The Chair in the Sunroom

My friend Clara had always been drawn to the past, her apartment a museum of salvaged memories. When she invited me over to see her new place, I expected something quaint, but the sunroom took my breath away. It was a glass-walled addition at the back of her old Victorian flat, overlooking a wild overgrown garden. In the center sat a rocking chair, not ornate like the one I’d imagine, but stark, made of pale birch, with a high back and arms worn smooth by countless hands. Clara beamed, patting the seat. ‘A flea market find,’ she said, ‘only twenty bucks. I couldn’t resist.’

She settled into it, the chair creaking softly as she rocked, a hand resting on her swollen belly. ‘I picture reading to the baby here, watching the sunset over the weeds.’ Her voice was light, but a chill ran through me. The chair looked too old, too clean, as if recently scrubbed. ‘Where did you get it exactly?’ I asked. She shrugged. ‘From a nice old man selling his mother’s things. She passed last year. He said she loved to sit and watch the birds.’

I helped her prepare dinner, but my gaze kept drifting to the chair. The way the light caught the grain, the subtle stains on the arms. After we ate, Clara insisted I try it. ‘It’s so relaxing,’ she said. I hesitated, but she pushed. ‘Just for a minute.’ I sat, and the chair rocked back, smooth and silent. But as it moved, I felt a faint resistance, as if something else was guiding it. I stood up quickly, laughing it off. ‘Creaky old thing,’ I said.

Later, as I was leaving, I noticed a small, dark spot on the cushion. Clara said it was just a stain. I didn’t believe her. The next month, Clara called me, her voice tight. ‘Marta, I think something’s wrong.’ She’d been having nightmares, vivid ones of a woman in a long dress rocking in the chair, humming a lullaby. She’d wake up with her hands aching, as if she’d been gripping something. She’d also found scratches on her arms, thin lines like ancient nails.

I went over immediately. The chair was in the sunroom, and it seemed to be waiting. Clara looked exhausted, dark circles under her eyes. ‘I can’t get rid of it,’ she whispered. ‘I tried. But every time I move it, I find it back in the same spot.’ She pointed to the floor. There were deep grooves in the wood, matching the rockers. ‘It’s been here for decades,’ I said. Clara shook her head. ‘The old man said it was from his childhood home, but I looked it up. That house burned down in 1962. And the woman, she died in it.’

I felt a cold dread. ‘You need to get rid of

it, now.’ But Clara wouldn’t. ‘Maybe it’s just my hormones,’ she said. ‘I can’t let it get to me.’

I didn’t hear from her for a week. When I called, her voice was a whisper, strained. ‘Marta, I can’t feel the baby anymore.’ My blood ran cold. I rushed over, found the door unlocked. Clara was sitting in the chair, her eyes vacant, her hands resting on her belly. The room was freezing, even though the sun was glaring. ‘I’ve been sitting here for days,’ she said. ‘It won’t let me leave.’

I tried to pull her up, but she was frozen, her hands clutching the armrests. As I tugged, the chair began to rock violently, as if possessed. A low humming filled the air, a lullaby I didn’t recognize. I saw, out of the corner of my eye, the faint outline of a woman in the chair, her hands covering Clara’s. ‘She wants the baby,’ Clara murmured. ‘She lost hers in the fire. She’s been waiting.’

I ran to the kitchen, grabbed a knife, and began to pry at the chair’s joints. It was like prying at a living thing. The wood seemed to resist, and the humming grew louder. I slashed at the cushions, tore the fabric, but nothing. Finally, I grabbed a hammer from under the sink and brought it down on the rocker’s frame. The wood split with a scream that was not wood. The humming stopped, and Clara gasped, as if waking from a trance.

She looked at me, then at her belly. ‘I think it’s gone,’ she whispered. We drove to the hospital, and after tests, the baby was fine. But when we returned, the chair was gone. Only a deep scar in the floorboards remained. When the police arrived, they found no trace of the chair. But I knew, as Clara would later know, that the chair had not left. It was waiting, somewhere, for the right moment to return.

Clara had her baby, a healthy girl, but she never stopped looking over her shoulder. On the first anniversary of that day, I received a postcard from Clara. It showed a birch rocking chair with a note: ‘I saw it in a shop window. I didn’t go in.’

I never visited her again. And I learned to avoid antique furniture, especially anything that rocks. Because some things are not meant to be kept, and some times, a chair is not just a chair.