The Second Seating

Three nights before the lunar eclipse, my brother and I were preparing for a late dinner at the coast. The apartment we shared was narrow, with a back room that held our only computer, a relic that hummed like a trapped bee. I was in the hallway adjusting my coat when I saw my brother, Daniel, sitting at the desk, his back to the door, shoulders hunched as if typing something. That was odd—he was supposed to be getting ready, and we were already late. I called out, ‘Dan, move it! The tide doesn’t wait.’ He didn’t react. Not a twitch. I figured he was lost in some forum, so I headed upstairs to grab my keys.

But on the stairs, I met him coming down. He was wearing a deep green shirt, the one with the brass buttons, and his hair was damp. I stopped, frozen. I looked at him, then pointed toward the back room and said, ‘You’re there. I just saw you at the computer.’ He raised an eyebrow and said, ‘I’ve been in the shower for the last ten minutes.’ We exchanged a glance, then, as one, we walked back to the computer room.

There he was—or there it was—still sitting in the chair. Same green shirt, same damp hair. It was him in every detail, the way he leaned forward, the slight tremor of his fingers on the keyboard. Daniel said, ‘Hey.’ The figure paused. Its hands stopped moving, and it turned its head slowly, not toward me, but directly toward Daniel’s voice. Its face was a perfect mirror of his, but the eyes were wrong—they were flat, like painted glass, and there was no expression, no recognition. It held the gaze for a long, terrible second, then turned back to the screen.

We didn’t speak. We bolted out the front door. The car was in the gravel lot behind the building. We got in, and as we reversed around the corner, I saw the back room window. The curtains were still open, and the computer’s blue glow spilled out. And there, in the chair, still sitting, was that thing. It was watching us now. Not moving. Just watching.

We drove to a 24-hour gas station and sat in the parking lot under the harsh fluorescent lights. Daniel lit a cigarette with shaking hands. I stared at the convenience store, at the clerk reading a magazine, at the stacks of soda bottles. I tried to rationalize: a prank, a trick of the light, some elaborate costume. But the more I thought about the geometry of the room—the narrow bathroom, the single door, the fact that Daniel had been in the shower, the water still dripping from his hair—the less rational it became.

When we finally went back, the apartment was empty. The computer was off, the chair pushed neatly under the desk. There was a faint smell, like ozone and old dust. We searched every closet, every corner. Nothing. But that night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the way it had turned, not at the sound of movement, but at the sound of a voice—a voice it recognized.

Since then, I’ve noticed small things. A cup left on the counter that I know I didn’t place. A page in the book I’m reading, turned to a chapter I haven’t reached. And last night, I saw Daniel sitting at the computer again, his back to me. I didn’t call out. I just stood in the doorway, watching. He was typing, his fingers moving rhythmically, and the screen reflected a face that wasn’t his. It was mine. I backed away slowly, and he—it—didn’t turn. But as I reached the stairs, I heard the keys stop.

I’m writing this now from a motel room. The lamp flickers, and the mirror on the wall is too dark. I don’t know if I’m safe, but I know one thing: there is a second seating at that computer, and in the silence between the hum of the machine, I can hear someone breathing. I don’t know if it’s Daniel, and I’m too afraid to turn around to see who’s sitting behind me.

I will never know what it wanted. Maybe it’s still there, waiting for me to speak. But I’ve learned my lesson—when that thing sits at the computer, you do not speak. You do not call its name. You just leave, and you pray that it doesn’t follow you into the parking lot, onto the road, into the bright lights of the gas station, where the clerk looks up from his magazine and smiles too wide, and you realize you’re not the first one to stop here, and you never will be the last.