Spoopy House: The Chair

A tale from the Spoopy House.

It was a dark morning as the sun rose from its slumber, but Frank didn’t care about all that. No, he cared that his office chair no longer went up and down when he pulled the lever. It was a fancy chair, one of those architectural wonders from some part of Europe where everyone is happy. He bought it because he wanted the back support, so he said to justify the $800 price tag to his wife, but in reality, he bought the chair because he wanted it.

He lusted for it.

It was a chair he’d wanted since he saw it in the store window on his way to work.

He watched it from the cafe across the street from the store.

He was obsessed with this chair.

Frank knew that if he could only obtain it. Then, and only then, could he feel complete.

In the early morning humidity of September, Frank was distraught to find that the chair, his beloved chair, wasn’t cooperating. He sat in it, coffee in hand, bullet journal and Jotter Arrow pen waiting for him at his desk, and couldn’t adjust the height. He pulled on the lever. Nothing. No hiss of the industrial grade hydraulic cylinder. No pleasing feeling of being carried down into a sitting position. No enjoyment of feeling superior to every chair in IKEA.

He could have left it the same height as his desk, just like every other God-fearing writer, but no. This chair’s ability to lift him and his spirits was tied to the physical realm.

Frank began to troubleshoot the lever. He jiggled it and flapped it against the bottom of the seat. He pressed and held the lever. Nothing. He contemplated for a moment that he could take the chair apart but knew that was a fool’s errand. No chair, once assembled, pressure fit tight to the hydraulic stem could be divorced from its constructed form.

So, there it stood, seat at waist height, shaming Frank if his wife ever saw it as she made him well aware that IKEA had many designs available that were similar in look and not even a quarter of the price. He bought into the photos, the brochure of life, that this chair would make him into a better man. One who could meet deadlines, write all day, and never have a lousy idea enter the digital paper of his computing machine.

In the early morning light, it was then that the dark plan entered his mind: Frank would have to kill his wife.

Why was this the case? Why the wife and not the chair? Or calling a professional to fix the chair or see about exchanging it? I mean, it’s an expensive chair. Surely the European manufacturer would honor a warranty of some kind!

But no, no. None of these options would work because guilt, judgment, and admittance of being wrong were all still in the primordial clay of any of these futures. No, the only option was murder.

As he dug her grave in the backyard, in the cold of the evening, Frank took a second to breathe and admire his hard work. His hands were calloused and dirty from toiling in the earth. His back ached from the lift he had to do when he surprised Iris with the rope. He watched as the air from his lungs fogged up in front of the lit windows of his home. He smiled and looked at his office window. There he knew his well-within-the-manufacturer’s-warranty-to-replace-or-fix desk chair was admiring his work.

This might seem an extreme reaction to a broken chair, but you, dear reader, are missing a critical piece of information. Frank and Iris moved into this home only months ago and were the happiest they’d ever been. Snagging a home in this market at far below market value made them feel like Lottery winners, but much like these winners, their prize led to their demise.

For you see, this sought-after home was cursed.

Feeling the pressure of the officer's hand against his head, Frank was lowered into the back of the squad car. He looked and saw his chair in the living room window. Leering at him as he was driven away.

The chair, along with all the other items in the house, were sold at a police auction. The house was cleared out, and its deed returned to the bank, where it was again put up for sale.

And it, in this current market, waited for another victim to overpay to meet their doom.

Read the next installment: The Lamp

---

Thank you for reading my spoopy story! If you enjoyed it and want to stick around for more odd ball macabe bits like this one, please subscribe! If you are already subbed, thank you so very much! Please do share this story and during October, expect to see more tales from The Spoopy House!