The Chair at the Door

My name is Elias Thorne, and I live in a narrow, three-story house on a dead-end street called Cypress Lane. The house was a bargain, but I soon learned why. Every night, it wakes up. I’ve learned to live with the creaks and groans, the way the floorboards shift when I walk, the sound of something scratching inside the walls. But the chairs are the worst.

There are four of them in the living room, three tan and one spray-painted red. I don’t know why the previous owner painted one red, but it’s always been there. I usually keep them folded and stacked by the window. But sometimes, I find the red chair unfolded, sitting against my bedroom door. I’ve never seen it move. I’ve never heard it. But every time it happens, my blood runs cold.

The first time, I thought I was losing my mind. I slid the door open, and there it was, its back pressed against the wood, as if it were holding the door shut from the other side. I stood there, frozen, my heart pounding. Why would anyone move it? And was it trying to keep me in my room, or keep something else out? I never got an answer. I just unfolded it and put it back with the others, trying to forget.

But tonight is different. I came home late from work, my back aching from the factory. I kicked off my boots and trudged up the stairs to my bedroom without looking at the living room. I didn’t want to see if the red chair had moved. I just wanted to sleep. I closed the door, crawled into bed, and pulled the covers over my head. The house was silent, but that silence felt wrong. It was too heavy, like the air before a storm.

Sleep came slowly, but eventually, I drifted off. That’s when I heard it: footsteps. Heavy, deliberate steps on the bare wood floor of the living room, right outside my door. I sat up, my heart thudding in my chest. The footsteps stopped. I waited, listening to the silence. Then they started again, slower, closer. I could hear the floorboards creaking under the weight. I yelled, ‘Who’s out there?’ My voice cracked, but there was no answer. The footsteps didn’t stop. They continued toward my door, and then they stopped right outside.

I held my breath. I could hear breathing on the other side of the door. Heavy, wet, ragged breathing. I wanted to scream, but my voice was stuck in my throat. Then I heard the chair. The scrape of metal on wood. The red chair was being moved. I could hear it sliding across the floor, and then a thump as it was placed against my door. The breathing stopped. The house went silent again.

I didn’t sleep. I sat in my bed, staring at the door, my eyes wide in the darkness. I could see the faint outline of the chair through the gap under the door. The red paint seemed to glow in the dark. I don’t know how long I waited. An hour? Two? Then the footsteps started again, but this time they were moving away, back towards the living room. I let out a shaky breath. It was leaving.

But then I heard something else. A noise from the living room. It was a low, guttural hum, a sound that seemed to vibrate through the floor. It was coming from the direction of the chairs. All four of them. I heard the folding chairs rattle, as if they were shaking. And then, one by one, they unfolded. I could hear the snap of the metal legs locking into place. Four thuds as they hit the floor.

Cold sweat trickled down my back. I didn’t know what to do. I was trapped. The red chair was holding my door shut, and now the other three were standing in the living room, like silent guests waiting for a performance. And I was the show.

Then, the humming stopped. For a long moment, there was nothing. Then, I heard a sound that made my blood freeze: a faint, childlike whisper, coming from just outside my door. It said, ‘We’re ready for you, Elias.’

I don’t know how they knew my name. I’ve never told anyone about the chairs. I’ve never told anyone about this house. But now they’re waiting, and I’m trapped. The red chair is still against my door, and I can hear the other chairs creaking as if they’re rocking back and forth, waiting for me to try to leave.

I don’t know if I’ll make it to morning. I don’t know if I’ll ever leave this room. But I know one thing: I should have sold this house when I had the chance. Now, I just have to wait for the chairs to decide what to do with me. And I’m afraid they’re not patient.