The Seven Chairs

(A/N: Written for my CW class. The challenge was to take a picture done by Harris Burdick and the first line the he wrote on the picture, and then write t he actual story itself, for they were never published when Harris was around. This is my attempt.)

The fifth one ended up in France. How six of the seven priceless antique chairs from King Arthur’s castle arrived at the museum on time while the other was across the world still puzzled the curator to this day.

George Frederick Archibald III had been the curator of St. Genova’s Museum of History for the past forty-seven years, and never had he heard of something like this.

In the beginning there had been twelve chairs. Over the years they had disappeared, one by one, until seven were left. Nobody could explain why they vanished as they did, and not one person could fathom who would take them. And now another had gone missing somewhere in France.

Mr. Archibald stared at the display, pondering over this mystery. The replica table stood in the center with three of the chairs on one side, three on the other. Whoever had set it up had done a wonderful job. It looked at if dinner had just been cleaned up, the plates and goblets sparkling in the spotlight. The hall in general looked like a great dining hall, walls covered in false stone that would be easy to take down when the exhibit moved along.

Perhaps it was best if he didn’t think about it. As long as he had the majority of the chairs he had purchased, he was content. He was so deep in thought that he didn’t hear the footsteps come up behind him.

“Excuse me, Mr. Archibald.” He turned around to see Laureli McAuthrey, his assistant, blinking up at him. “Are you ready for the children to come in?”

Ah yes. The fourth graders from Mother Pricilla Elementary were coming today, he remembered, and he was going to give them a tour of the museum, starting with the chairs.

“Yes yes, bring them in, Laureli.” Mr. Archibald smiled at the young woman, shooing her off to fetch the young ones. He stood at the ready, hands behind his back, as the children began to enter, chattering away with their friends about when they had seen on their way in. With a smile he approached them.

“Welcome children. I am Mr. Archibald, he curator of this fine museum. Today I will be giving you a tour of our exhibits, starting right here, in King Arthur’s dining hall.”

The students were in awe as he told them the story of the chairs, how they had traveled across the world to get here, and how six of them had gone missing. He explained to them the legend that they were cursed and would take the lives of whoever sat in them.

As he explained the legend, he felt a prickle on the back of his neck, as if someone were watching him. But it was impossible. The museum didn’t open to the general public today until noon, and all the students, their teachers, and Laureli were in the room in front of him. Glancing behind him, Mr. Archibald saw nothing, and so he continued with the tour, moving his herd into the next room.

The door shut behind him, and had anybody been in the room, they would have heard the sound of a chair creaking as if it were moving.

It was nearly ten that night when he was able to return to inspect the chairs.

They looked normal enough. Solid oak bodies with dark blue plush cushions were all they were. The legs had been carved into claws at the bottom, giving them the appearance of having feet. As he looked over them, George saw a small A carved into the back of each one, just above the very bottom, hardly noticeable. Other than being from King Arthur’s castle, they were nothing extraordinary.

He pulled one away from the table, intent on sitting down for a moment, wanting a chance to do so just so he could hay he had. The spot light that lit up the table cast eerie shadows onto the seat, the armrests shining.

“Mr. Archibald?”

Sighing, he turned to face Laureli. She looked worried, but he let her speak. “Yes Laureli?”

She wrung her hands slightly, chewing her bottom lip. Her brown eyes shone with fear. “Sir, those chairs…they are cursed. I just got of the phone with Mr. Vasquez, and he said that the previous janitor at his museum had been violently murdered after sitting in one of the chairs.”

“Hogwash, Laureli. Vasquez was just trying to scare us into sending the chairs back to him.” George ran a hand through his severely graying black hair with another sigh. “These chairs cannot possibly be cursed. Why, curses are nothing more than bits you find in fairytales and movie plots.”

The young redhead looked down at the floor, ashamed she had brought this up in front of her boss. “Yes sir…I’m sorry I bothered you. I’ll go and finish the paperwork you gave me, then.” Turning to leave Laureli felt rage well up in her at her own stupidity.

George shook his head, chuckling softly and returning to the chair he had pulled out. Sitting himself down, he marveled in the discovery of such soft and comfortable cushions, even at their age.

And then suddenly he felt something grip him around his middle, pinning his arm to the side. It held him like a vice, not allowing him an escape.

“Laureli!”

She spun around; ready to ask what was wrong. Seeing her employer struggling against the arms of the chair, Laureli ran to help, but one of the other chairs sped out away from the table, tripping her up and sending her sprawling onto the carpet, her glasses tumbling a few feet away.

Mr. Archibald struggled violently against his bindings, trying to move his arms, to pull them free, to do anything, but to no avail. The chair only held on tighter, slowly cutting of circulation to his lower body.

Laureli heard the soft thumps as the chair came closer, its legs bending as if it had knees, and rolled onto her back, looking up at it. Her eyes widened as she watched it raise a clawed foot, the claws themselves extending into razor sharp points, glinting in the light from above. A scream only made it halfway before the points were driven into her chest, directly into her heart, stopping it before it could fully reach her lips. Laureli went limp, her brown eyes wide with shock and fear, the light of life extinguished.

Seeing his assistant murdered by the cured chair, George began to fight against his own captor even harder, shouting for anyone, if they were still there, to help him. Feeling his frenetic struggling, his life very much still there, the chair took its own action.

From the armrests there came wooden blades, glossy and finished as if part of the chair from the beginning. The points were needle-thin, the very ends impossible to see without looking too close. Releasing him from one while still holding him down with strength no human-or seating furniture-should have, it rammed the blades into the man’s stomach.

He screamed, blood flowing over the dark wood of the chair. He knew the damage done was fatal, but he still fought to get away. Struggling even harder, feeling his life drip away with every drop of blood, George began to cry.

His wife at home, waiting for him with a warmed over plate of food, who was, more than likely, tucking their grandchildren into bed at this very moment. Alex and Christian, their grandsons, snuggled under the covers of their beds on the second floor of their home, dreaming of the fishing trip he had promised the young boys last weekend before they came for a visit. His daughter Samantha, who was studying psychology at the community college. He would never see them again, he knew it.

The chair was tired of playing with its prey and decided to end it. With another stab, the points were plunged into the curator’s heart, windpipe, and spinal cord, thereupon ending his life in a brutal, violent attack.

Blood soaked into the wood, disappearing from the surface altogether, as the two chairs moved themselves back to their places at the table, sitting still at if nothing had ever happened. Mr. Archibald had been dropped on the carpet next to Laureli in a heap, bent over himself, blood flowing from the multiple stab wounds in his body.

Across the world, in a church in Paris, a nun was sitting down to test the chair that had arrived mysteriously, labeled as one from King Arthur’s court.

Nobody ever heard her screams of terror.

End