The Barber’s Chair

I’ve never been one to trust the creaks and groans of an old building, but when I moved into the apartment above Luigi’s Barbershop, I figured the ghosts of a thousand bad haircuts were the least of my concerns. My cat, Miso, a sleek black tom with yellow eyes, had other ideas.

Miso and I had been through a lot. He’d warned me about the gas leak in my last place by sitting on my chest until I woke up, and he’d alerted me to the faulty wiring by hissing at the fuse box. But his real trick, the one that made me believe he was something more than a clever animal, was the bite. Not a playful nip, but a single, sharp, deliberate bite, always on my left ankle, always right before something terrible happened. The last time he did it, the ceiling of my old apartment collapsed. So when I saw the run-down ‘Rooms for Rent’ sign above Luigi’s, I should have listened to the uneasy feeling in my gut.

The room was cheap, which was a red flag in this city. The other tenants were a motley crew: a shut-in artist named Bernice, a night-shift nurse named Caleb, and a retired sailor called Old Tom who smelled of salt and rum. They all seemed friendly enough, but there was a tension in the air, like a note just out of tune. Miso took one look around the room and started his routine. He’d sniff every corner, his ears swiveling like radar dishes. He’d stare intently at spots where nothing was visible to me. But he didn’t bite. Not yet.

For the first week, nothing happened. Then, I started hearing the chair. Luigi’s barbershop was directly below my floor, and although it was closed for business, the old leather barber chair would occasionally squeak and groan as if someone was sitting in it. The first time, I thought it was just the building settling. But then I’d hear a faint humming, a jaunty tune like something from a 1950s commercial. Miso would stop whatever he was doing and stare at the floor, his tail flicking in agitation.

One night, I was lying in bed, reading, when Miso hopped up and sat on my chest, his face inches from mine. His pupils were huge, nearly swallowing the yellow irises. He let out a low, guttural growl, something I’d never heard from him before. And then he bit my ankle. Hard. I yelped and jumped up, my heart pounding. That’s when the lights flickered and died.

I fumbled for a flashlight, my ankle throbbing. The building was dead silent, except for a rhythmic squeaking coming from downstairs. Squeak, groan, squeak, groan. Like a rocking chair, but heavier. I crept to the floor vent that looked down into the barbershop. Through the slats, I could see a dim glow, as if the old neon sign outside was casting a sickly green light. The barber chair was spinning slowly, and in it sat a shape, a man in a striped apron, his face a blur of features that seemed to shift and writhe. He was combing the air, his scissors snipping at nothing, and he was humming that same tune.

I scrambled back, my breath coming in short gasps. Miso was at my heels, his fur standing on end. I tried to wake Bernice, but her door was locked. I knocked on Caleb’s door, but he was at work. Old Tom’s room was quiet, but I could hear a strange, wet sound from inside, like something being shuffled on a tiled floor. I pounded on his door, but he didn’t answer. I went back to my room, grabbed Miso, and ran out into the hallway. The entire building felt wrong, like the walls were breathing.

Down the stairs, past the barbershop window, I saw it. The shape was standing now, its face pressed against the glass, its features stretching into an impossibly wide grin. It had no eyes, only empty sockets, and its hands were long and spider-like, reaching for the doorknob. Miso hissed and arched his back. I backed away, but the staircase behind me was now a yawning black pit. The whole building seemed to twist and contort.

Then, the biting sensation returned, but this time it wasn’t on my ankle. It was in my mind, a sharp, piercing pain that made me cry out. I saw flashes: an old man, Luigi, hunched over a client, his hands trembling, the razor slipping, a throat cut, blood pooling on the white tile floor. The police had ruled it an accident, but the shop had been cursed ever since. The chair was claimed by Luigi’s ghost, forever waiting to give the last haircut.

I stumbled backward, and Miso darted forward, leaping at the window, his claws scrabbling at the glass. The shape outside recoiled, and the building seemed to shudder. I heard a cracking sound, and a huge fissure split the floor. I grabbed Miso and dove for the front door, which was now visible, the exit a beacon of normal streetlight. We burst out onto the sidewalk, gasping. The building behind us was still, quiet. The neon sign flickered and died.

I looked down at Miso. He was panting, but his eyes were calm. He had warned me, and I had listened. We never went back. The next day, the building was condemned, and I read in the paper that Old Tom had been found in his room, his face frozen in a scream, his throat slit. The barber chair was removed, but they never found it. Sometimes, late at night, I still hear that faint humming, and Miso looks at me with those knowing yellow eyes. He hasn’t bitten me since. I hope he never has to again.