Chapter 332

The chair wasn't supposed to be anything. It was just an old piece of furniture, red velvet, faded from years of neglect. It had been in the basement for as long as anyone could remember, a forgotten relic in a house full of dust and decay.

The chair didn't seem to belong to anyone. It just sat there, in a corner, its fabric stained, its legs weak, creaking under the weight of history. It hadn't ever meant to be anything more. Until it did.

At first, it was subtle. A shift, a slight turn of the fabric, a scraping noise at night that couldn't be explained. It was so minor, almost imperceptible, that no one thought much of it. But over time, the changes became more pronounced. Rachel noticed it first.

Rachel had never liked the basement. The smell of mildew mixed with the faint scent of something else, something sharper, hung in the air. She used to avoid going down there.

But after her father had passed away, it became her job to clean up the house, to clear out the boxes and old papers. So, every few days, she would go down, armed with a trash bag and a sense of dread, and sift through the remnants of the past.

One day, as she descended the stairs, she froze. The chair, which had been against the far wall, was now sitting in the middle of the room. The space it had occupied was empty, the wood floor scratched and warped beneath it. It shouldn't have been possible. The chair hadn't been moved. It couldn't have been.

Rachel stepped back, her breath shallow. The house creaked. The chair remained still, but something about it seemed off. Its presence was too heavy now, its red fabric standing out against the dark basement shadows.

She shook her head. She must have moved it herself, she thought. She must've done it without realizing. But she couldn't recall ever touching it. The unease gnawed at her. She left the basement without another glance.

The next few days, things only grew stranger. The chair didn't stay still anymore. It moved. Every day, every hour, it seemed to shift. No one noticed at first. The house was old, and the floorboards groaned with age.

Maybe the chair was simply a product of the house settling. But Rachel wasn't sure anymore. She felt a strange chill whenever she passed the door to the basement, like something unseen was waiting on the other side.

It wasn't until Mark, her older brother, came home one evening that it became undeniable. He went into the basement to grab some old files their father had kept. Rachel heard the door open and then close behind him. She continued what she was doing, trying to ignore the growing sense of discomfort gnawing at her.

A few minutes later, the silence was shattered by the sound of something heavy scraping across the floor. Rachel froze. She stood up, heart pounding, and made her way toward the basement door. She opened it slowly, peering down into the dim light. Mark's voice floated up the stairs.

"Rachel?" he called, his voice strained, panicked. "Come here."

Rachel's throat tightened. She descended the stairs quickly, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. She stepped into the basement, and there, at the foot of the stairs, was the chair. It was in the middle of the room, turned toward them. Mark stood beside it, pale, eyes wide with fear.

"It—it moved," Mark said, his voice trembling. "I swear, it moved on its own."

Rachel stared at the chair. The fabric, the wood, the dark stain that had been there for years, now seemed fresh. New. She felt something cold settle in her chest. Her mind screamed at her to turn and run, to get out of the basement, but she couldn't.

Mark took a step back. "We need to get rid of it. It's... something's wrong with it."

Rachel couldn't speak. The chair wasn't just a piece of furniture anymore. It was something else. Something alive.

That night, the chair moved again. Rachel heard it from her bedroom. A sharp scraping sound, then the unmistakable shuffle of legs dragging across the floor. She lay still, eyes wide, staring at the dark ceiling above her. The sound grew louder, closer. It was in the hallway now. Moving down the stairs.

Rachel felt her breath catch in her throat. She couldn't just lie there. She couldn't ignore it anymore.

She slipped out of bed, heart pounding in her chest. Quietly, she crept to the door of her room, opened it just enough to peer into the hall. The chair was at the bottom of the stairs, facing the hallway. It hadn't been there a moment ago. But now, there it was, waiting.

And then it started moving.

Not slowly. Not with hesitation. The chair's legs scraped across the floor, and it moved toward her, its presence so undeniable that Rachel's legs nearly gave out beneath her. She staggered backward into her room and slammed the door shut.

The next morning, she told Mark everything. But he didn't believe her. He thought she was still shaken up from the night before, from the chair's strange movements. But Rachel knew. She knew something was wrong. The chair wasn't just moving—it was hunting them.

She didn't know why. She didn't know how. But every day, it seemed to come closer, finding new spots in the house, always in places where she and Mark would be alone. Always following.

Then Mark disappeared.

He went out one evening to meet a friend, and by the time Rachel got home, he was gone. His car was parked outside. The house was still. Too still.

"Mark?" she called. No answer.

She checked his room. Empty. She checked the basement. Empty.

But the chair wasn't gone. It was in the basement, sitting quietly at the foot of the stairs, its back facing the door.

Rachel ran to the door, her hand trembling as she reached for the handle. She pulled it open. The chair had moved again.

This time, it was facing the doorway. And Mark was sitting in it.

Rachel gasped, her heart hammering in her chest. Mark's body was still, his eyes wide open but unseeing. His skin was pale, his lips tinged with purple. He wasn't breathing.

The chair creaked as it shifted, slowly, as if it were testing the weight of the body it had claimed. Rachel's mind raced. She couldn't stay there. She couldn't.

She turned, her mind screaming at her to leave, to run as fast as she could. But the chair wasn't finished yet.

It moved.

It slid, faster this time, toward her. Rachel's feet were frozen. She couldn't move. She couldn't breathe. Her heart thundered in her ears as the chair drew nearer.

She fell to the floor as it reached her. Its cold, wooden legs scraped against her skin, dragging her closer. Her fingers scrabbled against the floor, but she couldn't escape.

The chair had her now. There was no escape.

It didn't stop. It didn't care.

The house, the walls, the floors—all of it pressed in on her as the chair dragged her away, inch by agonizing inch. The world seemed to collapse around her, until nothing was left but the sound of the chair, scraping, dragging, moving on, claiming her in the same cold silence it had claimed Mark. The chair didn't need her to fight. It didn't need her to beg. It simply waited. And it took.

And then, there was nothing left of Rachel.