The Chair by the Window

My first clear memory is of the house on Maple Street, a two-story Victorian with peeling paint and a porch that groaned underfoot. I was six when we moved in, and I remember thinking the place smelled like old books and dust, even though we hadn’t unpacked a single box. My mother, Elsie, was a practical woman who didn’t believe in ghosts, but she humored me when I talked about the ‘night people.’ She said it was just my imagination, a child’s way of coping with a new place.

Our living room had a bay window that faced the street, and beside it sat a worn armchair with a floral pattern faded to gray. Most nights, I slept in my own room, but when the nightmares got bad, I’d pad into my mother’s bed, my blanket dragging behind me. Her room was warm and safe, with a lamp that cast a soft glow. But there was a chair in the corner, a wooden rocker that creaked even when no one sat in it. And every night I stayed there, I saw him: a man made of shadows, sitting in that rocker, watching me with hollow eyes. He never moved, never spoke, but his presence was as real as the quilt my mother tucked around me. I’d whisper to her, ‘Who’s the man in the chair?’ She’d glance over, frown, and say, ‘There’s no one there, sweetie. Go back to sleep.’ But I saw him, clear as day, his form solid against the wallpaper.

One night, the fear was worse than usual. I couldn’t sleep, and my mother was snoring softly. I slipped out of bed to fetch my teddy bear from the living room, a worn brown bear I’d had since a baby. The hallway was dark, lit only by a nightlight shaped like a star. As I walked, the dark seemed to press in on me, and I heard a whisper behind me, like the rustle of dry leaves. I turned, but nothing was there. The living room was pitch black, and I fumbled for the lamp. When my fingers found the switch and light flooded the room, I froze. The armchair by the window was empty, but the shadow man stood in the corner, his head tilted as if inviting me closer. I wanted to scream, but no sound came out. Then everything went black.

The next thing I knew, I was on the floor, my mother shaking me, her face pale. ‘You were shouting,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘You kept pointing at the wall, screaming ‘faces, faces!’ I looked at the wall, but it was just plaster, peeling in spots. I didn’t remember yelling, but my throat was raw, and my heart pounded. After that night, I refused to go near the living room, and my mother started leaving every light on. But the shadow man followed me, appearing in the corner of my bedroom, in the hallway mirror, even in the backyard when I played. I’d tell my mother, and she’d brush it off, but I could see the worry in her eyes.

A few months later, my mother came home with boxes and said we were moving. I never got to say goodbye to the house, but I was glad to leave. On our last night, I peeked into the living room, and the shadow man was still there, sitting in that chair by the window. He waved, a slow, deliberate motion, and I felt a chill run down my spine. Then I turned and ran to the car, never looking back.

But the haunting didn’t stop. We moved to a small apartment in the city, and I thought the shadow man couldn’t find me there. For a while, he didn’t. But last week, on the anniversary of our moving day, I woke up at 3 a.m. to see him sitting in the armchair of my new living room, the same armchair, though I’d never bought one. He was watching me, and in the dim light, I saw his mouth move, forming a single word: ‘Soon.’ Now, every night, I hear the creak of a rocker in the dark, and I know he’s waiting for me to come back.