The Chair

The last half of the last bit of Bart’s popsicle was sliding down the stick and before he could maneuver it to his mouth it slipped and shattered on the ground in an ugly cherry mess.

              “Well if that hasn’t been my whole day”

              “You want another popsicle?” Opal asked.

              “Forget it, we’re already late.”

They got back into the truck and drove away from the gas station. They were on their way to pick up something from a seller, and a reluctant seller at that. Bart hated dealing with reluctant people; some were doing it out of greed, others did it out of fear. He just wanted to make the damn transaction and be done with it.

Opal on the other hand like dealing with reluctant people it gave her a chance to flex her empath muscle. Determined people was nearly impossible to crack but the wobbly ones on the fence was an easy mark. She would dig her heels into any insecurity they had and just squeeze until they gave in. it was especially easy with men. Swaying her big blonde curls could swing a man’s mind into giving up his own mother if she did it just right.

The item in question was an ornate antique dining chair. Solid oak. Handmade. Heavy. Thus the truck instead of the gas mileage friendly Geo they normally took everywhere. Apparently there was a set but the one chair was the only surviving piece. The seller said they would explain when they got there but Bart was already irritated so he prayed the story was short.

They turned down a dirty road and were serenaded with the rocks being kicked up under the truck and pinging off the wheel wells. After a mile they spotted the house. It was an old farmhouse that was next to an extremely dilapidated barn. They pulled up and tapped the horn. An old man came out shortly after they had both gotten out of the truck.

“You must be the Hogarths”

Opal smiled wide “That’s us.”

“Chairs ‘round back” he said miserably.

Bart and Opal exchanged looks as they followed the old man.

They walked to the back of the house where there was a small wooden shed branching off the house. The old man walked up and grabbed the padlock on the door. He fished into his pocked, pulled out the key and unlocked the door. He shouldered the door to get it to open. And the couple went to the door frame after he stepped into the dark shed.

“Here it is.”

The chair sat in the middle of a cluttered room. It was as he described it but the black of the wood looked more like a char than a stain. Other than that everything else matched to a tee.

“So what’s the story,” Bart said with arms crossed.

“This chair belonged to my great great grandfather. In the 1860s when he settled here from the east coast he tried his hand at farming. Did a good sight better that trying he ended up becoming quite wealthy. At least for those days. And he had a big family so he decided to commission a large dinner table for the house, and this was his chair. The head of the table.”

“And the charring?”

“Well one night before his 50^th birthday the whole family was having dinner when a fire broke out. No one really knows why but that’s the way it was. Whole family wiped out. Everyone except my great grandfather. He was neckin on some girl down by the creek, sees the fire in the distance and runs all the way there but it’s already done. Whole house and everybody in it was gone. When the townsfolk come to pay their respects and help my grandfather pick through the remains the found this chair standing alone. All the others and the table had turned to ash but this chair stood out. So my great grandfather built another life for himself. Course the town helped any way they could and before too long he was back on his feet. Even got married. Had a mess a kids. Good life back then. But I guess the survivor’s guilt got to him too much and right before his 50^th birthday he sat down in this chair took a 38 and shot himself in the head. Right at the age his ol’ man died.”

Bart and Opal exchanged looks as the old man continued.

“Well my grandfather mustn’t been old enough to remember his daddy killin himself so he didn’t have to bear the burden of that tragedy but as if it was clockwork night before his 40^th birthday he was taking a nap in the chair and never woke up. They called the doc but it was for nothing. He was dead. Official cause was listed as a heart attack. Never had any heart problems before but that’s how they wrote it up.”

“That brings us to my daddy. Now he knew damn well that chair was no good. Tried getting rid of it. Never seemed to stay gone. Fellow came to take it to an antique mall. Truck flipped over killed the fellow and his driver. Cleaning crew salvaged what they found in the wreck and two days later it sat on our front porch with a letter explaining what happened. My ol’ man took an axe to it after that. Nicked and chipped it up a bit but no real damage. That’s when he decided if he couldn’t get rid of it he’d just hide it away. Locked it up in here till the day he died. Day before he was 50^th got into a fit of paranoia and tried to break the chair. Worked himself up too much and keeled over. This one was written up as an aneurysm. Blood vessel popped in his head or something. It was the damn chair.”

He looked at the two of them now. “Look I’m forty eight. I don’t know if I’ll live to see 51 but if I can get rid of this damn chair once and for all I’m willing to try.”

“You’re only 48?!” Bart said in disbelief.

Opal elbowed him. “Sorry, you were saying…”

“If you get cursed it ain’t on me. I told you its history so I ain’t liable. But if you can break whatever evils on this damn thing or whatever it is you’ll be doing the world a favor.”

“Thank you so much” Opal said graciously.

“Give you a hundred bucks for it.” Bart blurted out.

“Sold”

“Cool, hun you pay him. I’ll load it up.”

Bart moved forward and picked up the chair under both arms and lifted it like a flour sack and walked it out of the shed. Opal handed over a hundred and an extra twenty giving the old man a wink.

“Don’t worry we’re professionals.”

“Hun my pants are slippin’” Bart shouted.

              Opal turned her attention to her husband who was walking unnaturally bowlegged to the truck bed in an attempt to keep his pants from falling to his ankles.

              “At least I’m a professional.” She said to the old man before scurrying after Bart.

              She let him load it into the truck and as he shut the tailgate he looked at her. Her eyes were locked in a hundred yard stare at nothing and she spoke in a flat unnerving tone.

              “You have blood on your hands.”

              His face twisted in confusion, “What?”

              She let out a low monotonous moan.

              He was starting to worry then her face broke into a laugh.

              “The cherry popsicle you dork. You never cleaned up. It’s all over your damn hands.”

              “Heh heh…yeah”

              “O shit was I really getting you.”

              He became defensive as he went to the driver’s side, “NO!”

              “I did! Ah that’s fucking great!” She chortled as she got into the truck.