The Unset Table

I’m a graduate student at Meridian University, and I’ve been dealing with chronic insomnia and a touch of paranoia since my first year. My therapist prescribed me a mild sedative to be taken at night, but the side effects make me drowsy for hours. As a result, I’ve developed a strict routine: I take it at 3:00 AM, when the world is silent and I’m certain no one else is awake. I set my alarm for that hour, and I’ve never missed a dose.

This particular morning in late October, I woke to the soft chime of my phone. The house, a creaky Victorian I rented with three other students, was still. I slipped out of bed, careful not to wake my roommate, and padded down the narrow staircase. The stairs open into the dining room, which connects to a small kitchen on the left and a sitting room on the right. Beyond the kitchen, a short hallway leads to the front door and the porch. The whole place is dimly lit by a single bulb in the dining room, casting long shadows that seem to waver.

I made my way to the kitchen, my bare feet cold on the linoleum. I poured a glass of water from the tap and retrieved my pill bottle from the drawer where I keep it hidden. I swallowed the pill with a gulp of water, then turned to the window above the sink. Through the sheer curtains, I could see the streetlight casting a pool of yellow on the wet pavement. It was raining, a soft patter against the glass. I felt a chill and pulled my robe tighter.

That’s when I heard a sound from the dining room. It was a soft, rhythmic scraping, like a chair being dragged across the floor. My heart rate spiked. I froze, listening. The sound stopped. I told myself it was the house settling, but my anxiety gnawed at me. I set the glass down and crept to the doorway, peeking into the dining room. The room was empty, the table set as it always was, with a few scattered books and a vase of wilted flowers. But as my eyes adjusted, I noticed something odd: the chairs were pushed in, all except one, which was pulled out a few inches, as if someone had just risen from it.

I knew I was alone. My roommates were heavy sleepers, and they never came down this early. Yet the chair was out of place. I walked over, my breath shallow, and pushed it back under the table. The moment it touched the table, the lights flickered. The bulb in the dining room buzzed and went dark, plunging the room into semi-darkness, saved only by the faint glow from the kitchen. A cold draft swept through the room, carrying a faint, musty smell, like old paper and damp earth.

I turned to go back to the kitchen, but something caught my eye: on the table, in the center, was a small, leather-bound journal. It hadn’t been there before. I was certain of it. I remembered clearing the table last night, and there was no journal. My hands trembled as I reached for it. The cover was worn, with no title. I opened it, and the pages were blank except for a single entry, dated that day, in a spidery handwriting: ‘She left the table, but I remain. Set the sixth chair.’ I slammed the book shut, my mind racing.

I counted the chairs. There were five, as there had always been. But the journal said six. I felt a presence behind me, a weight in the air. I spun around, but the room was empty. Yet the chair I had pushed in was now pulled out again, as if mocking me. I backed away, my heart pounding, and fled to the stairs. I took them two at a time, not looking back, until I collided with my roommate, Marcus, who was coming down, rubbing his eyes. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, his voice groggy. I tried to explain, but the words came out as a stammer. He looked at me with concern, then led me to the living room and sat me down.

‘You’re shaking,’ he said. ‘Did you have a nightmare?’ I shook my head, but then I realized I still had the journal in my hand. I hadn’t let go of it. I showed it to him, and he frowned. ‘Where did you get this?’ I told him it was on the table. He stared at me, confused. ‘This is weird,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen this before. And your name is engraved on the inside cover.’ I looked down at the open cover, and there, in gold lettering, was my name: ‘Evelyn.’ I had never seen the journal before in my life, yet there it was.

I felt a cold shiver run down my spine. I turned the pages, and the entries filled up like a history of an alternate life. There were entries about a woman named Evelyn, who lived in this house a hundred years ago, and her mysterious disappearance. She had been a writer, and she always set an extra chair at the table, claiming she had a visitor who came at dawn. The last entry in the journal was from the night she vanished, and it read: ‘He has taken my chair. I will take his place.’

I dropped the journal as if it were poisoned. Marcus picked it up, his face pale. ‘This must be a prank,’ he said, but his voice lacked conviction. The lights flickered again, and we both turned to the dining room. The chair was now fully pulled out, and on the table, a blank page lay beside the journal. I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, and a whisper, barely audible, right next to my ear: ‘You have taken my medicine. Now take my seat.’

I didn’t need to be told twice. I ran out of the house, into the cold, rainy dawn, Marcus right behind me. We didn’t stop until we were at the corner, breathless, wet. I looked back at the house, and in the dining room window, I saw a figure, pale and thin, watching me. It raised a hand and waved, then vanished. I never went back to that house. I stayed with a friend for the rest of the semester, and they moved my things out. But sometimes, at 3:00 AM, I still hear that soft scraping, and I see that handwritten line in my mind: ‘Set the sixth chair.’ And I know, somewhere, a chair is waiting for me.