The renovation of the old Victorian house was going smoothly until Clara found the radio built directly into the master bedroom wall. It was a massive, vacuum-tube unit from the 1940s, its fabric speaker grill rotted away. When she flipped the heavy brass switch, it didn't play music. It emitted a wet, rhythmic static that sounded exactly like a person breathing heavily through a wet cloth.

Clara laughed it off and tried to turn it off. The switch clicked down, but the wet breathing continued, unbothered by the lack of power. That night, she woke up because the temperature in the room had plummeted. In the dark, she could hear the radio's speaker fabric buzzing. But the sound wasn't coming from the wall anymore. It was coming from the empty space right beside her pillow, breathing softly against her bare shoulder.