The Green Chair

 

The Purchase

Feverfew was unaware of the history of the green chair. He had no intention of buying it when he set out to the newsagents for a packet of fags. As he passed Ann’s Antiques, the velvet emerald upholstery shone through the dusty glass, and he stopped to look at it. The chair was old, late Victorian, with dark walnut griffin’s feet and brass tacked cushioning. If he had known the history of the chair, he may not have bought it, for its previous owner died inside the velvet arms. The chair didn’t come with a log book. There was no way of knowing about the death of the previous occupant, no history of how the chair had been passed down through generations of the Garboyle family line. Ann knew a little, but she would never tell.

            Feverfew was caught in a rush of covetousness. The chair stopped him, it invaded him, and he had to have it. It lured him, calling to him without a sound. He thought he made the decision to buy it by himself. He couldn’t see that his usual caution and measured response to parting with money disintegrated the moment he saw it. 

The bell rang and he stepped into the close stuffiness of the shop. It was the stuffiness of death. All of the curiosities had belonged to the dead. He had bought many things from Ann. Feverfew was a collector of Victoriana. He had spent years turning his one-bed-flat into a museum exhibit of late Victorian interior design. The Green Chair was the last thing he needed to tie it all together. It was much cheaper than he’d expected. A chair of that era, in such good condition, should have cost over a grand.

Ann didn’t tell him why it was priced so low. She didn’t say how she felt when the sun started to leave the sky, or how the shadows clung to the velvet; she didn’t say how cold her shop became after dark, even with the heating blaring. She wanted it gone. She was happy to break even just to be rid of it. Two hundred quid was the asking, and Feverfew, a skilled bargainer, got Ann down to one-fifty. He went straight to the bank. He felt a surge of worry pulse across him. He worried that someone else would come and get it before he could pay. He didn’t feel happy until he was loading it into his car. He shivered as his hands touched the wood frame. The sun was almost down.

 

Feverfew’s Parlour

The sun was gone when Feverfew carried the chair up to his second floor flat. He placed it to the left of the window beside the heavy lace curtains next to the turned wood coffee table. The chair had lost its shine; it absorbed the dim glare from the mock-gaslights. Feverfew’s hands were freezing. He lit a fire in the grate and waited. It took longer than usual to take the chill off the room. He glanced at the chair and blinked; he thought he saw a figure behind the chair, when he took a second glance it was nothing more than the shadow of the curtain. Before he could think on his vision, a familiar triple knock clattered at the door.

            It was his neighbour, and close friend, Dee. She came into the dimly lit room and shivered. She held a tin filled with half of her latest sponge cake.

            ‘It’s cold in here,’ she said, shrugging up and down.

            ‘I just lit the fire. Have you seen my new chair?’

            Dee went to test its comfort, but before her buttocks hit the velvet, Feverfew said, ‘Don’t sit on it. It’s not for sitting on. That’s a hundred and forty years old.’

            ‘Sorry love. How much did you pay for it?’ said Dee, a little hurt from being scolded like a child.

            ‘One hundred and fifty, it should have been a grand at least.’

            ‘You paid one fifty for a chair you can’t sit on. You are strange. Put the kettle on. I’ve got some Victoria Sponge in here,’ said Dee, tapping her tin.

            Feverfew went into the kitchen and made the tea. He enjoyed her company more than her cakes. He found them lacking in moisture. A strong cup of tea was needed to wash the sugary crumbs down.

            ‘What will you do with yourself now? There’s no more space for antiques.’

            ‘That chair is the final piece.’

The lights dimmed and they turned their heads to the empty green chair.

            ‘That’s funny, I thought I saw someone sat in it,’ said Dee. ‘It’s given me the shivers. Put another log on.’

            ‘I am off to bed soon.’

            ‘Stingy git.’

They finished their tea and cake. Dee got up to go. She took a last look at the chair and said goodbye. For the first time since she’d met Feverfew she was glad to be out of his flat.

            Feverfew cleared up the cups and plates and got ready for bed. Dee’s words came back to him. He felt he had been too strict on her about sitting on his new chair. He thought about the absurdity of buying a chair he would never sit on. The fire was ash and embers. The lamps were off. The kitchen lit the parlour. The chair sat there like an expectant guest. It waited in silence as he tinkered with the cups and plates. He had an urge to sit in the chair, just once, to see how it felt. Then he regained himself. He liked things immaculate. It took him ten minutes to straighten and even the sofa after Dee had sat on it. Then it had taken another ten to check the surround for cake crumbs. The thought of tainting the green velvet stopped him from sitting on it. It was in incredibly good contention, like it had never been sat in. He wanted to keep it that way. He was unaware that it had been splattered with blood. The blood stained upholstery had been removed and the wood had been washed and varnished, but the chair remembered. The last occupant to sit inside its arms had died. Death was nothing new to the chair. It waited cold and silent in the dark of the parlour. Feverfew would sit in it eventually. The idea was growing in his mind. It would take root when the lights went out.

           

The Night

Feverfew turned the lights out and drew the poster drapes. He felt safe inside his bed. He closed his eyes and waited for sleep. Sleep refused to come. His mind went to the chair. He thought about how the shadows gathered round it. He thought about sitting in it. He would sit in it in the morning. He didn’t fancy sitting in the shadows. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.

            He woke to a vision of a man standing over his bed. It was a recurring terror. He often had nightmares when he was alone. His last partner hadn’t liked his obsessive hatred of untidiness. He had settled for a life alone and the nightmares came occasionally to wake him from his sleep. He took a sip of water and regained himself. The nightmare didn’t scare him. He knew he was alone. The door was locked and the drapes around his bed were drawn. He soon settled into another comfortable snooze.

            He woke again, this time to the sound of snoring. He wiped his face. This was a new nightmare. The snoring stopped as he woke up. He was filled with a momentary terror. Had the snores come from the parlour? He couldn’t shake the thought that someone else was in the flat. He couldn’t shrug this nightmare off and go back to sleep. He got up and put his slippers on. He fought with himself. He reasoned with himself; it was just a vivid nightmare. He didn’t want to run with the childish terror that someone was lurking inside his flat.

            He went through the parlour to the kitchen without looking at the chair. He turned the lights on and waited for the kettle to boil. The light cast a sharp shadow over the chair. He smiled. “This is bloody stupid,” he thought to himself. He took his tea and went out to look at the chair. It was as empty as when he saw it in the shop window. He decided to sit inside the chair. The moment his hands rested on the red-brown walnut arms he felt a pair of cold slippery hands grip around his neck. He tried to shout out. But the grip silenced his screams. He dropped the tea onto the carpet and tried to prize the frozen pork fingers from his throat. He felt nothing but air. The strangling grip tightened and he felt his air run out. He lost consciousness.

 

Dee found him dead a day later. She knocked and knocked until she grew worried and used her spare key. His stiff body was stuck in the green chair. His eyes were bulging, his lips were blue, fear was carved into the cold marble of his face. There were dark purple bruises painted on his throat.

           

After the funeral the house clearance team came to empty Feverfew’s flat. It was full of Victorian antiques. They were taken to an auction house and sold, all except the chair. They didn’t know what to do with it. One of the poorer labourers decided to take the chair to Ann’s Antiques. She had heard the story and felt partially responsible. She paid the man one-hundred and fifty pounds. He seemed happy enough. He didn’t try for more. Ann took the chair into the yard behind the shop to burn it. She piled paper and wood underneath. She went to strike the match and stopped. A strange feeling came into her like smoke into the lungs. She was unable to burn it. She took it back to the shop window and turned out the lights.