Beware the Chair

By Natasha Danzig

Teenage tomboy Storm Draven loves all things supernatural. Her favorite pass time is to scare the wits out of her best friend, Ghita.

But when Ghita invites her to join her in visiting Ghita's grandparents for the summer holiday, she has no idea that she is about to witness something she had only pictured in her imagination - the black figure sitting in the spare room chair....

Inadvertently, Storm's curiosity as to the origin of the apparition opens a long forgotten misdeed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9780359644360

Book preview

Beware the Chair

BEWARE THE CHAIR

A Quaint Tale of Skullduggery and Ghosts

NATASHA DANZIG

All rights reserved ©2018

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

ISBN 978-0-359-64436-0

Prologue

Port Elizabeth, South Africa, 6th of June 1989

Mrs Barret packed her picnic basket and left for the park with her two grandsons. They walked seven blocks to the Botanical Garden playground on a sunny winter's day in early June, and she looked forward to meeting up with her book club friends. The small group of local retirees decided to meet there and make a day of it with their respective children and grandchildren.

The walk was pleasant, apart from the complaint of her aching knees, but she made the effort for her boys. Besides, their chatter and tales kept her mind occupied from the cruel hard sidewalk that thrust against the underside of her tennis shoes, shooting sharp pins into her legs with every step.

Finally, the tree-rich stretch of green grass welcomed her weary eyes and the children pulled away from her to join their own age group, leaving her behind to find a proper spot under one of the oak trees. It was one of the older specimens on the grounds known for their size, and by the circumference of the trunk, she was not surprised that the tree was older than her by at least fifty years. With a long exhale, Mrs. Barret relieved her physical labour, happy to rest until the others arrived.

Hello.

She heard a kind feminine voice from the other side of the trunk. She peeked around and smiled at the smiling lady seated on a blanket, reading a book. It was quite the coincidence that the stranger was reading precisely the book that she was about to discuss with her book club. "God Hater by S.S. Martin."

Mrs. Barret gasped, That is a very good book, but I shall not spoil the end for you.

The blond woman, about forty years of age, chuckled, No worries, darling. I have read it before, she paused charismatically, right after I finished writing it. I proofread all my own books before sending them to my snooty, know-it-all editor.

Mrs. Barret was taken aback. Could it be?

Hang on, she marvelled. "You mean to tell me that you are S.S. Martin?"

Correct, the lady affirmed with a wink.

Mrs. Barret took up her picnic basket and asked, Do you mind if I join you for just a moment?

Of course not, the author invited with a pat on her blanket. Feel free.

Mrs. Barret sat down next to her, scrutinizing the younger lady with awe.

I had no idea you were local! And I thought you were a man, she whispered her admission coyly. The author threw her head back and laughed, which confused the old lady somewhat as to the effect of her remark.

My name is Sasha, she told Mrs. Barret. Sasha Martin. Nice to meet you.

My goodness. So that is what the ‘S’ is for, Mrs. Barret smiled. Now I also know a little secret about one of my favourite authors. Minxy Barret. My late husband nicknamed me Minxy and it stuck, I guess, she babbled as the shook hands with the ravishing blond. I hope you are not offended that I thought you were male.

No, no, Sasha Martin said. I get it all the time. After all, the subject matter of my books are hardly representative of the expected feminine nurturing nature, hey?

Indeed, Mrs. Barret admitted. Your books are quite violent and graphic. I suppose that appeals to a lot of people.

Like yourself? Sasha asked, amused at the old lady’s own copy of the same book. So, not only frustrated stock brokers and slutty psych students enjoy horror fiction these days, huh? the author jested, pouring Mrs. Barret a glass of red wine from her cooler box. Inside there was little else, apart from a pre-packed salad bought from a local supermarket and a corkscrew.

Oh no. People often make the mistake of thinking old ladies are all into knitting and cookery, when in fact, some of us have a sense of thrill and fearlessness that is quite undying with or without age. I believe that aging is a choice, said Mrs Barret with no small measure of self-satisfaction.

I admire that. I think I am rather the same, the author smiled, ...cannot seem to get enough of scary things. Ever. She sipped some wine and looked Mrs. Barret straight in the eye. Mrs Barret would never admit it aloud, but the author had a look of intelligent insanity, much like Jack Nicholson looked on that famous diabolical picture of his, where he peeks through the shattered door. The moment became a little awkward, urging the author to make small talk, at least. So your book club is discussing this old thing, huh? She held up her book with some pride and nodded to herself.

Oh yes, said Mrs. Barret, hardly realizing that the author knew about the book club’s affairs. I love the realism in your story. It was almost as if the serial killer looked through your eyes, until that part where you reveal that it was a possession. That was a twist we did not expect.

Hhm, the author seemed to wonder aloud. I often think on possession as an involuntary personality trait. I mean, how do we know when the true self is steering us? You could be possessed by a relative or some baleful spirit most of your life and not know that you are in fact someone else until you had reason to change.

Mrs. Barret lost her somewhere in the middle of that statement, but she was pretty sure it had some darkness to it that she was supposed to fathom somewhere in her common sense. Blankly, she simply nodded her head and hoped that the lady would accept it as attention.

By the way, if I may impose, Mrs. Barret stammered. Would you perhaps be so kind as to sign my novel?

Sure thing, doll face, the author grinned, pulling a click BIC from her purse and obliging. While she signed the inside of the cover, a proposal came to mind. Hey, do you want to come over for dinner with me this Saturday? came the sudden and unusual request from the author. Was she not supposed to be the mysterious one asked out by her readers and not the other way around? But Mrs. Barret blamed her underrated charm and modesty for not appreciating the other woman's admiration, while deep inside she felt like she had just struck gold.

O-of c…of course! I'd love that, she mock-hesitated to act as if she was used to such invitations. I will just have to wait for my daughter to pick up the boys that afternoon, but after that I am free, yes.

Oh of course, the author pressed, I'd be happy to come pick you up then. I mean, I seldom have dinner before nine anyway. She winked and emptied her glass. Just jot down your address on the edge of my newspaper, love. I have been invited by a couple, about your age. Friends of mine. Book lovers. They live on Beachview, out by the surfers’ corner. I would like you to meet them. Besides, I hate going places alone. It would be nice to introduce you.

And it was so that Mrs. Barret got herself involved with one of horror's most original and deviant writers on local shores. Her admiration for the blond bon vivant blinded all natural cynicism and Mrs. Barret found herself unconditionally agreeing to the soirée with a stranger who did not even feature her photo on her novels.

PART I – THE THING IN THE CHAIR

There is much to be said for the cognition of the young, their relentless sense of adventure, even unto the borders of the irresponsible. It caters for the wisdom to come, without the trouble of owning up to any ill-fated knowledge gathered by the pursuit of thrill. And so is the time of the adolescent.

The tales of ghosts and unexplained things that seem to flourish in the mindful thoughts of the perceptive is a mark of such an alertness. So is the strange satisfaction of scaring the wits out of one's companions at every bend where the moon peeks through the darkened evening. To impose on their fright where the creaking of the yule tree lends more than a rustle of the wind, such things find themselves lodged in the head of one Storm Draven. Her victim du jour, her friend, Ghita.

As the death of the day ushered in the long stretching shadows over the dunes near the site of Ghita's grandparents' home, the two young ladies found their way from the ailing ocean to the warm yellow wink of the house's porch light. Slowly the night begged to be born, bringing with it all things eerie; the silk worms that crawl underneath one's eye lids when the lights go out.

It was the slant toward the mid side of summer, soon after schools closed for the long holiday over December. Most of the season was humid and hot, but some days, like today, pushed the boundaries of the bearable.

Storm noted that the