The Castor Wheel’s Turn

In the autumn of 1978, my mother and I were wandering through a drafty Victorian in the outskirts of Wellington, New Zealand. The house had a musty smell, but the real estate agent, a pale woman named Mrs. Albright, assured us it was just the old carpets. As we stepped into the wide front hall, a beam of weak sun slanted through the stained-glass window above the door, casting a mosaic of colors on the polished floorboards. The hall was mostly empty, save for a heavy oak sideboard and a curious low table on wheels. That table was peculiar, with brass castors, the kind that don’t glide easily, and it stood at a slight angle, as if someone had left it in a hurry.

My mother and I stood chatting with Mrs. Albright, our backs to the table, when a man appeared at the front door. He was tall, with a gaunt face and eyes that seemed too large for his skull. Mrs. Albright turned to greet him, leaving us facing the table. The man’s gaze flickered past us and landed on the table, and for a moment, his expression froze. He said something in a low voice to Mrs. Albright, who nodded and led him into a side room without a word to us. I shrugged it off, but my mother whispered that the man had looked at the table as if he’d seen a ghost.

We continued our tour. The house was a labyrinth of narrow corridors and awkward rooms. In the kitchen, a tap dripped monotonously, and the window looked out onto a overgrown garden where a rusty swing creaked in the breeze. Upstairs, the bedrooms were stuffy, with heavy curtains that seemed to swallow light. But the strangest room was a small study at the end of the hall. It was perfectly tidy, yet the air was icy, and a single armchair faced the wall, as if someone had been sitting there, watching the paint peel. I felt a chill crawl up my spine and hurried back to the hall.

The table was still there, unchanged, but I noticed something odd: the front edge was now even with the rear edge. I distinctly remembered it being askew. I pointed it out to my mother, who frowned and said, ‘Maybe the draft moved it.’ But the castors were heavy, and the floor was smooth. We decided to leave, but as we reached the door, Mrs. Albright reappeared, her smile tight. ‘Did you have a good look?’ she asked, but her eyes kept darting to the table. I asked if the house had any history, and she hesitated before saying, ‘The previous owner was a collector of antique furniture. He died here, peacefully, in his sleep.’ I didn’t believe her.

We left, but the image of that table haunted me. A few days later, I phoned the local library and asked about the house’s history. The librarian, a kindly woman, told me that the house had been owned by a man named Henry Wallace, a reclusive antique dealer. He had been found dead in that study, but not peacefully—he had been strangled. The murderer was never caught. What’s more, the librarian said, ‘People have reported that the table moves by itself. It was his favorite piece.’

I couldn’t shake it. A week later, against my better judgment, I drove past the house. The ‘For Sale’ sign was gone, and a moving truck was outside. I saw a new family unloading boxes. I parked and watched as they carried in furniture, including a tray table with castor wheels. It was exactly like the one in the hall. I felt a sickening lurch. I got out and approached the new owner, a young man with a tired face. I asked about the table, and he said, ‘We found it in the attic. We thought it would be useful.’ I told him to be careful, but he just laughed.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the table, how it had straightened itself. Was it a sign? I called my mother, who admitted she had also been uneasy. We agreed to visit the house one last time, to satisfy our curiosity. When we arrived, the house was dark, but the front door was ajar. We slipped inside. The hall was empty except for the table, now at the far end near the stairs. It was angled even more sharply, as if it had been moved. A faint whisper of air passed over us, and we heard a noise from the study—a creak, like a chair turning.

We crept to the study door. It was slightly open. Inside, the armchair was facing the door, and a man’s shadow fell across the wall—the same gaunt man from before. He was seated, staring at the table in the hall. He spoke, his voice a rasp: ‘It knows when you’re leaviing. It has to be facing the door to watch.’ My mother screamed, and we fled. As we ran down the steps, I glanced back and saw the table’s castors roll slightly, as if following us.

We never spoke of it again. But sometimes, at night, I think I hear the sound of heavy wheels on wooden floors, and I know that table is still there, waiting for someone to leave it at the wrong angle.