Rock, Rock

Then he whispered, “But that’s not the end of it. That chair knows more than we do. That chair tells me every time.”

My grandfather was born in 1925. He was one of seven children and lived in a clapboard house at the end of a dirt lane loosely strewn with pea gravel. The house was modest and sparsely furnished. The family was not wealthy, but his mother made sure they lived as comfortably as possible. They had no needs, and there were even a few possessions the family considered valuable. The most cherished was a worn ash rocking chair passed down for three generations.

The arms of the chair were dark and smooth from years of being gripped to rise and put a baby to bed or check the fever of a sick child. My grandfather passed it every night when he walked up the stairs to the second floor and the bedroom he shared with his two brothers.

During a sticky summer night when he was eight years old, my grandfather lay in bed futilely trying to quiet his thoughts so he would sleep; he heard a familiar sound echo through the blue-black darkness.

He slowly rose, rested himself on one elbow, and listened. Again, he heard the rocking chair creak as the rockers moved across the wooden floor, the joints shifting with the swaying pressure.

Quietly pulling back his blanket, he dropped his legs over the side of the bed. He walked across the humid floor to the bedroom door that was ajar.

Looking toward the stairs, he was surprised to see only the dark living room below. At night, his mother, who he assumed couldn’t sleep because of the heat, always lit a candle and placed it on the table beside the rocking chair.

He moved slowly, opening the door only inches at a time. With each footfall as silent as he could make it, he moved to the head of the stairs. He leaned against the left-hand wall for a better view of the rocking chair. The creaking continued with a consistent pulsing rhythm.

Bending at his waist and peering as far down as possible, his eyes strained in the dark. He could see a little and watched the arms of the rocker move in and out of the shadows. Squinting, he bent lower.

The chair moved, squeaking. He leaned more, grasping the rail that led down the stairs. His balance was precarious, but he finally had an unobstructed view of the chair as curiosity led him on. He saw the legs of a woman in a dark blue pin-stripped dress that looked formal but familiar. It was one like his aunt—his mother’s much older sister—often wore to church.

Before he could whisper her name in the darkness, he slipped. Clutching the railing, he caught himself but threw his shoulder against the wall while his feet stomped on the stair tread inches below him. The pounding on the wall and stairs shook the quiet house, waking most of the family. The adrenaline rush caused his chest and head to pound. But it wasn’t the near fall down the steps that sent the shock coursing through him like electricity. When he looked at the chair, the woman was gone. His aunt died a week later.

We were both quiet. Then he said, “But that’s not the end of it. That chair knows more than we do. That chair tells me every time.”

For years, I would visit my grandfather every Sunday. I was 20 years old when he told me about the chair. I thought his story was a joke, a tease of his early life. But he always seemed to be suppressing a crooked smile when he joked with me before. This time, he was serious and looked like he was holding back a terrible shudder. I had never heard this story, so I pressed and asked for more details. He was stoic, so I was unsure if he would tell me more. I stopped, almost out of questions. We were both silent. Then, he spoke.

“You were right when you thought my aunt was sitting in that rocking chair. It was her. I’m sure because it was the same dress she was buried in. But no one believed me.

"My mother and father were understanding and said it was a nightmare. I was young. They thought I was confused.” He sighed. “But my aunt wasn’t the last person I saw in that chair.”

I breathed a shallow breath.

“That chair sat there, in the same spot, for another three years. And one night, in the fall, we had the windows open. It was warm that year, and the breeze cooled off the house. There was a big harvest moon. I was lying awake, listening to my brother snore and wishing he would roll over and stop. Then, I heard it. It was the creak of that rocking chair again.

“My mouth went dry. But I thought it had to be my mother. It had to be because, by this time, I had convinced myself that seeing my aunt rocking in that chair was only my imagination. I had to have been sleepwalking. When I heard the rocker again, it all came back in a rush.

“I slowly got out of bed and tried to walk across the floor as quietly as a cat. The bedroom door was open so the breeze could move through, and I could see it was dark downstairs. I went to the head of the stairs, just like before. But this time, I sat down, lowered myself to the first step, and leaned out to look. I hoped the breeze blowing through the house was blowing the chair back and forth, but the rocking was too even. It sounded like someone was in the chair. I lowered myself down to the next step to get a clear view.

“The moon was so bright, it wasn’t dark at all, and I got a good look at the chair.”

He paused, seeming to know my question.

“Was it your aunt?” I said quietly, with the creepy expectation that she would revisit the rocking chair sometimes.

“No,” he said. “It wasn’t. It was my father.”

I relaxed and almost shouted, “You got me.” I thought it was a joke. But his face was expressionless as he blinked vacantly a few times. I waited and said, “So he went downstairs and sat in the chair. Was that a relief?”

“A relief? No, it wasn’t. I saw him in the chair, but it wasn’t him. The moonlight—the moonlight went right through him. He was faded. The chair left a shadow, but he didn’t. There was nothing. It was like he wasn’t there. But he was wearing his best suit. He was buried in it.”

I swallowed. My throat was tight as he went on.

“He died a week later,” my grandfather said. We were both quiet. Then he whispered, “But that’s not the end of it. That chair knows more than we do. That chair tells me every time.”

“Every time, what?” I said uncomfortably.

“Every time someone is about to die.” He lowered his head, resigned to this oppressive truth.

“I saw my mother in that chair a few years later. A few months after that, my older brother. Remember the one who died in the fire?” he asked. I nodded. “I saw all of my family sitting in that chair in their best clothes and just,” he paused, “rocking.” “Then, about a week later, they were gone. I saw your grandmother rocking, too.”

I had never heard this story before. I supposed my grandmother had, but I wasn’t sure. He had always told me stories, but this was more like a confession. He was unburdening himself to me.

“I never could get rid of that chair,” he said, answering my unspoken question. “It’s obvious there is something special, supernatural, about it. But I keep it packed away. It’s in the corner of the spare bedroom. I don’t sit in it, and I don’t really look at it that often. I keep it covered with an old sheet. But I was in that room the other night. I went in to get another blanket for the bed. Do you remember how cold it was?” I nodded yes. “I had my back to it when it started rocking again.”

I sighed.

“I stopped, stood up straight, and turned around,” he said quietly. His eyes were soft, somehow younger, and apologetic. I closed my eyes, then opened them slowly.

“When? How long ago?” I asked.

“About a week,” he said.

“What were you wearing?” I choked out.

He furrowed his forehead and looked down. “It wasn’t me I saw,” he said, looking up with teary eyes.