I hear it again tonight.
The breathing.
Not mine.
Not the nurse's in the hallway.
But heavy—slow—like lungs filled with ash.
It comes from the ceiling above my cot.
From the padded tiles that sometimes peel when I blink too long.
> "Third floor is breathing," I whisper.
The doctor hears it. He always does. And he scribbles in his notebook like it's just another symptom.
But he doesn't know what I know.
---
The third floor was alive.
It wasn't just haunted.
It wasn't even a building anymore.
It was hungry.
---
They show me pieces of the footage now.
Claim they're trying to help me "distinguish delusion from reality."
But the footage agrees with me more than they ever have.
It shows what happened.
Or at least, what tried to wear our faces.
---
> [STATIC — RECOVERED FOOTAGE – CAM 01]
Time stamp: 02:21 a.m. – Greenhill Asylum
[Remaining: Arjun, Nisha, Kavya]
> Camera pans across hallway.
A door marked "3C" swings open.
Behind it—nothing visible to the eye.
But the lens blurs, trembles slightly.
> Then Ravi walks out.
Only Ravi had gone missing 30 minutes before that shot.
In the frame, he walks in front of the others. Laughs. Makes a joke about "blaming ghosts for gas."
Everyone laughs. Even me.
But when they zoom the footage in…
> There are two Ravis.
One walking.
One standing motionless at the far end of the hallway.
Mouth open.
Eyes bleeding shadow.
And when the group rounds the corner—
Only one Ravi remains.
But which?
---
I remember reviewing that frame.
I remember whispering to Nisha:
> "It's copying us."
And she didn't ask what I meant.
Because she already felt it too.
The way Tara's voice had sounded different.
The way Ravi's laugh had no echo.
The way Kavya's smile twitched—like she forgot how mouths worked.
---
They don't show me the rest of the footage.
But I remember what happened next.
We ran.
Or tried.
The floor shifted.
Corridors lengthened.
The air grew thicker, hotter.
Like the building was exhaling rot into our lungs.
---
Kavya was next.
She turned to speak—and her voice came out twice.
One normal. One delayed.
Like someone else inside her mouth trying to speak too.
Then she dropped.
Gone.
Just gone.
And the silence that followed wasn't real silence.
It throbbed.
---
Only me and Nisha left.
I held the camera to my chest, too afraid to film anymore.
Too afraid I'd see something in the lens I couldn't unsee.
> "We're not in the real hospital anymore," she said.
> "I think we crossed into its memory."
> "We're in its feeding time."
---
We found a door marked "DR. KALRA – CHIEF OF WARD."
Inside:
Rotting folders.
A broken mirror.
A record player still spinning.
And on the walls—
Photos.
Twelve patients.
Each face scratched out with a spiral.
Each file labeled: "Unrecoverable. No reflection."
---
I looked for Ravi's face.
Then Tara's.
Then Kavya's.
I found them.
Not in the records.
But in the mirror.
They stood behind us.
Smiling.
---
Nisha screamed.
Tried to run.
But her foot sank into the floor.
Not broke through it.
Sank into it—like the tiles had turned to warm flesh.
And something reached up and pulled her down.
One last scream.
Cut off halfway.
---
I don't remember what happened after.
Only that I ran.
That I dropped the camera.
And that I woke up outside.
Covered in dried blood.
Surrounded by police.
And the only words I could say were:
> "It filmed itself."
---
Now, the doctors say I hallucinated.
That I've been here for six weeks.
That my friends' bodies were never found.
And that the camera footage had gaps.
Footage of me smiling into the lens.
When I should've been running.
When I should've been screaming.
---
And sometimes—just before sleep—I hear a voice in the ceiling say:
> "Thank you for feeding us."
And the lightbulb in my room dims.
And the shadows stretch just a little too far.
And I feel a hand press gently on my chest—
Like it's trying to remember what breathing feels like.
---
Because I held the camera.
Because I saw too much.
Because I still remember what none of them should.