The Chair

It had only been three days since my grandmother’s funeral. It was surreal seeing aunts, uncles, and cousins I hadn’t seen in years. Not a single one had made effort visiting Grandma Edie while she was still alive. They only knew her when times were tough and they needed rescuing. In spite of everything she did for her children and grandchildren, they left her alone to die.

Warm bodies that harboured cold souls filled her once lively living room. Uncle Andy and his wife Diana stood in the corner, guarding the buffet that housed her collection of Theodore Haviland Limoges China. Aunt Cicely claimed grandma Edie’s collection of antique handmade Italian dolls by sticking brightly colored post-it notes on each and every one. Cousins Danny and Jessica whispered amongst themselves, hoping grandma left them with a hefty monetary inheritance.

My eyes grew hot and my tear ducts burned as they filled with resentful tears. I couldn’t believe the esurient freak show I was witnessing. Not a single mournful heart was present in the room that once housed so much love and affection. There was only me.

Looking around the room was like being in a time capsule of memories. Grandma Edie raised me after my mother mysteriously vanished, shortly after marrying my stepfather. I was only three years old when she was presumed dead. My stepfather made a run for it, and he too became a mystery. However, Grandma Edie kept my mother alive by telling me stories about my mother’s life.

My mother loved camping, so grandma would set up a tent in the living room, using the fireplace to make smores. On days I was sick, we would huddle together on her atrocious burnt orange 1970s floral sofa. Many hours were spent on that couch watching Passions, eating saltine crackers and drinking gallons of Canada Dry. I always loved laughing at how ridiculous Sheridan Crane was with her. She always came up with the best quips.

As my relatives treated grandma’s belongings as a Black Friday special, I excused myself to the attic where I spent many evenings going through old photographs from her past. The walls were covered in old wallpaper with carnival animals dancing along the walls. The only natural light came from the stained glass window she had installed in the early 50s. I was always mesmerized by the light refractions that danced around the otherwise dark attic.

Grandma Edie always kept a rocking chair in the attic. I used to sit at her feet listening to stories from her past, as she rocked whilst showing me her favorite memories from her youth. Grandpa Henry collected treasures from all over the world, and oftentimes she would go with him. The pair were well known for being world travelers, and even wrote about their many adventures in various publications. Grandma Edie also wrote about her personal accounts in her journals.

I climbed the stairs to the attic, and heard a creaking coming from the direction of Grandma Edie’s rocking chair. As I approached it, I noticed it was moving with one of her journals resting open atop of it. Any normal person would be timid to approach such an ominous thing, but I had hoped it was my grandmother’s spirit wanting to spend one final moment with her granddaughter. I sat down, and began to read.

Henry and I were traveling from Vilnius, Lithuania to Baranovichi, Belarus. We had a location lead on the Belt of Vytautas, and we wanted to be the firsts to cover its in-depth history. We wanted to photograph its beauty, and let the world know of its existence. Getting there was much more difficult than expected.

While driving on these very incomplete Slavic roads, we found ourselves with a flat tire in the middle of Belarusian desolation. The only option we had was to walk an indeterminate amount of miles until we found civilization. Hours into our trek, Henry had the urge to head deep into the woods. He was convinced that he saw someone, and wanted to chase them down to ask for help.

I was skeptical of his sighting, but followed closely behind. He was moving so quickly, and I could barely keep up with his speed. As we headed deeper into the forest, tree roots grew thicker and became entangled with other surrounding foliage. I stumbled hard and bloodied my knees. As I dusted myself off, Henry was nowhere in sight. I shouted his name, and heard nothing in return. I had no other choice but to continue moving forward in hopes that I would find him. Suddenly, I began to smell something foul and wicked. Something told me to follow the putrid stench deeper into the woods, and so I did. As I made my way further into this foreboding forest, a hut slowly began to reveal itself from behind the trees. A man’s bellowing could be heard from inside. It was Henry. I burst through the doors, and saw a terrifying looking woman. More specifically, a Baba Yaga.

She was hunched over, with wrinkles that made her face look like a topographic map. She held a mortar and pestle and was grinding what looked to be bone. Henry was in a trance-like state, and didn’t bother trying to escape. Her fingers were old, but delicate. Her nails as sharp as talons. She eagerly cut symbols into his flesh, licking the blood from underneath her fingernails. Horrified, I screamed to let him go. With delight and pure hatred in her eyes, the old witch flashed a look that sent pure dread down my spine.

“Young lady, don’t you know where you are? You are in hell, and you have no power here. I am an ancient witch, and I feast on the flesh of men. Your dear husband will make a nice meal”.

“Please let him go, I will do anything to save him. I will sacrifice myself in exchange for his freedom”, I pleaded.

“Your eagerness to save such a stupid man amuses me. Your life for his would be too simple of a sacrifice. I want more, but shall agree to your general terms. Life in Belarus has treated me well, but I want more souls to feast on. Do you see this chair here? I am the wood made from this chair, and this chair is me. I want you to bring it back to your home country. As long as this chair is part of your lives, the both of you shall be safe. However, once you and your husband both die, whomever in your bloodline next sits in this chair will swap lives with me. They will become the chair for all of eternity, while I resume my life as them, feasting on the bodies of mankind”.

Horrified, I threw the journal onto the ground. Sharp talons just as described in Grandmother Edie’s journal reached from behind me, and dug themselves deep into my veins, slowly morphing into me. “Baba Yaga, please let me go. I would like to make a deal with you. My entire life has been spent taking care of my grandmother, and I love her dearly. My despicable relatives downstairs don’t deserve to have a life, but I do. I understand the terms of my grandmother’s agreement with you, but I will gladly send any one of them up here in my place”.

The pain stopped, and I was freed. I descended down the stairs and re-entered the living room. Just as I had left them, my relatives were lusting over which items could make them the most profit, bickering over who deserved what. “I just found Grandma Edie’s rocking chair upstairs. I remember her telling me of when she brought it over from Belarus. It’s handcrafted and is from the 1800s” I stated.

”Mother always wanted me to have this rocking chair. It surely should go to me. When my dear Jessica has a child of her own, I can sing to my grandbaby while rocking them to sleep” responded Aunt Cicely.

“If I’m the one having the baby, shouldn’t it go to me? How much do you think this chair is worth anyway? At least one Macbook Pro, right”?

“I don’t know Jessica, why don’t you go upstairs and look at it?” I replied.

Begrudgingly, she made her way upstairs. As she began to sit down she started to speak, “this chair isn’t even that comf-”. And just like that, she changed. She was now the Slavic witch my grandmother made a deal with many decades before. Her eyes looked more depraved than usual. Her annoyed facial expression, slowly melted into a malicious one. Without saying a word, “Jessica” walked down to the first floor. I remained upstairs, unsure of what was about to happen.

Blood curdling screams echoed throughout the house. I assumed the now naturalized shrew was devouring my family. But y’know what? F*ck em.