The Sixth Chair

Our family home was a sprawling, century-old farmhouse that creaked and groaned like an old sailor. The walls held the memory of generations, and the attic was a graveyard of forgotten toys and yellowed photographs. My sister Lena and I were the only children of our parents, but there were supposed to be three of us. A brother, Samuel, had died of sepsis when he was only eight months old. My parents rarely spoke of him, but I felt his absence like a missing tooth in our family smile.

One autumn evening, five of my cousins came to stay for the weekend. They were loud and full of life, filling the old house with laughter and the smell of popcorn. We set up our Sega Genesis in the den, and for hours, we battled pixelated monsters and raced imaginary cars. As the night wore on, the conversation turned to the eerie. I told them about the time I saw a figure at the end of the hallway, or the cold spot on the stairs that never warmed. I told them about the faint crying I sometimes heard from the room that used to be the nursery. My cousins huddled closer, their eyes wide, and soon no one dared to sleep.

We left every light in the den ablaze, casting harsh shadows that danced with each flicker. Blankets were pulled over heads, and we took turns whispering ghost stories. It was around two in the morning when a sound came from the dining room just beyond the den. It was a rhythmic, wet chewing, punctuated by the occasional clink of a spoon against a bowl. My heart pounded, but I was used to strange noises in that house. I rolled my eyes and said, ‘Probably another raccoon in the trash.’ But my cousin Marcus, the boldest of us, whispered, ‘That’s not a raccoon. That’s someone eating.’

The chewing was deliberate, almost polite. It would pause, then resume, as if tasting something. We all froze. My cousin Sophie started to cry softly. I felt a surge of irritation and fear. I had to prove it was nothing. I crept to the doorway and peered into the dining room. The room was dim, lit only by the moon through the window. On the long oak table, a figure sat hunched over a bowl. It was not a cat. It was a small, pale child, no older than two, with wispy white hair. It lifted its head, and I saw that its eyes were milky, unfocused, and its mouth was smeared with something dark.

I stumbled back, my breath catching. My cousins saw my face and went silent. ‘What is it?’ Lena whispered. I couldn’t speak. I just pointed. One by one, they crept to the doorway and looked. The child was now gone. The bowl was still there, but empty. On the chair where it had sat, there was a faint, wet imprint, like the ghost of a tiny body. I knew, with a cold certainty, that this was the spirit of Samuel, the brother who never got to eat at our table. He was hungry, always hungry, and he had come to join us at night.

None of us slept after that. We huddled together until dawn, listening for the chewing to return. It didn’t. But ever since that night, I can’t sit at the dining table without a shudder. And when I set the table for meals, I always place an extra plate, just in case. Sometimes, when I look at the empty chair, I see the faint outline of a small boy, waiting to be fed. And I know that one day, he won’t just be a ghost at the table. He’ll be one of us.