The Hollow Seat

The old chair had been sitting in the corner of the living room for three weeks, ever since my mother, Evelyn, had accepted it from her aunt. It was a monstrous thing, upholstered in a faded, wine-red velvet that seemed to absorb light, and its carved wooden armrests ended in the snarling faces of forgotten creatures. I, Marcus, had never liked it. It made the room feel colder, as if it were leaching warmth from the very air. My mother claimed it was a family heirloom, passed down from Great-Aunt Lorraine, who had inherited it from her mother-in-law, Neve. Neve had died in that chair, apparently, which was probably why it carried such an oppressive atmosphere. I tried not to sit in it, and neither did my parents. It just squatted there, silent and waiting.

It was a week into the summer holidays, and I was deep in the glow of my laptop screen at 3 a.m. The house was silent, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the floorboards settling. My parents had gone to bed hours ago, trusting that I would eventually tire myself out. But I was lost in a forum thread about obscure horror films, and time slipped by unnoticed. The worn leather of my desk chair had long since molded to my backside, and I was in that perfect state of late-night wakefulness where the world outside seemed to dim and the mind sharpens to the present.

Suddenly, a sound cut through the quiet: a soft, rhythmic creak, like the groan of old wood shifting under weight. It came from the direction of the living room. I paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard, and listened. There it was again, a slow, deliberate creak, as if something were slowly rocking back and forth. My heart gave a small jump. I rationalized it as the house settling; old houses often made such noises. But the pattern was too regular, almost like the repetitive motion of a rocking chair. But we didn’t have a rocking chair. We had that old armchair.

I tried to ignore it, scrolling through my feed, but the creaking continued, growing slightly louder, more insistent. It was not the random settling of a house; it was a steady rhythm, like a heartbeat. My curiosity, mixed with a shiver of unease, got the better of me. I pushed my chair back and crept to the doorway, peering into the dark living room. The moonlight filtered through the window, casting pale rectangles on the floor. And there, in the center of the room, the armchair was rocking. Gently, back and forth, as if an invisible occupant were slowly swaying.

I stood frozen, my mouth suddenly dry. I told myself it was the draft, but there was no window open, and the air was still. The motion was too fluid, too purposeful. I took a tentative step forward, and the rocking stopped. A profound silence descended, so heavy it felt like a physical weight. I waited for a minute, my breath shallow, but the chair remained motionless. I backed away slowly, retreating to my computer, but I kept glancing at the doorway, expecting something to move.

When I finally went to bed, I couldn’t shake the image of that rocking chair. I dreamed of it, but in my dream, the chair was empty, and I was sitting in it, unable to get up, while the room slowly filled with water that felt like molasses. I woke in a cold sweat.

The next night, I decided to test my sanity. At exactly 3 a.m., I positioned a mirror so I could see the living room from my desk without being seen. I watched the chair for over an hour, but it remained still. I almost convinced myself it had been a trick of the light. Then, at around 3:30, I saw it: the chair began to rock, slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, then with a steady, deliberate rhythm. My breath caught in my throat as I watched, and then I noticed something that made my blood run cold. The indentation on the seat cushion, which had always been smooth, now bore a subtle, seated impression, as if someone were sitting there, invisible.

I couldn’t stop watching. The impression deepened, and the fabric seemed to compress under an unseen weight. I heard a whisper, so faint it was almost subliminal, like a dry rustle of leaves. I strained to hear, and then I caught a word: ‘Neve.’ The name was like a cold finger down my spine. I remembered my mother mentioning that the chair had belonged to Neve, Lorraine’s mother-in-law, who had passed. And suddenly, I understood: this was a psychic imprint, or perhaps something more. Something was trying to communicate.

Over the next few nights, the phenomena intensified. The chair would rock more vigorously, and the whispers became clearer, sometimes forming coherent phrases: ‘Cold,’ ‘Dark,’ ‘Let me out.’ I tried to tell my mother, but she dismissed it as my imagination, a teenager’s late-night overactivity. She told me to get more sleep. My father just laughed. But I knew what I had seen and heard. I began to keep a journal, documenting every occurrence, desperate to find a pattern.

One night, I decided to confront the chair directly. I carried my laptop into the living room and sat on the floor in front of the armchair, facing it. The room was silent, but I could feel a chill radiating from the chair, like a draft from an open freezer. I spoke aloud, ‘What do you want?’ My voice echoed in the empty room. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, the chair began to rock again, and I heard a voice, clearer than ever before, like a breath against my ear: ‘I am trapped. Help me.’

Terror and pity warred within me. I asked, ‘Who are you?’ The voice replied, ‘Neve. She kept me here. The yarn. Find the yarn.’ I had no idea what that meant. I looked at the chair more closely, running my hands over the fabric, and felt a slight lump under the seat cushion. With trembling fingers, I lifted the cushion and found a small, frayed tapestry bag, hidden in the crevice. I pulled it out and opened it. Inside was a tangled skein of crimson yarn, the same color as the chair’s upholstery, and an old photograph of a woman with stern features, who I assumed was Neve.

I took the yarn and the photo to my room, and that night, I had a vivid dream. I was in an old, dimly lit parlor, and a woman sat in the armchair, knitting furiously. Her hands were gnarled, and her eyes were hollow. She seemed to be knitting something long and red, like a scarf, but it seemed endless. She spoke, but not with her lips. ‘She took my voice, and my hands. She trapped me in this chair because I knew her secret. My daughter, that witch. She hated me for what I saw.’ The dream shifted, and I saw a young woman, resembling Great-Aunt Lorraine, but with a cruel smile, sealing the bag under the cushion.

I woke with a feeling of dread and a sense of purpose. The next day, I took the yarn and, on impulse, began to knit. I had never knitted before, but my hands seemed to know what to do, as if guided. I knitted a long, crimson strand, and as I did, I felt a strange energy flowing from the yarn into my fingers. I continued for hours, oblivious to time, until I had knitted a long, crimson scarf. When I finished, the last strand seemed to pulse with warmth.

I brought the scarf to the living room and placed it on the chair. The moment it touched the fabric, the chair began to tremble, and a sound like a scream filled the air, a terrible, drawn-out wail that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Then, as quickly as it began, it stopped. The chair grew still, and the temperature in the room returned to normal. I looked at the chair, and it seemed smaller, somehow, less oppressive. The indentation on the cushion faded, and the fabric looked lighter, as if a weight had been lifted.

I never told my mother what I had done, but the chair never moved again. It became just an old, uncomfortable armchair, though I could never bring myself to sit in it. Years later, I would have the chair reupholstered, and the workman found a strange, red stain deep in the padding, like blood, but I knew it was the yarn. I kept the photograph, and sometimes, in the dead of night, I would look at it, and the woman’s eyes seemed to hold a glimmer of gratitude. But I never forgot the hollow seat, and the voice that had cried out from it.