Dead Man's Chair Page 3

  ***

  It was in the wee hours of Monday morning, when Adam knew there would be the least chance of getting caught, that he smashed through a side window of Spades and climbed into the empty bar.

  The silence inside was eerie. He’d only been there twice, but both times the place had been crowded and loud, with sounds of the jukebox blaring, billiard balls smacking against one another, and intoxicated patrons laughing and having a good time filling the room. But now, at half past two in the morning, there were no sounds other than Adam’s soft footsteps and his racing heart.

  For the past two days, Adam had mulled over what the old man told him, trying to decide whether or not he should believe the old coot and what he could do about it if he did. Finally, after a lot of thought, he decided to destroy the chair just in case. If it wasn’t true, if the curse wasn’t real and all those deaths—including that of his beloved Anna—were coincidences, then all that was lost was a chair. But if the story was true and the curse was real, then he would be saving countless lives.

  He found the chair easily enough. It was in the spot it always was. He got the feeling it never moved. It was almost as if everyone was afraid to touch it. He supposed many people were. But not him. If the curse was real, then this chair was responsible for the death of Anna. The rage that existed within him over the loss of his longtime girlfriend was astounding. He wanted to smash the chair until it was nothing more than toothpicks. He wanted to strangle Barnaby Black, the man who had cursed the chair. If he wasn’t already dead, Adam would’ve killed him with his bare hands. Anna had promised him a lifetime of happiness. They’d both been robbed of that happiness, and all because of a stupid chair.

  The only light inside the bar was the pale glow of the neon beer signs hanging behind the bar. The blue and red neon mingled together, casting a shade of pale red light on the oak chair, giving it a ghostlike appearance.

  Adam stood looking at the chair, letting his anger boil inside him. In his mind, he saw Anna sitting there, smiling as he walked toward her with their beers. She was beautiful. God, he missed her. If it wasn’t for this chair, she’d still be here.

  Quickly, Adam grabbed the oak chair, raised it high above his head, and slammed it to the concrete floor. He watched as the chair hit the floor and bounced. The damn thing bounced. He stood the chair up and looked it over, using his cell phone as a flashlight. There wasn’t as much as a dent in the wood.

  “What the hell?” he muttered.

  Even if the chair was cursed, that shouldn’t make it indestructible. It should still break. And yet…it hadn’t. It had bounced off the floor as if it was made of rubber. It was just as the old man said.

  Shaking his head, refusing to believe the chair was immortal, Adam grabbed it and slammed it again. Again, the chair bounced without as much as a scratch on it.

  Fortunately, Adam had anticipated such an event. With the old man’s words in mind, he’d brought a hatchet along with him.

  Raising the hatchet high, he brought it down hard, expecting the sharp metal blade to slice right through the old oak seat. He was surprised when instead of sinking into the wood, the hatchet bounced off the seat of the chair. Adam looked at the hatchet in his hand, shocked and confused. He swung the small ax again and again, but each time he swung, it bounced off the wood.

  It seemed there was no destroying this chair.

  “Bull shit,” he said. Through clenched teeth, he said it again. “I will destroy you,” he shouted. “One way or another, I will destroy you.”

  He tossed the hatchet to the floor and went to the front door. It was locked. To open it, he needed a key, a key he didn’t have. He was met with the same problem at the back door. The only other way out was through the window, but there was no way the chair would fit through the small frame.

  Determined now more than ever to make sure no one else sat in that damned chair, he devised a new plan. He put his cell phone in his back pocket and went behind the bar, where he grabbed a couple of bottles of vodka. From a bowl on the bar, he grabbed a book of matches and tucked it into the front pocket of his jeans. He then stomped across the barroom to the chair that seemed to taunt him.

  “I don’t care,” he muttered, referring to any legal repercussions. He planned to light that chair on fire and burn it to dust. There would probably be some damage done to the bar in the process for which he knew he would be held accountable. Most likely, he’d be charged with arson. He didn’t care. He’d pay the fine or do the time, whatever came his way. But that chair was going to meet its end tonight.

  Adam popped the top on both bottles of booze and poured them on the chair, dousing the old wood with the flammable liquid. He then dropped the bottles on the floor and pulled the book of matches from his pocket. He plucked one from the book, dragged it across the flint strip, and watched the flame appear at the end of the match stick. He smiled at the sight of the ball of yellow fire. He was doing what should’ve been done long ago.

  After dropping the match onto the chair, he stepped back as the vodka ignited and the chair became a ball of fire. A puddle of flames circled the chair on the concrete floor, burning blue at the edge and dark orange closer to the center.

  As the flames grew brighter, taller, and darker in color, Adam smiled.

  “Fuck you, Barnaby Black,” he said. “Fuck you and your dumb ass chair.”

  The chair slowly became red, a sure sign that the wood was burning. Adam had stood around his share of campfires, watching the wood burn red until it turned black and became a pile of white ash where brown wood once was. This was similar to that, only different. The smile slipped from Adam’s face as he realized that the chair wasn’t burning at all.

  “What the hell?” he asked, stepping closer to the fire.

  The flames were as tall as he was, dancing in the air just six feet above the floor. He felt the heat on his face, smelled the smoke. Peering through the flames, Adam saw the chair, still glowing red, much the way a poker glows red when hot. And yet the chair remained intact. It was burning without being burned.

  Just then, as Adam studied the fire and the unburning chair, the flames exploded, erupting into a massive fireball that blew up and out, reaching the walls and the ceiling.

  Adam stepped back and gasped, watching in horror as the bar became engulfed in flames. He coughed and sputtered as he headed across the room and toward the window through which he’d entered only minutes earlier. In a matter of seconds, the building would be leveled by the fire, whether or not he was still inside. He had to get out.

  With one arm covering his head, shielding his face from the fire, he made his way through the smoke, past the flames, and closer to the window. Or so he thought. He’d been certain he was heading in the right direction, but soon found himself bumping into the bar. He changed direction and took off, walking in what he was sure was the right direction this time. But when he ran into the pool table, he knew he’d been wrong again.

  “Damn it,” he shouted.

  He continued trying to make his way to the window, the only means of escape. When every way proved to be the wrong way, he fell to the floor, gasping for what little oxygen was left in the bar. The cloud of black smoke rolled above him, blocking out the neon signs, the flames, and the world beyond the bar. This was it. He coughed until there was no more oxygen for him to take in or sputter out. Then he died. Right there on the floor of the bar, only feet from Barnaby Black’s cursed chair.

  The flames devoured the bar. Windows exploded. The roof caved in. Metal melted. It burned until there was nothing left of the bar except a pile of ashes on the concrete foundation.

  And, of course, the dead man’s chair. It stood in the center of the rubble, totally unscathed. There were no scratches where the hatchet had tried to slice into it, no scorch marks from the fire that had consumed it, and no signs of the curse that it carried.

  THE END

  BIBLIOGRAPHY

  -NOVELS-

  The Criers Club


  The Day Bob Greeley Died

  Before the Harvest

  RAGE

  The Good Neighbor

  Annie’s Revenge

  -HELD SERIES-

  Held

  Pushed

  22918

  -NOVELLAS-

  Night Falls

  The Cabin on Calhoun Ridge

  Shiners

  -SHORT STORIES-

  Transference

  The Kindness of Strangers

  The Hunger

  His Ashes

  The Home

  -COLLECTIONS-

  Once Upon a Rhyme

  Twisted

  -MINUTES TO DEATH SERIES-

  The Loneliest Road

  Close to Home

  The Last Resort

  Shock Rock

  The French Quarter

  -ANTHOLOGIES-

  Carnage: After the End Volume 1

  Legends of Urban Horror: A Friend of a Friend Told Me

  -ESSAYS-

  Everybody Wants to Write a Book

  About the Author

  Kimberly A. Bettes was born in Missouri on Thanksgiving Day, 1977. Bettes is the author of several novels and short stories. She lives with her husband and son in the beautiful Ozark Mountains of southeast Missouri, where she terrorizes residents of a small town with her twisted tales. It’s there she likes to study serial killers and knit. Serial killers who knit are her favorites.

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