The Depressed Cushion

In the autumn of 1978, I was working at a textile mill in Spartanburg, South Carolina, and had taken a few days off to visit my mother in our old family home, a sprawling farmhouse that had been in our family for generations. My sister Ruth and her husband Dale had come for supper, but they had plans to see a late movie, so they left around eight, leaving just Mama and me alone in the parlor, a room we rarely used because it was drafty and dark, but Mama insisted on lighting a fire there when I visited.

We were talking about the old days, about my father who had passed five years before, and about the strange history of the house, which was built in the 1850s on a piece of land that had once been a Cherokee burial ground. Mama was telling me about how, as a child, she had seen a woman in a white dress walking the upstairs hallway, but she always dismissed it as a dream. I was half-listening, my mind drifting to the warmth of the fire and the sound of wind rattling the windows, when a heavy knock echoed from the front door—three deliberate, thudding raps that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards.

I started to get up to answer, but Mama grabbed my arm, her eyes wide with a fear I had never seen before. She put her finger to her lips and shook her head slowly, mouthing the word ‘Don’t.’ Before I could ask why, the door swung open on its own, creaking as if pushed by a strong gust, though the wind had died moments before. The porch light cast a pale rectangle on the hardwood floor, but no one stood in the doorway. Then the door slammed shut with a bang that shook the china cabinet.

We sat frozen, listening. Then came the sound of footsteps crossing the parlor floor—slow, heavy, deliberate steps, like someone wearing boots. They moved from the door toward the sofa, and I felt the air grow cold, as if a winter draft had slipped in. The footsteps stopped right in front of the sofa, and I watched in horror as the cushion beside Mama began to depress, as if an invisible person had sat down. The fabric creaked, and the springs groaned under the weight.

Mama’s face was pale, but she didn’t scream. She just stared at the indentation, her hands gripping the armrest. I wanted to run, but my legs felt like lead. The cushion remained pressed down for a long moment, then slowly rose back, as if the unseen presence had stood up. The footsteps then moved toward the fireplace, and I saw the flames flicker, as if someone had blown on them, though no one was there. The fire dimmed to embers, and the room plunged into near darkness.

A whisper, like a man’s voice, seemed to come from the chimney. ‘I’m still here,’ it said. Mama finally spoke, her voice trembling, ‘Samuel? Is that you?’ Nothing answered. I looked at her, my heart pounding. ‘Who’s Samuel?’ I whispered. She turned to me, her eyes glistening. ‘Your great-grandfather,’ she said. ‘He swore this land was cursed, and he killed himself in this house in 1918. They say he never left.’

Suddenly, the footsteps began again, this time faster, circling the room. The china cabinet rattled, and a photo on the mantel crashed to the floor, glass shattering. I heard a heavy breathing right behind my ear, and a cold hand seemed to press against my shoulder. I jumped up, grabbing a fire poker, and swung wildly at the air. Mama shouted, ‘Stop! You’ll anger him!’ But it was too late. The fire reignited with a roar, and the flames turned blue, casting grotesque shadows on the walls.

Then, as quickly as it had started, everything fell silent. The fire returned to its normal amber glow, the footsteps faded, and the cushion returned to its original shape. We sat in stunned silence for a minute, then Mama whispered, ‘He’s gone. But he’ll be back. This house is his, and he don’t like strangers.’

I packed my bag that night and left, driving back to Spartanburg before dawn. I never visited that house again, and my sister later sold it to a developer who tore it down to build a parking lot. But sometimes, when I close my eyes, I still see that cushion depress, and I hear that voice whisper, ‘I’m still here,’ and I know that some things are not buried with the dead.