There was an old armchair in the corner of our drawing room. So old that my father claims it was passed down for at least two centuries by our ancestors. It didn’t look like it was comfortable to sit in, but the design made it an antique piece.

The armchair was a single piece of wood, bent and twisted in multiple ways to form a decorative chair that looked like it was tufted, but in reality, was just an armchair with a thick fabric covering on its seat.

My parents had cautioned me to never sit in the chair. As a child, I reckoned it was because the chair was an heirloom. Maybe they thought I would play with it and scrape its surface. And when I got into high school, I had no time to care about the chair and it became just another showpiece in the living room.

It was merely another evening after school. Fourteen-year-old me was tired from tennis practice and returned home exhausted.

There was nobody home. I desperately needed some shut eye, but the sofa was full of laundry. I could sit in the recliner, but I would have the Sun shining straight in my face.

The ancient armchair seemed to be the only place to sit in. I figured I was old enough to finally take a seat in it and since I was drowsy, the armchair suddenly looked like the most comfortable place I had ever set eyes on. I’d seen my friends take naps there many times and even occasionally fall asleep in it. 

I set my backpack on the floor and sat down. Drowsiness swept over instantly. I laid my arms over the armrests of the chair and my head drooped slightly. My legs were stretched out now and it took no time to sink down into a slumber.

Then I heard a conversation.

“That’s the way it goes, Mr. Bennett,” a woman with a cultured voice was saying. “I know the arrivals of the Fletcher Brothers are hard to predict, but we need to be up for the challenge.” The voice suddenly paused. The sudden silence was unwavering. “Is it just me, or did a new descendant really take a seat in the armchair?”

“Seems like it, ma’am,” the man addressed as Mr. Bennet responded. His voice sounded of Irish lilt, like the comedians from old television series.

I could practically feel two people hovering over me, observing me with keen interest. Maybe they were sharing glances and making judgments about my looks and fashion sense.

Given the tone of the woman who spoke to Mr. Bennet, I picturized her as a middle-aged friendly woman, with shoulder-length black hair. Mr. Bennet seemed to be a servant in a white suit and a black tie, a bit shabby.

“The parents of this generation are so careless; couldn’t they have warned the child before he sat down in the chair? At such a tender age, at that.” the lady commented, taking quick, shallow breaths. “The Fletcher brothers would be here anytime now to receive the gifts of tribute we’d promised. I do not wish to put this kid at risk.”

“I understand that, ma’am, but the Fletcher Brothers have become so powerful over the last century that it would be impossible to deny them this kid if they inspect the house.”

I sat in the armchair, completely still. I had no idea what was going on. At first, it had seemed like a dream, but my senses were fully awake now. Indeed, there were two people shuffling beside me, conversing with each other. There was a gentle ambiance and a faint scent of aged wood and worn books. The smell and the aura of the room felt different—certainly not like our drawing room.

As the footsteps drew closer, the tension in the room mounted. My heart pounded, and I tried to control my breathing, so as not to reveal my consciousness. The lady and Mr. Bennett continued their hushed conversation, their voices laced with anxiety and determination.

The Fletcher Brothers, whoever they were, entered the room with an air of authority. The sound of their footsteps was heavy and deliberate, echoing through the space. It was clear that these individuals held significant power, and I couldn’t help but wonder what made them so formidable.

The lady addressed them in a respectful yet cautious tone, “Welcome, gentlemen. We weren’t expecting you so soon.”

One of the Fletcher Brothers, a deep and resonant voice, responded, “Time is of the essence, and we don’t like to be kept waiting. We’ve come to collect what’s rightfully ours.”

The room seemed to grow colder as their presence became more pronounced. I could sense their eyes scanning the surroundings, and I kept my eyes shut, feigning sleep.

Two heavy footsteps walked towards me. A voice, hissed and ragged, said, “The child’s presence here does not seem coincidental.”

The lady, rising panic and concern in her voice responded, “Is it necessary for the child to be involved? He’s merely a young boy.”

But the two brothers seemed to have fixed their minds. The other brother was strolling across the hard wooden floor, toward me, too. They were both towering over me now, and I knew that if I opened my eyes, I’d see two monster-like men, ready to kill me any instant.

Before such an event could occur, I heard the troubled voices of my parents. I felt hands around my armpits as I was lifted out of the armchair, and a shriek of rage from the mysterious freaks of the world I’d just entered.

PART #2:

My parents had rushed into the room, their faces a mixture of concern and surprise. They were not expecting to find me in the ancient armchair, and the presence of the Fletcher Brothers had clearly unnerved them.

My father, his voice filled with a mixture of anger and fear, scolded me for sitting in the armchair. “What were you thinking, you fool? You know you’re not supposed to sit in that chair!”

I struggled to find the right words to explain my actions. I had been overwhelmed by exhaustion and had never fully grasped the significance of the armchair. “Dad, I didn’t realize…I didn’t expect…I didn’t understand what happened.”

My father, though frustrated, eventually let the matter go. He realized that I was just a confused teenager who had inadvertently stumbled into a situation far beyond my comprehension.

The Fletcher Brothers, on the other hand, remained skeptical and wary, their piercing gazes never leaving me.

After the tense encounter, my father took the opportunity to explain the history and significance of the armchair. It was a family heirloom that had been passed down for generations, and it held a unique and mysterious power.

While to outsiders, it appeared to be an ordinary antique, for our bloodline, it was a portal to the spirit world.

The armchair had the extraordinary ability to transport the person who sat in it into the realm of spirits. It allowed them to not only interact with the spirits but also enabled the spirits to touch them in return. It was a bridge between the living and the supernatural, a connection that only our family could harness.

However, with this incredible power came a set of rules and risks. To re-enter the real world, a person had to satisfy two conditions: not look at their surroundings and not leave the chair. Failure to meet either of these conditions would result in being trapped in the spirit world forever.

As my father recounted these stories and explained the family’s unique connection to the armchair, I couldn’t help but feel a mixture of fascination and dread. The armchair, once a mere piece of furniture, had transformed into an object of profound mystery and danger.

ALSO READ  DARK AND SCARY TWO-LINERS: VOLUME 2
THE ACCURSED ARMCHAIR


In the years that followed, I had little intention of ever using the armchair again. The unsettling experience of my first encounter had left a lasting impression, and as a teenager, I had other priorities and distractions.

However, four years later, circumstances forced me back into the world of the armchair. I found myself sitting in the armchair once more, the memories of the past flooding back.

The reason for my return was a painful and tragic one. I was driving my family and a few relatives back home from my sister’s surprise birthday party that I had organized. Though eighteen, I was not supposed to take the driver’s seat just yet, but little did I care.

It was a rainy day, the skies overcast and heavy with water droplets. My sister, Nidhi, sat in the middle seat at the back of the car. She leaned forward, and whispered in my ear, “Brother…thank you.”

The roads were slick, visibility was poor, and in an instant, our lives were forever changed. The car wheeled sideways and crashed into a tree nearby.

The rest of us had survived, but the accident had claimed Nidhi’s life. Death—on her birthday.

It left all of us shattered and heartbroken. It was a loss that no words could ever fully express. Her absence was a void that seemed impossible to fill.

As I sat in the armchair, I couldn’t help but remember Nidhi’s laughter, her vibrant spirit, and the moments we had shared. I longed for one last chance to speak with her, to hold her hand, and to tell her how much I loved her.

The armchair, with its mysterious connection to the spirit world, held the key to that possibility. I knew that it could provide a gateway to the realm of spirits, and in my grief, I was willing to take that risk. Be it due to dread, or remorse, or wanting comfort, I was ready to go through the torturous experience of the armchair. Again.

I felt a strange sensation as I closed my eyes and let the memories of Nidhi wash over me. The room seemed to shimmer and blur as if the boundaries between our world and the spirit world were fading. The well-felt feeling of drowsiness swept over me.

In the surreal realm between consciousness and slumber, I once again found myself in the presence of the lady with the cultured voice and Mr. Bennett.

They repeated their warning about the spirits that lingered in this place, stressing that such spirits were often driven by deep grudges.

I tilted my head towards the lady’s voice, my own voice trembling with anticipation, and asked, “Can you help me find my sister, Nidhi? I need to see her, to…apologize.”

The lady regarded me with a mixture of sympathy and caution. Her voice, a soothing melody, replied, “Child, the spirits that dwell here are not like the ones you remember. They carry the weight of their grievances, and the path to your sister may be dangerous.”

Undeterred, I insisted, “I have to try. I can’t bear the thought of leaving things unresolved.”

Mr. Bennett, with a solemn expression, chimed in, “We understand your determination, but you must progress carefully. If you encounter a spirit with unsettled grudges, it may not end well.”

I nodded, acknowledging the risks. The lady and Mr. Bennett withdrew, leaving me alone in the disconcerting open space.

Mysterious whispers, like distant echoes, filled the air, carrying with them a sense of sorrow and suffering. These ghostly voices seemed to surround me, making it hard to discern their meaning. The words were cloaked in an aura of wickedness, and I strained to make sense of them.

Amid the spectral voices, I heard Nidhi’s familiar yet distant call. Once a source of comfort, it now tinged with bitterness and anger. It was a stark contrast to the sister I had cherished.

Tears welled up in my eyes as a deep regret engulfed me. “Nidhi, I’m so sorry. I should have protected you. I should have been more careful.”

I hoped Nidhi would respond in a similar manner, showering her love. And I couldn’t have been more wrong.

In response, Nidhi’s voice turned venomous, filled with accusations that pierced my soul. “You let me down, and now you come here, seeking forgiveness? You abandoned me when I needed you the most.”

As Nidhi’s words cut through me, the sky above released a deluge of rain, similar to the one on the day of her passing. The chair I sat in began to sink into the muddy ground beneath, its grip on me tightening with each passing moment.

Panic coursed through me as I realized that leaving the chair would mean being trapped in this otherworldly realm for eternity. The surrounding spirits reveled in my despair, their chilling laughter echoing through the mist.

“Come on, look at me, brother. Open your devilish eyes to see what you’ve done to your sister!” Nidhi challenged me to meet her gaze, to confront the consequences of my actions, to endure an eternity of dread and sorrow by her side. Her voice bore the weight of suffering and torment.

As the chair continued to sink, I felt a sense of hopelessness. The spirits closed in, their whispers growing louder and more malicious. I faced a choice that would shape my destiny: surrender to the darkness that sought to claim me or fight to return to the world of the living.

I had no choice. Getting up from the chair or not getting up from the chair would both mean death. I faced it—opening my eyes was the finality…

At that critical moment, a powerful force pulled me from the sinking armchair. It was my family members—they risked their all to rescue me from the edge of this living nightmare.

I was shaken and disoriented, my heart heavy with the haunting encounter I had just endured. The room had returned to its familiar state, and the armchair sat in the corner, a silent witness to the horrors I had confronted.

My family members enveloped me in their comforting embrace, offering a lifeline after a harrowing experience.

As I rested in the arms of my loved ones, I couldn’t help but contemplate the enigmatic chair’s mysteries. My encounter with Nidhi brought a sense of closure and a deeper awareness of the consequences of my actions. They were more than I had anticipated…way more.

The armchair, once a source of dread, had transformed into a symbol of the unbreakable link between the living and the departed.

The ancient armchair remained in its corner, a silent guardian of the supernatural. Its enigmas remained hidden, known solely to our family, a heritage that would persist for generations. As I gazed at it, I wondered about the new descants who would sit it in the coming decades.

The profound moral was clear: the harm we inflict on others can return to harm us, teaching us the weight of our actions.


Check out my other stories here before you leave.


Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of my imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. || Contents of this story should not be reproduced in any manner without permission.


0 Comments

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

error: Content is protected!