The Indented Cushion

January 24, 2011

by Maudie

I never felt at ease in my sister-in-law’s house, a sprawling Victorian relic on the outskirts of Millbrook. The air was always a few degrees colder than the rest of the rooms, and the floorboards had a habit of creaking even when no one was walking. Renata, my fiancé’s older sister, often joked about having a resident ghost, a ‘friendly old man’ she called him. I believed in such things, but I had never experienced anything firsthand until the night we were sharing pizza with her youngest daughter, Lila.

We were laughing about something ridiculous when the loveseat across from us groaned and the cushion sank as if an invisible weight had settled onto it. The indentation was clear and unmistakable. Lila’s eyes widened, and she whispered, ‘He’s here.’ A chill ran down my spine, but I forced a smile, thinking it was a draft or a broken spring. Yet, the cushion remained sunken as we watched, and after a long minute, it slowly returned to its normal shape.

Later, after my son, Theo, was born, we stayed overnight during a short visit. Theo was eight months old and had a fever, keeping me up most of the night. As I sat in the rocking chair in the living room, swaying him gently, I glanced into the adjacent dining room. The moonlight streaming through the windows illuminated a tall, gaunt figure standing just beyond the doorway. He was an old man, with deep hollows in his cheeks and long, spindly arms that hung at his sides. My heart lurched, and I blinked hard, thinking my tired eyes were playing tricks. But he remained, unmoving, his gaze fixed on me and the baby.

Panicked, I clutched Theo to my chest and lay back down on the sofa, pulling the blanket over our heads. I could feel Theo’s feverish heat, but my own body was ice cold. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying that when I opened them, he’d be gone. When I finally dared to peek, the corner was empty, but I could swear I felt a gentle stir of air near my ear, like a soft sigh.

Eventually, I fell into a restless sleep, and when I woke, Theo was rested, his fever broken. As I sat up, I noticed that the blanket that had slipped off him during the night was neatly folded at the foot of the couch. I hadn’t folded it. And on the side table where I had left a glass of water, there was a fresh-bloomed white rose, its petals still glistening with dew.

I never saw the old man again, but I often felt his presence: a warm spot in a cold room, a creak in the hallway at night, a feeling of being watched that was not menacing but protective. I came to understand that he was indeed gentle, a guardian of that old house, and perhaps of the children who stayed there. I told Renata about the rose, and she smiled knowingly. ‘He does that,’ she said. ‘He’s been here since I was a girl. He’s the reason I never felt alone.’

So I stopped fearing the indented cushion, the cold spots, the creaking floorboards. Instead, I came to appreciate the silent companionship of an old soul who had chosen to remain, watching over us with a quiet kindness that transcended the veil. And when Theo, now a toddler, would point at empty corners and babble happily, I knew he saw something I couldn’t, something that filled me with an inexplicable peace.

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