the hallway. A man, tall and thin, his face shrouded in darkness, his breathing deep and ragged.
The lights flickered.
The radio on Mark’s shoulder crackled with static. Then, a voice—distorted, identical to the woman’s—whispered through.
“He’s in my house. I can hear him breathing.”
And then, everything went black.
The next morning, their patrol car was found abandoned outside the house. But inside? No sign of Mark or Riley. Just their radios, still crackling with static.
And if you listen closely, some say you can still hear it—
A whisper.
"He’s in my house. I can hear him breathing."