THE CHAIR by Jeff Jones

He crept along the dark hallway, the only sound the rhythmic ticking of a clock somewhere in the dark. His left knee banged into a hidden piece of furniture and it was all he could do to stop himself from screaming at the sharp pain. He froze. Had he been heard? Was his intrusion about to be discovered? Long seconds passed and his heavy breathing kept time with the ticking clock.

Satisfied that the house occupant hadn’t been disturbed by his carelessness, he inched towards what he knew to be the girl’s bedroom. His left hand glided along the wall as he went, its smooth, cold surface, strangely reassuring in the dark.

The curtain behind him suddenly billowed, as a gust of wind probed the inner sanctum of the house, courtesy of the window he had prised open to gain entry. His eagerness was making him sloppy. Still, it was too late now.

His left hand dropped from the wall and reached out to grasp the brass door knob, but a sudden chiming from behind him, stopped him dead in his tracks.

Swallowing hard, he fought against an involuntary shiver that ran the length of his spine; it wasn’t like him to get spooked. The third time it chimed he realised that it was just the damn clock he had passed and he found himself smiling at the irony. Here he was, the intruder, scared half to death whilst his intended victim, who was obviously used to the chiming, slept blissfully on, unaware of his presence. Or was she? A gentle murmuring and a few unintelligible words, slipped through the partially open bedroom door.

He grasped the door knob tighter than necessary, as a thousand possibilities crossed his mind. Had his clumsiness and the chiming clock woken her from her slumber? Worse still, maybe she wasn’t alone. Maybe she was entertaining. No, ridiculous, he’d been secretly watching the house for hours and no one else had entered.

All was silent again. The clock had finished its hourly duty and no new noises emanated from the bedroom. Relaxing his grip on the door knob, he gently pushed the bedroom door open.

A shaft of light from a nearby street light partially illuminated the room through the half drawn curtains. He took a few seconds to let his eyes acclimatise, his gaze firmly fixed on the bed a few feet in front of him. He breathed a quiet sigh of relief when his eyes were adjusted enough to make out that there was only one occupant in the bed.

Toying with the knife he grasped in his right hand, he crossed the floor, his footsteps muffled by the plush carpet. He stopped mere inches from the pretty blond girl he had been stalking for days, and studied her with malevolent eyes.

His left hand, clammy with anticipation grasped the top of the bedclothes and gently pulled them down. She was naked underneath and a different sort of excitement began to consume him.

Her eyes shot open. Maybe it was a sudden breeze of air on her naked skin, or perhaps her own sub-conscience desire for self-preservation that woke her, it mattered not. And then she screamed. It was a horrible high-pitched scream that seemed to cut right through him like an icy wind. He backed off a pace, stunned. Panic momentarily threatened to overwhelm him and flight crossed his mind.

She was sitting up now, one hand trying to cover her nakedness with the bedclothes, whilst the other one was reaching out for something on the bedside cabinet. And all the time she screamed. His eyes followed her gaze and fell upon the mobile phone. He was rapidly losing control of the situation. With a new resolve, he stepped forward and slapped her across the face with the back of his hand, a trickle of blood just about visible in the half-light, emerging from the corner of her mouth.

Enraged, she lunged at him all thoughts of modesty replaced by the desire to fight back, but was distracted by a small glint from something he was holding in his right hand. It was only after the blade had pierced her abdomen that she realised that it had been a knife.

She screamed again, a different kind of scream this time, but surprisingly it soon began to fade. As he continued to plunge the knife into her bloody and dying body, he realised that he could not see her face clearly. The whole scene was becoming blurry as if he was backing away yet his knife continued its stabbing frenzy.

Again and again he plunged his knife down, but now it was as if he was completely detached from the events in front of him, merely observing. Everything was blurred and someone had grabbed his arm, though he continued to stab downwards.

"Andy! Andy! Wake up!"

Was that his name? He didn’t know? The scene before him was changing and he tried to continue stabbing, but somebody had his right arm in a vice-like grip.

"Andy! Wake up!"

His eyes opened and he felt the grip on his arm slacken. Beads of perspiration moistened his face.

"What happened?"

"You had another nightmare, that’s what," replied Sarah, his wife.

"That was the worst one yet."

"You were pounding the hell out of the armrest – I thought you were going to break your hand. What was it about this time?"

Andy looked away embarrassed. "Murder."

"Murder again. Who was it this time?"

"Another young girl."

"Did you know her?"

"I’ve no idea. Like all the previous nightmares, I couldn’t see her face. It was always blurry. Nor can I ever see my own face in a mirror. Why is that?"

"I don’t know, but I do remember reading somewhere that it’s not unusual."

"Really? What do you think I should do? These nightmares are getting disturbingly graphic."

"I think you’d better stay away from the cheese," she replied grinning.

"Yeah, like it’s that simple. I’m telling you it’s starting to freak me out. Each time it happens it’s as if I’m becoming more detached from it. It’s like I’m some kind of voyeur watching it happen through someone else’s eyes, yet I can feel the murderer’s touch and emotions. Weird."

"Well maybe you should stop sitting in that new chair of yours. Ever since you bought it you’ve been falling asleep in it virtually every evening. Apart from the nightmares, it’s also highly unsocial; I never seem to get to talk to you anymore."

"I’m just tired, Sarah, that’s all. You know the hours I’ve been putting in at work and coupled with this damn back pain, it’s no surprise surely that now that I’ve finally found something comfortable to sit in, that I’m falling asleep so easy. Besides the other night you were moaning at me because my fidgeting was keeping you awake."

"Okay, point taken, but just try, okay?"

"Okay." He smiled at Sarah, still greatly disturbed by the nightmare and started to get up. A sudden sharp pain that started in his buttock before shooting down his leg, caused him to collapse back into the chair, knocking a half empty mug of cold tea over the chair and down his trousers. "Damn it! Sorry."

"Don’t worry about it, it’ll wash. I’m more concerned about you. Will you please go and see a doctor?"

"I will, just as soon as I can."

"You can’t keep putting it off, Andy. It could be something serious for all we know."

She helped her husband to his feet and when she was convinced that he could stand unaided, she started to take the wet seat cover off. "What the hell is this?"

"What?" said Andy grimacing.

Sarah didn’t answer, she was too engrossed.

"What’ve you got there?"

"I found these newspaper cuttings inside the seat cover."

"Really? What are they about?"

"I think you should read them."

Intrigued, Andy took the clippings and began to read them.

"That can’t be. Do you realise how similar to my dreams these are?"

Sarah nodded.

"I recognise some of these stories. These are the murder victims of that nutter, Hemmings."

"Hennings," Sarah corrected. "I know. What sort of sicko keeps cuttings about something like that and then hides them away?"

"I don’t know," replied Andy shaking his head. "Look here’s a picture of Hennings."

Sarah glanced at it briefly. "Those poor girls. Where did you get that chair?"

"What? Oh, in one of the charity shops up town. It was a real bargain. Why?"

"Just wondering."

"Didn’t Hennings get banged up for life?"

"Yeah, but he was found hanging in his cell, two weeks later. Murdered they reckon, but there was no proof. Who cares I say. Anyway, I’m going to bed – you coming to keep me company?"

Andy couldn’t fail to notice the glint in her eyes and the mischievous grin. After a quick glance at the chair he said, "Coming. But be gentle, I’ve got a bad back remember."

"I’ll try," she replied shutting the bedroom door after him.

***********

"Jim, there’s a gentleman here who wants to know where the chair he bought from us, came from."

Jim sighed, but didn’t look up. How was he supposed to remember where every little donation came from? When he did look up, he instantly recognised Andy and groaned inwardly. This was the bloke who spent ages deliberating over a purchase the other week. It wasn’t as if the thing was even expensive. It was after all, just a high backed fireside chair the likes of which can be found in most old people’s houses. If he recalled rightly, the bloke had wanted it to help with his posture as he suffered from a bad back.

"Yes, sir, how can I help you?"

"Hi, I don’t know if you remember me, but I bought the..."

"Fireside chair, oh, yes I remember you."

"Oh, right, good." Andy wasn’t sure how the small, balding shop manager had meant that, but decided to let it go. Was that a small smirk on his face? "Well I know that it’s somewhat unusual, but I was wondering if you could tell me where it came from?"

Jim frowned. "As a matter of fact, I can. It was part of a job lot from a house clearance. A gentleman brought it all in saying that the owner had gone away for a long time and he didn’t want to keep any of it. In fact, he seemed very glad to be shot of it, which surprised me because some of it was in very good condition."

"You said that the owner was going away for a long time. What did he mean?"

Jim sighed again. Clearly this conversation was boring him and Andy was finding it hard to conceal his irritation.

"I took it to mean that he was emigrating. It really isn’t our business to probe."

"No, of course not. Thanks anyway, you’ve been really helpful," said Andy nearly choking on the words. After slipping some coins into the collection box on the counter, he hurried out.

Andy stopped for a couple of drinks on his way back and by the time he got home, it was early evening and Sarah wasn’t in. Then he remembered that being a Tuesday she would be at yoga class.

He turned on the television and was pleased to find a football match on and after

grabbing a beer from the fridge, he nonchalantly collapsed into his chair to watch the game.

************

Her sharp fingernails raked down his face, desperately trying to pierce his eyes. For someone so small, the girl was putting up one hell of a fight, but then he always liked it that way.

It took both of his hands to ward off the girl’s desperate clawing and he briefly considered putting the knife down while he subdued her, but decided against it. Eventually he managed to grab and hold both of her hands in his left hand, but still she spat her defiance and kicked out at him, though the bedclothes nullified their impact.

He needed to distract her so with his right hand, he reached down and tore open her nightdress, exposing her breasts. A new fear entered the girl’s mind and she momentarily stopped struggling. This was the opening he needed and after releasing her hands, he quickly grabbed her long brown hair and yanked her head backwards exposing her throat, the knife twitching in his right hand.

************

He suddenly woke and fought to get his laboured breathing under control. Back among familiar surroundings, Andy glanced at the clock and was dismayed to find that it was gone midnight. Had he really been asleep for over four hours? The television was off and a quilted blanket that Sarah must have covered him with lay discarded on the floor.

He slowly stood up and stretched. A stinging on his left cheek made him wince and

his hand gently brushed against a fresh cut. He cursed his blunt razor, not that he remembered cutting himself that morning.

He quietly entered their bedroom where he knew Sarah would be blissfully sleeping and swore when his foot trod on something sharp. Sarah looked so peaceful he briefly considered leaving her alone and sleeping in the chair, but decided against it.

Once undressed, he slid in next to her. She didn’t stir. He pressed up against her and threw an arm around her waist. Still no reaction. She clearly wasn’t in the mood. Sighing, he rolled onto his back and yelled when he lay on something wet.

"What the hell is that?" He leapt up and switched on the light.

Nothing could have prepared him for the sight which greeted him when he turned around. There on their blood-soaked bed, lay his wife’s lifeless body, her throat cut from ear to ear. The front of her blood drenched nightdress lay wide open where it had been torn.

Andy’s legs buckled and he collapsed to the floor. On the opposite side of the room stood Sarah’s full-length mirror and Andy found himself staring at the image of a man grinning back at him. Andy had never met the man, yet he knew that he had seen his face recently in one of the newspaper cuttings.

Curling himself up into a ball, Andy began to cry. Through his tears something on the floor to his left, caught his eye. It was a knife dripping in blood, his wife’s blood. He sobbed but was drawn back to the cruel image in the mirror, with the scratch marks running down its left cheek.

Andy flinched as his tears stung his face. He touched his left cheek and could feel several deep gouges where the victim’s, Sarah’s, fingernails had raked his skin.

When he looked up again the image in the mirror was starting to fade, but it was laughing, mocking him as it went.