The Fourth Place Setting

I was barely three, still small enough to fill the narrow crib my parents had squeezed into the corner of my room. I remember the ceiling fan turning lazily, the blue walls with peeling stars, and the constant hum of the old house. There was a girl who watched me. She had hair like spilled ink and wore a dress the color of a sunburned rose. She smiled, not cruelly, but with a patient sort of devotion that I couldn’t understand. I thought she was just another sister, even though I had only two. She was always there, standing by the door or at the foot of my crib, like a silent guardian. I would fall asleep to the sound of her humming a tune I later realized was a lullaby my mother never sang.

On my fourth birthday, I remember the cake with its four blue candles, the presents wrapped in loud paper, and the faces of my parents and two sisters—Mara and little June. I looked around, feeling a strange absence, and then the name popped into my head like a bubble rising to the surface: ‘Where’s Emily?’ I asked, pointing to the empty space near the window where the girl usually stood. My mother’s smile froze, her hand hovering over the knife. The color drained from her face so quickly I thought she might faint. My father’s fork clattered to his plate. Mara and June looked confused, glancing at each other. No one answered. And in the silence, I realized that the girl in the pink dress was not my sister. She was something else.

As I grew, Emily became less a guardian and more a presence. She was always at the edge of my vision, her smile now thin, her eyes too wide. At night, I would hear her breathing beside my bed, feel the mattress dip as if she were sitting there. She never spoke, but I knew she was waiting for something. The house we lived in—a creaking Victorian with a miserly layout—seemed to hold her secret. The basement was the worst, a place my parents forbade us to enter. But one day when I was eleven, my friend Leo and I dared each other to go down there.

The stairs groaned under our weight, and the air was thick with dust and the smell of damp earth. It was dark, but we had a flashlight, its beam cutting through the black like a knife. We found old boxes, a broken rocking chair, a television with a cracked screen. Then, without warning, the door above us slammed shut. The sound was like a gunshot in the heavy silence. Leo grabbed my arm. ‘What was that?’ he whispered. The flashlight flickered, then died. We were plunged into total darkness.

I could hear Leo’s ragged breath, and my own heartbeat like a drum. I reached out to find the wall, but my hand touched something cold and smooth. It was a hand. It gripped my wrist with surprising strength. A girl’s hand, small, with long fingers, and on the back of it, a faint scar shaped like a crescent moon. ‘Emily?’ I managed to whisper. The hand tightened, and I felt a sharp pain in my other arm, like a needle pricking me. I yanked away, and the door swung open with a creak, letting in a sliver of light. Leo and I scrambled up the stairs, not stopping until we were outside in the sun.

When I finally looked at my arm, I saw a small, neat incision, almost like a surgical cut. There was no blood, just a thin red line. And beneath it, I saw a pattern of tiny numbers, engraved in the skin like a brand: 4-27-11. I didn’t know what it meant, but I felt a deep, primal fear. That night, as I lay in bed, Emily appeared at the foot of my bed. Her smile was wider now, her teeth like tiny pearls. She pointed at my arm, then at the wall where a calendar hung. The date was April 27th. The same date as the numbers. She mouthed, ‘Soon.’ I didn’t understand then.

Years passed. I moved away from that house, went to college, tried to forget Emily. But the scar remained, and the numbers were clear. I had almost convinced myself it was some childhood prank, a trick of my mind. Then, on my twenty-third birthday, I returned to the old neighborhood for my father’s funeral. The house had been sold long ago, but I found myself standing outside it, staring at the same blue walls, the same crooked porch. The door was unlocked. I walked inside as if summoned.

The basement door was ajar. I felt a pull, a compulsion to go down. I flicked the light switch, but the bulb was dead. I pulled out my phone, using its flashlight. The basement was not as I remembered. It was clean, almost sterile. There was a table in the center, with leather straps. On the wall, I saw a calendar with a single, fading red circle around a date: today. And on the floor, there was a small pink ribbon, hidden in the dust.

I knelt to pick it up, and as I did, I saw the numbers on my arm pulse with a cold light. The temperature dropped. A voice, not from outside but from inside my head, whispered, ‘I’ve been waiting for you to come back.’ I spun around. Emily stood there, the same girl, unchanged. Her dress was frayed, her hair matted, but her smile was the same. She was holding a small silver bowl, and in it, something glistened. She offered it to me. ‘It’s time to take my place,’ she said. ‘You’ve had your time.’

I looked at the bowl. Inside was a photograph of a girl—my mother as a child—and on the back, in handwriting I recognized as my father’s, were the same numbers: 4-27-11. I realized then that Emily wasn’t a ghost. She was a guardian, bound to the family, watching over the children until they reached a certain age. But she was also a bargain. Every few decades, someone had to take her place, to become the watchful presence for the next generation. The incision on my arm was the mark of a sacrifice.

I tried to run, but my legs felt heavy, as if the floor had become molasses. Emily stepped closer, her eyes void of emotion. ‘You were always the one,’ she said. ‘When you saw me at your crib, you were chosen. I’ve been waiting for you to grow up, to become the new keeper.’ I looked at the staircase, but it was gone. The walls were closing in. I felt a sharp pain in my arm, and the numbers began to glow brighter. Emily reached out and touched my forehead, and I felt a coldness spread through me, freezing my thoughts.

I woke up on the basement floor, alone. Or not alone. I could see myself from the corner of the room, standing by the wall, watching. I was in a bed, a crib, and I was four years old again. My mother was leaning over me, her eyes wet. ‘Emily?’ she said. I wanted to scream, ‘No, I’m not Emily!’ but my mouth moved on its own, and I smiled. ‘Yes, Mama.’ And as the years passed, I stood by a crib, watching a new baby sleep, knowing that someday, I would pass on my burden to another. The house was my home, the basement my prison, and the name Emily was both my identity and my curse. I learned to smile, to watch, to wait. Because that’s what Emily does.

And now, as I write this, I feel a pull from upstairs. Someone is calling my name. ‘Emily?’ It’s a child’s voice. ‘Emily, where are you?’ I stand up from my rocking chair, my pink dress rustling with age, and I go to greet them, my smile already in place, my eyes already seeing beyond the veil. The cycle continues. Always Emily. Always the fourth place setting at the table, the one that was never occupied. Until now.