The Chair by the Window

I have always been open to the idea that there are forces beyond our understanding. But for most of my life, that belief remained untouched by personal experience. It was a theory, a ghost story told around a campfire. That changed in the autumn of 2016, when my best friend Mara and I decided to take a break from the city and stay at a remote bed-and-breakfast in the high desert of New Mexico. The place was called ‘Casa del Sol’, a sprawling adobe house that had been converted into a small inn. The owner, a woman named Rosa, was a descendant of the original family and had grown up in that very building. She gave us the ‘Panorama Room’, which faced the vast, empty landscape of arid plains and mesas.

The room was simple but charming. A large window overlooked the desert, and beside it stood an old wooden chair, carved with intricate patterns of vines and birds. It was the first thing that caught my eye. It seemed out of place, too ornate for the room’s minimalism, and it faced the window as if someone liked to sit there and watch the sunset. I mentioned it to Mara, but she was busy unpacking and didn’t pay it much mind.

The first night was uneventful. We ate dinner at a long communal table with other guests, then retired early. But when I woke up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, I noticed something strange. The chair, which had been beside the window when we arrived, was now positioned directly in the center of the room, facing the door. I froze, my heart beginning to race. I was sure we hadn’t moved it. I woke Mara, but she grumbled that I must have been sleepwalking and told me to go back to sleep. Reluctantly, I moved the chair back to its original spot and tried to sleep, but my mind was restless.

The next night, I decided to stay awake and watch. I didn’t want to imagine things. At exactly 3:07 AM, I heard a faint creaking sound, as if the wood was being disturbed. I turned on my flashlight and saw the chair slowly wobbling, as if an invisible hand was trying to turn it. I watched in horror as it rotated on its own, its carved back now facing the window, and then stopped. It had turned 180 degrees without anyone touching it. I woke Mara again, and this time she saw it too. The chair was now facing the wall, opposite to its original position. We were both terrified, and we called Rosa in the morning to ask about the room’s history.

Rosa’s face turned pale when we told her. She sat us down in the kitchen and, in a low voice, told us a story. Many years ago, when she was a child, her great-uncle Ernesto used to sit in that chair every evening, looking out the window. He was a solitary man, a woodworker who had carved that chair himself. He had a bad heart and died suddenly one night while sitting in it. They found him still in the chair, his eyes open, staring at the desert. After that, there were rumors. Some said they saw the chair move on its own, and it always turned away from the window, as if Ernesto couldn bear to see what he had seen that night. Rosa had always dismissed it, but now she was scared.

Intrigued and terrified, we decided to dig deeper. We found an old diary in the library that belonged to Ernesto. Written in his own hand, it described a reoccurring dream he had, of a figure beckoning him from the desert, just beyond the window. As the nights passed, the figure came closer. On the last entry, dated the day before his death, he wrote, ‘It is now at the edge of the property. It has long, thin arms. I fear it will take me tonight.’ We looked out the window, and for a moment, I thought I saw a shape in the distance, a tall, dark silhouette that seemed to wave at us.

The next night, we rigged a camera to record the chair. At 3:07 AM, the chair began to turn again, and as it did, a cold wind swept through the room. On the footage, we saw a shadowy figure slide from the chair toward the window. It then seemed to press against the glass, as if trying to get in. The camera battery died immediately after, though it had been fully charged.

We were terrified and decided to leave the next morning. But as we packed, I noticed the chair had been moved again. It was now facing the bed, and on the seat, there was a small carving that hadn’t been there before: a handprint, burned into the wood as if scorched by an intense heat. I touched it and felt a jolt, like static electricity. Then I heard a whisper, as clear as if someone were right next to my ear: ‘You shouldn have come.’ We ran out of the room, and when we got to the front door, it was locked from the outside, though we had the key. It took Rosa 20 minutes to find the spare key, and she seemed distracted, muttering about her uncle.

We finally escaped, and as we drove away, I looked back at the bed-and-breakfast. The window of our room was lit, and I saw the silhouette of a man sitting in the chair, watching us go. I haven’t told many people this story, because they might think I am insane. But Mara was there. She saw it too. And to this day, if anyone mentions that inn, I get a chill. Because I know that something remains in that room, and it waits for the next guest to sit in that chair. And if you do, you might find yourself turning to face the window, not by your own will, but by the force of a man who never truly left.