The Empty Couch

I was curled up in the worn armchair by the bay window, the last of the afternoon sun slanting across the pages of a dog-eared mystery. My portable CD player hummed quiet static between tracks, the only other sound the occasional groan of the old house settling. Then, a scrape. The kitchen chair, the one with the wobbly leg, dragged across the linoleum and clattered against the washing machine.

Thinking my roommate, Jess, had come home early, I set the book down and padded into the kitchen. The room was empty. The chair sat crooked, as if shoved aside. I pushed it back, noted the deadbolt was still turned, and returned to my reading. The music started again, but then another scrape, harder, and a man’s voice, low and furious, spat out a curse.

I froze. Every muscle locked. I killed the music, locked the front door, and grabbed my keys. I didn’t look back. I walked the three blocks to the bus stop, my heart drumming against my ribs, and took the night route to my mother’s condo. She wasn’t there.

I wandered to the assisted living center where she worked as a night receptionist. The RN on duty told me she was in the east wing, checking on Mrs. Alvarez. I found her in the hallway, and she saw the terror on my face. She asked to leave early, and I drove us back to my apartment.

Everything looked normal. The chair was back in place. No scratches on the floor. My mom made us burgers, and we ate in silence. She went to bed in the guest room, and I crashed on the couch, exhausted.

Sunday morning, I woke to the sound of footsteps on the stairs. I had forgotten to grab a towel before stepping into the shower, and I assumed it was my mom. I called out, ‘Mom? Can you throw me a towel?’

The footsteps stopped outside the bathroom door. A towel slid under the gap. I reached down and picked it up. It was damp, and it smelled of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne.

No one had ever smoked in my apartment. I turned off the water, wrapped the towel around me, and cracked open the door. The hallway was empty. The front door was locked. The bathroom mirror was fogged, but in the corner, someone had written in the steam: ‘Don’t leave.’

I asked my mother if she had written it. She looked at me, pale, and said, ‘I woke up at 3 AM and heard someone whispering your name from the kitchen. I thought it was you.’

I moved out that week. I left behind the CD player, the chair, and that apartment. But sometimes, when I’m in a new place, I’ll feel that damp towel against my skin, or catch a whiff of stale smoke, and I know it followed me. And I know it won’t be satisfied until I read the message it keeps writing on every surface I touch: ‘Don’t leave.’