The Third Chair

The rain had been drumming against the windows of my small apartment for three days straight, a relentless rhythm that seemed to sync with the flickering of the fluorescent light in my home office. My wife, Clara, and our daughter, Lily, had gone to bed hours ago, their quiet breathing a soft counterpoint to the storm outside. I sat alone at my desk, the glow of my ring light casting a pale circle on the dark wood, while the television murmured in the corner—some old black-and-white movie I wasn’t really watching. It was just there, a familiar hum to keep the silence at bay.

My team’s weekly video call had stretched past its usual half-hour. Our supervisor, Mr. Hartley, was droning on about quarterly projections, his voice a monotonous buzz through my earbuds. I kept my camera on—company policy—but my mind was elsewhere, counting the raindrops tracing paths down the glass. The chat window in the corner of my screen flickered with occasional messages from colleagues, mostly emojis and sarcastic comments about Hartley’s endless slide deck. I typed a quick eye-roll in response to one from my friend, Marcus, then refocused, trying to look attentive.

It was then that I noticed a small notification in the corner of the screen: a private message from a coworker I rarely talked to, Elena. Her name appeared in a pop-up bubble, and I clicked it open. ‘Hey, where’s your family? I thought they’d be on screen with you,’ the message read. I frowned, typing back, ‘They’re sleeping. It’s late.’ But as I sent it, a cold unease settled in my stomach. I glanced at the closed bedroom door, then back at the screen. Elena’s reply came almost instantly: ‘But there’s someone sitting between you and the lamp.’

My heart skipped a beat. I turned to look at my ring light, sitting on the floor beside my desk, its soft glow illuminating a small patch of the carpet. There was nothing there. I laughed nervously, typing, ‘Very funny. You’re seeing things.’ But Elena sent a screenshot. In it, the video feed showed my desk, my face, and behind me—just a few feet to the left—a strange, blurred figure. A shadowy outline of a person, hunched over, as if sitting in a chair that wasn’t there. My blood ran cold. I spun around, but the room was empty. The only light was the pale glow from my ring light and the flickering television.

I forced myself to look back at the screen, my hands trembling as I typed, ‘That’s just my reflection on the TV.’ But Elena’s next message made my stomach drop: ‘No, it’s not. It moved.’ My eyes darted to the television, and for a split second, the black-and-white image of an old woman in a rocking chair seemed to flicker. But the chair in the image was empty. Then I noticed something else—the television was not reflecting the room. It was showing a live feed of my desk, as if the screen had become a mirror. And in that live feed, I saw it clearly: a figure, sitting in a wooden chair that I did not own, right next to my desk. It was a tall, gaunt man, his face obscured by shadow, his long fingers resting on his knees. He was perfectly still.

My breath caught in my throat. I did not own a wooden chair. I looked at the space where the chair should be, but there was nothing but the wall and the edge of my desk. When I looked back at the television, the image flickered, and the chair was gone. The old woman was back in her rocking chair, knitting something invisible. My hands flew to my keyboard, typing frantically to Elena: ‘That’s not possible. I need to go.’ I ended the call without waiting for a response.

The room was suddenly silent, save for the rain and the soft static of the TV. I stood up, my legs weak, and walked to the living room, checking every corner. Nothing. I looked back at my office, the ring light still glowing, the desk chair empty, but the sense of being watched was overwhelming. I grabbed my phone and texted Clara’s friend to ask if she could check on them, but then I heard a sound from the bedroom—a faint creak, like someone shifting in bed. I tiptoed to the door and peered in. Clara was lying on her side, Lily curled up against her, both fast asleep. But as I watched, the closet door slowly opened, just a crack, and from the darkness inside, a thin hand slipped out, gripping the edge as if to hold it open.

I slammed the door shut, my heart pounding. I ran back to the office and unplugged the television, the ring light, everything. But the darkness that engulfed me was no comfort. I could feel a presence, a cold breath on the back of my neck. I spun around, but there was nothing. And then, from the now-darkened screen of my laptop, I saw it: the same gaunt figure, now standing behind me, his face inches from mine. His mouth moved, forming words I could not hear, but I could read his lips: ‘I’ve been waiting for the room to be quiet.’

I grabbed my phone and rushed to the door, throwing it open and stumbling into the hallway. The rain had stopped, but the corridor was silent. I ran to the elevator and pressed the button, my fingers fumbling. When the elevator arrived, I got in and pressed the lobby button repeatedly, but the doors wouldn’t close. I looked back at my apartment door, which was still open, and saw a figure standing in the doorway—a tall, gaunt man, his face still in shadow, but I could see his smile. Then the elevator doors closed, and the car began to descend. I breathed a sigh of relief, but when the doors opened into the lobby, I saw that I was not in the lobby. I was in my own hallway, back on the same floor. My door was open, and I could hear a voice coming from inside—Clara’s voice, calling my name. ‘Come back in, love. It’s just a dream.’ But it wasn’t Clara.

I woke up in my desk chair, the ring light still on, the television playing static. My laptop was open, and the video call had ended. The message from Elena was gone. I checked my phone—no messages. I went to the bedroom, and Clara and Lily were asleep, as before. But as I turned to leave, I saw something on the nightstand: a small, carved wooden figurine of a man, gaunt and faceless, sitting in a tiny chair. I had never seen it before. In the dim light, I could swear the figurine was breathing.