The Couch with the Hollow Back

It was the summer of 2008, and I was living out of my old sedan with my cat, Marbles, a gray tabby with a penchant for finding the one warm spot in any room. We’d been on the road for weeks, but a friend from college, Danny, offered us his place in the small town of Redwood, Oregon, while his roommates were away. Danny’s place was a rundown Victorian house, creaky and full of odd angles, and he said I could crash on the living room couch. It was a welcome change from the car, even if the couch had a suspicious lump in the middle.

Danny was a laid-back guy, but he had this nervous habit of glancing at the couch when he talked about it. ‘Yeah, it’s a bit old, but it’s comfortable,’ he’d say, avoiding eye contact. I figured he was just worried about the lump. Marbles took to the couch immediately, circling it a few times before settling into the indentation, but I noticed she’d avoid the lump, curling up at the foot instead.

The first night, I slept fitfully. The lump seemed to press into my back in a way that felt almost rhythmic, like a slow breathing. I wrote it off as old springs. But then I started to notice a faint humming sound coming from the couch, so low I could feel it in my teeth. I asked Danny about it the next morning, but he just shrugged and said, ‘Old houses make noises.’

On the third night, I woke to find Marbles standing on the floor, staring at the couch, her hackles raised. The humming was louder, and I could swear I heard a faint scratching from inside the upholstery. I pressed my ear to the fabric and heard something that sounded like a muffled heartbeat. I pulled up the cushion to find a small, zippered opening in the base of the couch, hidden under the fabric. I unzipped it and found a journal, dusty and bound in leather. The name on the inside cover was Evelyn Hollis, dated 1965.

The journal was written in a spidery script, describing Evelyn’s obsession with ‘the hollow space’ and how she believed the couch was a conduit for something ‘other.’ She described hearing a voice that whispered secrets, and how she’d become ‘infatuated with the sigh of the springs.’ The last entry was frantic, saying she had to ‘join the hollow’ to find peace.

The next night, I couldn’t sleep. The humming was a constant drone, and I felt a pressure on my chest. I looked at the couch and saw the cushion moving slightly, as if something were shifting underneath. Marbles let out a low growl, and then she did something she never did — she walked up to the couch and started pawing at the lump, as if trying to dig in.

When I unzipped the opening again, I found that the journal had been replaced by a small, velvet pouch. Inside was a dried finger bone and a note that said: ‘She’s inside now. Don’t let her out.’

Terrified, I woke Danny, who turned pale. He confessed that his uncle had bought the couch from an estate sale in the 1980s, and that the previous owner had been found dead, buried in a crawlspace beneath the house. Danny had never used the couch himself; he’d just kept it for guests.

I packed up my things and left that morning, but as I was loading the car, I felt a vibration in my pocket. I pulled out the journal, which I thought I had left behind. It was open to a blank page, but as I watched, a message appeared in the same spidery handwriting: ‘The hollow remembers you.’

I drove out of Redwood, but every time I stopped, I’d find another page filled with new writing, always describing my movements in chilling detail. Marbles refused to sit in the backseat, instead staring at the trunk. I checked the trunk and found the velvet pouch with the bone, though I had sworn I’d left it at Danny’s.

Now, months later, I still have the journal and the bone. Marbles sleeps on my bed, but she often wakes in the middle of the night, staring at the closet. I don’t dare open it. But sometimes, when I’m alone, I hear a faint humming from inside, and I swear the mattress breathes in rhythm with it.

The couch is gone now — I donated it to a thrift store. But I still feel the lump press against my back at night, and I still smell the dust and old wood. I’ve started writing in the journal, though I don’t remember doing it. The words are not my own.

I’m not sure how long I have before the hollow calls to me, but I know one thing: if you ever find a couch with a suspicious lump, don’t sit on it. Don’t even touch it. And above all, don’t unzip the hidden pocket. Because something is waiting inside, and it’s patient.