The Fourth Chair

I was watching my friend’s kid, Emma, at my new studio apartment. It was a cramped little place, all exposed brick and a single high window that let in the grey evening light. Her mother, Julia, had dropped her off with a duffel bag full of toys, a tablet, and a stack of DVDs, begging me to keep her entertained for a few hours while she went to a late movie and dinner with a friend.

Emma was a firecracker, all energy and wild imagination. We started playing with her dolls on the threadbare rug I’d thrown down as a makeshift play area. She had a whole family of them – parents, a baby, and a couple of older siblings. She was chattering away, making them talk to each other, when her voice changed. It got a little higher, a little singsong, and she started speaking as if responding to someone else. She’d pause, tilt her head, and giggle, then say, ‘No, I’m the mommy! You be the sister.’ Then she’d look to her left, at an empty spot on the rug, and nod seriously.

I decided to play along. ‘Who are you talking to, Emma?’ I asked, keeping my voice light.

She looked up at me with those big, innocent eyes and said, ‘My friend. She said her name is Stacey. She wants to play with us.’

Stacey. I’d never heard that name from Emma before. Julia had mentioned a few of Emma’s playmates from preschool, but no Stacey. Still, kids invent imaginary friends all the time. I just smiled and said, ‘Okay, she can play. But we have to be nice to her.’

Emma beamed and went back to her play, now holding her doll out to the empty space, offering it a little plastic teacup. ‘Here, Stacey. You can be the sister.’

I decided to use the time to start unpacking the last few boxes that were stacked against the far wall. My new job as a night-shift security guard had me moving in at odd hours, and this was the first real chance I’d had to settle in. I kept one eye on Emma as I pulled out my books and knick-knacks, trying to find places for them on the cramped shelves.

Emma was in her own world, running back and forth across the room, her dolls in hand. At one point, she stopped right by my bed, which was a futon pushed against the wall. She started jumping on it, and I saw her hand – her empty, little hand – being held by something. Her wrist was angled as if clasping an invisible hand. She was laughing, spinning, and for a moment, I felt a chill run down my spine. It was just her imagination, I told myself. Kids do this all the time.

But then, she stopped. She looked directly at me, her face serious. ‘She says you’re in her chair.’

I frowned. ‘What chair?’

The only chair in the room was a beat-up wooden one I’d found on the curb. It was currently holding a stack of my folded clothes, right beside my bed. I laughed. ‘I don’t think I’m in anyone’s chair, sweetie. I’m standing here.’

Emma shook her head, her brow furrowed. ‘Not you. Your other.’ She pointed at the chair. ‘That’s Stacey’s chair. She says you put your stuff on her chair.’

I looked at the pile of laundry, then back at Emma. There was a strange, unsettling authority in her voice. ‘Well, I didn’t know it was her chair,’ I said, trying to keep it light. ‘I’ll move my stuff.’ I walked over and picked up the clothes, setting them on the floor. ‘Tell Stacey I’m sorry.’

Emma nodded, as if listening to something. Then she said, ‘She says it’s okay. But she wants you to know she was here first.’

That sent an unexpected jolt of fear through me. The room was small, and the idea of something ‘being here first’ felt too specific, too adult for a child. I forced a smile and went back to my unpacking, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. I started glancing at the corners of the room, at the high window, at the space beside Emma.

The sun was setting, casting long, distorted shapes across the floor. Emma had stopped playing and was sitting cross-legged on my bed, staring at the chair. I asked her, ‘Is Stacey still here?’

Emma nodded. ‘She’s sitting in her chair now. She’s watching us.’

I felt a cold knot form in my stomach. I decided to test something. ‘What does Stacey look like?’

Emma didn’t hesitate. ‘She’s wearing a red dress. And she has a cut on her face. Like a little line on her cheek.’

My blood ran cold. I had a sudden, vivid memory from when I first viewed this apartment. The landlord had mentioned that a previous tenant, an elderly woman named Agnes, had died here. He had been surprisingly casual about it, saying ‘She passed in her sleep. No big deal.’ I hadn’t thought much of it then, but now, Emma’s description – the red dress, the cut – it felt too specific. I tried to push the thought away. Maybe Emma had seen a kid in a red dress somewhere, on a poster or something. Kids pick up random things.

But then Emma said, ‘She says she’s been here for a long time. Longer than you. She says you’re in her home.’

I felt a wave of nausea. The room felt colder. I wanted to call Julia, but I didn’t have her number memorized, and my phone was across the room on a box. I didn’t want to take my eyes off Emma. I said, ‘Emma, let’s play a different game. Let’s go to the kitchen and get a snack. We can leave this room for a bit.’

Emma nodded but didn’t move. She was still staring at the chair. I walked over to her, holding out my hand. ‘Come on, Emma. Let’s go get some crackers.’

She slowly took my hand, but as she did, she whispered, ‘She says you shouldn’t leave. She wants you to stay for dinner.’

I pulled her off the bed and hurried to the kitchenette, my heart pounding. I made us both peanut butter sandwiches, trying to act normal. Emma seemed her usual self again, chatting about her dolls and her day at school. I started to relax, thinking I had overreacted. When we finished, I said, ‘Let’s go back and watch a movie, okay?’

We went back to the bedroom. The chair was exactly where I left it, clean of my clothes. I glanced at it, and for a split second, I thought I saw a faint indentation on the seat, as if someone had just stood up. I shook my head.

Emma settled on the bed, and I started to put in a DVD. As I was fiddling with the player, Emma suddenly screamed. I spun around. She was pointing at the chair, her face pale. ‘She moved! She’s not there anymore!’

I felt the air in the room compress. I knelt beside Emma. ‘It’s just your imagination, honey. There’s no one there.’

But Emma was trembling. ‘She’s under the bed now. She said she’s going to stay.’

I felt a primal fear grip me. I didn’t want to look under the bed. But Emma was terrified. I forced myself to lean down and peek. The space under the futon was dark, filled with dust bunnies and a few stray toys. Nothing was there. I tried to laugh. ‘See? Nothing.’

Emma shook her head violently. ‘She’s there. She’s staring at you with her red eyes.’

I yanked Emma off the bed, pulling her close. ‘We’re leaving. Right now.’ I grabbed my phone and keys, half-dragging Emma to the door. But when I turned the knob, it didn’t move. It was locked. And I hadn’t locked it. The deadbolt was engaged from the outside. There was no way to unlock it from the inside – the thumb turn on the inside was broken, and I always had to lock it with the key from the hallway. But I hadn’t locked it. I never locked it from outside.

I rattled the knob, panic rising. Emma was crying, pointing behind me. I whirled around. The chair was now overturned, lying on its side in the middle of the room.

I heard a whisper, so faint it was barely a vibration in the air. It was a woman’s voice, dry as old paper. ‘You’re in my chair now.’

I felt a cold hand press against the back of my neck. Emma was screaming. The lights flickered. And then everything went dark.

I don’t remember what happened next. I came to on the floor, with Emma shaking me awake. The room was normal. The chair was upright, my clothes back on it. Emma was crying, but she said, ‘She’s gone. She said she liked you, but you have to leave now. She said if you don’t, she’ll take you.’

I didn’t ask how she knew. I just gathered my things, grabbed Emma, and ran out into the hallway. The door was unlocked. I never went back to that apartment. I quit my job, moved across the city, and never spoke of it again – until now. But I still see her sometimes in my dreams: a thin woman in a red dress, standing by a wooden chair, her cheek marked with a thin line, her eyes black and empty, saying, ‘You’re in my chair.’