Eerie Oddities

The Seat of Silence

Mason had never given much thought to the old chair. It was just another piece of furniture, inherited from his late grandmother. A dark, heavy leather recliner, its surface worn and cracked with age, sat gathering dust in his grandmother's attic for as long as he could remember. No one ever sat in it. Not even when Grandma was alive.When she passed away, Mason was left with the chair. He had no sentimental attachment to it, but the thought of getting rid of it felt wrong. So, it found its way into his apartment, pushed into a corner of his living room, out of place against his sleek modern furniture.The first night he sat in it, he thought he was just tired—too much work, too much stress. He sank into the chair, letting the worn leather mold to his body, its cool touch oddly comforting. But as soon as he relaxed into it, an unnatural chill filled the room. It wasn't the kind of cold that made you shiver, but one that settled deep in your bones, a creeping cold that spread from the chair to the rest of the room.His breath fogged in the air, but the temperature never seemed to drop. The shadows in the corners of the room stretched unnaturally, curling like fingers reaching for him. Something was wrong, but Mason couldn't place it.His eyelids grew heavy, the weight of exhaustion pulling him toward sleep. Just as he began to drift off, he heard a sound, faint but unmistakable: a soft whisper. It came from the chair, or perhaps from within it, a voice low and raspy, like something ancient, something buried.*Come closer...* it seemed to beckon.Startled, Mason jerked awake. His heart pounded in his chest, and he quickly looked around. The room was exactly as it had been—a dimly lit living room. But something had shifted. The air was thick, oppressive, as if the space itself had grown heavier. And the chair—still in the corner—looked different. Not in any way he could put his finger on, but it had *changed*. It felt alive.He stood up, thinking maybe it was just his imagination, but the moment his feet hit the floor, the room around him flickered—like an old film reel struggling to stay in focus. The walls, once smooth and clean, now seemed to pulse, their paint peeling and curling, revealing wood that looked rotted and decayed beneath. The hardwood floor creaked as if burdened by years of dust and neglect. The windows were covered in a layer of fog that seemed to breathe, shifting and rippling like the surface of water.Mason's pulse quickened. What the hell was happening?The whispers grew louder, rising from the chair. They were no longer a faint murmur, but distinct, clear voices—multiple voices, all speaking at once, urgent and pleading. He couldn't understand the words, but the tone was unmistakable. It was as though something—or someone—was trying to warn him.With a deep breath, Mason tried to step away, but as he turned toward the door, it was no longer there. In its place was a wall of blackness, an empty void that stretched far beyond the confines of the room. The darkness seemed to pulse, almost alive, waiting for him to make a move.The chair... the *thing* in the chair, was watching him.Suddenly, a violent force yanked him backward, throwing him back into the seat. He couldn't fight it. The chair had a grip on him, as if it were pulling him into its very fabric, its leather tightening around him like a shackle. The whispers were no longer just whispers, but growls, hissing like a thousand voices rising from the depths of the earth.Mason's heart raced, his breath coming in ragged gasps, but no matter how hard he tried to move, he couldn't. The chair held him in place, its leather now cold, unnaturally cold, pressing against his skin like it was absorbing his very warmth.The whispers grew into a cacophony of voices, shrieking, laughing, pleading for him to stay. His vision blurred, the room swirling around him, the walls closing in. He saw fleeting images—ghostly faces pressing against the window, eyes wide and empty, mouths twisted in agony.*It's too late,* the voice hissed in his mind.Suddenly, everything stopped. The room went deathly still. The whispers fell silent, and the chair released him. But as Mason stood, trembling, he realized he wasn't alone.The chair... was no longer empty.A figure sat in it, draped in shadows, its face obscured by the dark. It was the same figure that had whispered to him, the one that had pulled him into its grip. Its eyes, gleaming like pools of black ink, locked onto his.And in a voice that was both his own and not, the figure spoke: *You're not leaving. Not this time.*Mason stumbled back, his breath caught in his throat, but when he turned to flee, the walls closed in. There was no door. There was no escape. The chair—the cursed chair—had claimed him.And as the last remnants of his consciousness faded into the shadows, he understood.The chair had never been *empty*.