Please read carefully
Whether you believe or not! A wicker chair with a touch of its own. (RMR CAT 3)
The Wicker chair
Are you sitting comfortably?
The wicker chair had always commanded the room, even before it learned to breathe.
In the past it had stood near the tall windows of the lady’s estate, a high-backed throne of woven reed and lacquered willow, shaped precisely to her posture. She had been a woman of considerable power, wealth, influence, and a will that bent others without raising her voice. When she sat, visitors felt smaller. When she rose, the chair seemed to remember her, holding the curve of her spine, the weight of her authority, as if reluctant to let her go.
After her death, no one dared throw it away.
At first, the haunting announced itself subtly. A whisper of movement when the room was empty. The faint creak of wicker tightening, like knuckles flexing. Then came the sensation: a brush against the skin, light as air but undeniably intentional. People reported fingers grazing their wrists, pressure at the small of the back, the unmistakable feeling of being guided toward the chair.
The atmosphere around it grew thick and watchful. Candles burned unevenly nearby. Shadows bent inward. The air smelled faintly of dried grass and old perfume. No one could sit in the chair for long. The wicker seemed to warm beneath them, as if sharing body heat that did not belong to the living.
Women, however, felt the chair differently.
They described a presence that did not merely touch but recognized. A hand resting on the shoulder in quiet appraisal. A tightening at the waist, a correcting nudge to the spine. The chair seemed to know the weight of expectation placed on women, how they were measured, judged, shaped and it pressed those memories back into them. Some felt comforted, as though guided by an unseen mentor. Others felt exposed, their private doubts brushed like secrets known too well.
Men felt uneasy near the chair. Women felt claimed.
One guest fled the house in tears, insisting the wicker had traced her pulse, counting her heartbeats. Another swore the chair leaned closer when she spoke, its woven arms flexing with attention. No marks were ever left behind, yet the sensation lingered for days, like phantom hands recalling the body’s shape.
The chair was still there. Dust had gathered around it but never on it. The house learned its boundaries.
Some say the powerful lady poured too much of herself into that seat, her control, her expectations, her unspoken hunger to shape the world. Now the wicker remembers. Now it reaches.
And if you stand too close, especially if you are a woman, you may feel it adjusting you gently, possessively, as if deciding how you ought to sit.
Now in the possession of its new owner, the manor seemed to be alive especially in that room, the last woman to sit on it felt the hands of someone gripping her waist, touching her neck and then an inappropriate touch. A call was made and a very interesting two days ensued . . .
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