The Basement Is Still Breathing: One door. One girl. One breath that wasn’t hers.

The wind moaned low as the lights flickered.

Mia brushed her fingers against the peeling wallpaper in her aunt’s old house, every inch of her body begging her not to go further.

But the basement door was open.

And the sound had come from below.

She wasn't supposed to be here.

Not at night. Not alone.

But her aunt’s voice on the voicemail had been frantic:

“Mia… if you ever hear whispering… do not open that door. I locked it for a reason.”

But the lock was broken when Mia arrived.

---

She descended one creaking step at a time.

The air got colder. Thicker. Like breathing through wet cloth.

The flashlight flickered once. Then twice. Then—

Darkness.

She heard the whisper again.

Right beside her ear.

“Down here…”

---

The flashlight snapped back on.

The basement was empty.

Dust, old boxes, broken furniture.

And in the far corner — a mirror, tall and cracked.

But this wasn’t there before.

She would have remembered the smell — iron and mildew, like rotting blood.

She stepped toward it.

The whisper came again.

This time from the mirror itself.

---

“Say your name, Mia.”

She froze.

Her reflection… blinked.

But she hadn’t.

---

She backed away.

Turned to run—

And hit a wall.

The staircase was gone.

The basement door had vanished.

The walls were closing in, slowly, subtly, breathing in and out.

She screamed, but the sound curled back into her throat.

The mirror glowed a faint red.

---

A shape appeared behind the glass —

A version of her.

But older. Pale. Smiling.

“You opened it. Now you feed it.”

Chains slithered from the walls like vines, wrapping around her wrists, ankles, and throat.

Her reflection still smiled.

And then —

it stepped out.

---

THE NEXT DAY

They found her phone at the top of the stairs.

No sign of Mia.

Just that same mirror in the corner of the now-empty basement.

Only… her reflection was still in it.

And it was still breathing.