The Visitor in the Wicker Chair

I was nine that autumn, the year the leaves turned early and the wind never stopped moaning through the pines. My family had moved to the old farmhouse on Birch Hollow Road just before the school year started, a place with creaking floorboards and a cellar that smelled of damp earth and something else, something I couldn’t name. My mother said it was just the old wood, but I knew better.

It was the night before Halloween, and we had our annual pumpkin carving tradition. My father, a practical man who believed in science and logic, had set up the foldout table in the kitchen, scattering newspapers and carving tools. My sister, Lily, who was two years older, was trying to create a witch’s face, but her knife kept slipping. I was content with my simple triangle-eyed jack-o’-lantern, my tongue poking out in concentration. My mother, ever the caregiver, had made hot apple cider, and the room was filled with the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg.

That evening, I started feeling a chill that no sweater could fix. My head throbbed, and my throat felt raw. My mother felt my forehead and tutted, ‘You’re burning up, Marcus. Off to bed with you.’ I protested, but she was firm. She led me upstairs to my room, which faced the back of the property, overlooking the overgrown orchard and the dark line of the forest beyond. She tucked me in, placed a cool cloth on my forehead, and said, ‘I’ll check on you in a bit.’ I closed my eyes, but sleep was a long time coming.

I must have drifted off, because the next thing I knew, the room was dark, and the house was silent. The only light came from the pale moon filtering through the window, casting long shadows across the floor. My head still pounded, and I felt a presence. I turned my head slightly, and there, in the old wicker chair by the window, sat a figure. It was a man, or at least the shape of one, but his features were indistinct, as if he was made of smoke. He was dressed in old-fashioned clothes, a tattered overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat that obscured his face. He just sat there, perfectly still, staring at me. I could feel his gaze, though I couldn’t see eyes. Terror struck me, and I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

I must have passed out, because the next morning, I woke to sunlight streaming through the curtains. The chair was empty. I told my mother, but she dismissed it as a fever dream. ‘You had a high fever, honey. It’s not uncommon to see things.’ But I knew what I saw.

Over the weeks, the visitor returned. It appeared only when I was alone, always in that same chair. It never moved, never spoke, but its presence was suffocating. I grew pale, lost weight, and my grades suffered. I started sleeping with the lights on, but the lights didn’t help. It was always there, patient, waiting. My parents took me to doctors, but they found nothing physically wrong. A child psychologist suggested I might be experiencing stress from the move, and gave me techniques to manage anxiety. But the figure remained.

One night, I decided to confront it. I sat up in bed and whispered, ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ The figure slowly tilted its head, as if considering my question. Then, it raised a hand, its fingers long and thin, and pointed at the floor. I didn’t understand. It pointed again, more insistently, at the floorboards beneath the chair. Then, it vanished.

I was left with a cold certainty that I had to look under the floorboards. The next afternoon, when my parents were out and Lily was at a friend’s house, I went to the room with the wicker chair. I pulled up the loose floorboard, and found a small, velvet-covered box. Inside, there was an old photograph, yellowed with age. It showed a woman in a white dress, standing in front of the house, and a man in a tattered overcoat and hat, his face hidden. On the back was a date: October 30, 1923, and a name: ‘For my Sarah.’ Underneath, in fainter handwriting, ‘I’ll always watch over you.’

I felt a chill run down my spine. I took the box to my parents, who were as baffled as I was. We later learned from a local historian that the house had been owned by a man named Jonathan, whose wife Sarah had died in childbirth on Halloween night in 1923. Jonathan had disappeared shortly after, and his body was never found. The historian said that Jonathan was known to be overly possessive, and after Sarah’s death, he would be seen sitting in a rocking chair on the porch, staring at the house, as if waiting for her to return.

But the figure was not Sarah. It was Jonathan. And he was not waiting for her. He was waiting for me. The next time he appeared, I was not afraid. I asked, ‘What do you want?’ And for the first time, I heard a voice, like the rustle of dead leaves. ‘She is gone. You must stay with me.’ And I realized with horror that he wanted company, a captive in his lonely vigil.

I tried to tell my parents, but they didn’t believe me. They thought I was having nightmares. So I took matters into my own hands. I looked up old rituals, bought salt and iron, and on the next full moon, I went to the room with the wicker chair. I placed a ring of salt around the chair, and I held up the photograph. ‘She’s gone, Jonathan. Let her rest.’ But the figure only laughed, a dry, hollow sound. ‘I have waited for a hundred years. I can wait a little longer.’

The next morning, the chair was gone. I asked my parents what had happened to it. They looked at me strangely. ‘What chair?’ they said. ‘There was never a wicker chair in your room.’ And I realized that the chair had always been part of the apparition, just like the man. I was sobbing, but they saw nothing. The house felt colder, and I knew he was still there, just out of sight.

I am nineteen now, and I have moved far away, to a city apartment with no windows in my bedroom. But sometimes, in the middle of the night, I hear the creak of a wicker chair. And I see the outline of a man in a wide-brimmed hat, sitting in the corner of my room, watching me. He never leaves. He never will.

And I know that I am not free. I carry him with me, in the deepest part of my mind, a constant companion that no amount of distance can shake. The old house is gone now, torn down years ago, but the visitor remains. He is patient. He is always patient. And he will wait until I am ready to join him in that endless vigil.

Now, as I sit in my apartment, the city sounds filtering through the thin walls, I wonder if I will ever be free. The chair is empty now, but I know it’s only a matter of time. He will appear again, and I will have no choice but to listen.

This is my story, and it is not over. It will never be over.