Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - The Family Chair

Episode Date: December 5, 2022

🎧 Check out The SCP Experience podcast here: https://spoti.fi/3juM1og 🎉 Ad-free episodes + bonus episodes: https://www.patreon.com/drnosleep 🎥 YouTube: https://youtube.com/c/DrNoSleep �� Send all advertising inquiries to: [e-mail] Author: John Beardify Check out more of his work Here: https://www.reddit.com/user/beardify/ New Book Release Here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09QJXLHF4 DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #truescarystories #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Let's talk groceries, specifically your groceries. With Instacart, you want your groceries just the way you like them, right? Well, the Instacart app lets you do just that. They have a new preference picker that lets you pick how ripe or unripe you want your bananas. Shoppers can see your preferences up front, helping guide their choices. Instacart, get groceries just how you like. There's an old chair in the corner of my family's living room. The kind without screws or glue.

made of artistically bent and connected pieces of wood. Beautiful to look at, probably expensive, but not exactly comfortable to sit in. My parents warned me never to use the old chair in the corner. At the time, I figured it was just because it was a valuable antique, but so what? It's not like there weren't other places to sit. One spring afternoon when I was 13, I came home exhausted from soccer, practice. The couch was covered with folded laundry, and if I sat in dad's recliner, I'd have the sun shining right into my face. The antique chair seemed like the only place to sit down and get

some shut-eye. Surely I was old enough to use it without getting in trouble. Besides, mom and dad took naps there all the time. Grandma Zoe, Aunt Esther, and even my hyperactive Uncle Julian had all been asleep in the chair at one time or another. Maybe it was more comfortable than it looked. A wave of drowsiness swept over me as soon as I sat down. I ran my fingers over the carved armrest, worn smooth by generations of my family. It was easy to let my eyes close.

My head sank down to my chest, and my legs stretched out. And I told Julian, I told him, there's no pact you can make with the crying ones that they won't break. But he took the old roads anyway and, oh, what's this? The voice was male, middle-aged, and aristocratic somehow, like the characters in those British made-for-TV historical dramas. Maybe the youngest descendant. A smooth young female voice responded.

But he doesn't look dressed for the occasion. Even with my eyes closed, I could picture her perfectly. a 1920s flapper with a bob haircut, wrinkling her nose at my 13-year-old fashion sense. Could be an accident. Couldn't be the first time. The male sighed. This new generation is so careless. Hmm, like you were any better, the girl snorted.

Anyhow, the sisters of the grove will show up any minute to receive our tribute, and you know how hungry they get. I'd hate for anything to happen to the kid, but I wouldn't deny them either. Those three have gotten so powerful these past hundred years. Who were these strangers? What were they doing in my house? It felt like I was dreaming, but I could hear their footsteps crossing the floor and even feel the wind as the girl's dress swished by.

But I heard something else too. My parents. Oh! My mother gasped. He isn't. He is. My father whispered gravely. But we can't wake him.

If he opens his eyes, he's done for. You think I don't know that? My mother hissed. We'll just have to lift him out of the chair, very carefully. It was so strange, like being in two different places at the same time. With a boom, a heavy wooden door flew open. But the sound came from a wall where no door. should be. I was fully awake now, but I kept my eyes shut tight. The open door brought the reek

of green decomposition, like the concentrated odor of a compost heap. There were elephant-like footsteps, and what sounded like a huge nose sniffing hungrily after my scent. They're here, the male voice hissed. Welcome, Sisters of the Grove, the girl intoned. The eye rolling in her voice was obvious to me, but her large, Smelly Guests seemed oblivious to it. It is a great honor to offer you in tribute. The vibrations of the ancient but booming female voice shook me down to my bones. Looks delicious.

Those steps that sounded so clumsy were moving insanely fast now, crawling across the hardwood floor toward me. If I looked, I was sure I'd see huge, mossy teeth about to chop my face in half like a piece of candy. I felt my mother and father's hands beneath my armpits and a shriek of rage when I was lifted out of the chair. I sprang out on the floor, soaked with sweat. My father stood above me. His fists pressed angrily into his hips. The older gentleman, the sarcastic girl, and their nightmarish guests were nowhere to be seen.

We told you never to sit there, my father angrily said. I was just tired. I groaned. And besides, it's not like you told me that there'd be... There'd be... I couldn't even find words to describe what I'd just experienced. Well, it can't be helped now. My father rubbed his chin worriedly.

Your mother will make contact again when it's safe. And we'll get the family together for your initiation. By the time the preparations were finished, I was 15, pimply, and fidgeting awkwardly in the most expensive touch. my parents could afford. It was Halloween night and a new moon, although I'm not sure if any of that was related. Grandma Zoe wrapped a blindfold around my eyes and lowered me down into the old wooden chair that I'd spent the past two years avoiding. I had no idea what to expect. My family had kept their lips sealed the entire time. Just like before, a drowsy feeling swept over me, like I was

sinking into deep mud. My hands felt heavy on the armrests, my feet like blocks of lead on the floor. Well, Leo, I gripped the chair in terror as I heard Grandpa Michael's voice. Grandpa Michael, who'd died when I was nine years old. I suppose it's time you learned a few things. Over the course of the next hour, Grandpa Michael explained to me how a long-forgotten ancestor had created a number of family heirlooms with supernatural properties. My parents' wooden chair was one of them. A person who sat in it could touch the world of the spirits, and it could touch them back.

To return to the material world, two conditions had to be met. The person in the chair must not look at their surroundings and must not leave the chair for any reason. A person who failed to meet either of those conditions would become trapped in the spirit world forever. Of course, Grandpa Michael wasn't the only one talking. There was also the sarcastic flapper, which was my great-great-aunt Livia, apparently,

and the middle-aged man, who insisted that we call him Sir Justin. There were other voices, too, a low, gravelly one that rumbled like a mountain-talking, another that seemed to hiss rather than speak. They all made it clear that I was, free to use our heirlooms as much or as little as I wanted. My only duty was to ensure that they stayed in the family.

After all, to anyone outside our family, these were just ordinary antiques. Our bloodline was the fuel that made the magic work. When the council was finished, we set our goodbyes. Goodbye forever, I thought. I didn't plan on ever using the chair again. My first experience had shown me how dangerous it could be. And besides, I was 15. I had other priorities, like making the perfect playlist for my crush Erica, or gaming

with my friends all weekend. I'd gathered from the council that only Grandma Zoe and Uncle Julian really used the heirlooms. My parents and I were content to live our lives without any supernatural entanglements. We respected the chair and kept it dusted and polished. but never used it, until Erica died on graduation night. We were all 18, but none of us should have been driving. As the least drunk teenager in our group of five, I thought I was doing right by sitting down behind the wheel.

But the rain was heavy, the roads were slick, and I lost control. Amazingly, all of us had walked away from the crunched up wreckage of my second-hand Camry. All of us except Erica. She'd been sitting in the middle back seat, and she'd unbuckled her seatbelt to light my cigarette and whisper something in my ear. I think it was, I love you. Erica and I had been dating for over a year by then,

but we'd never said the words until that night. Erica was flung from the car. Her spine was shattered. She landed face down in a puddle a dozen feet away. The muddy water was hardly a lot of, a few inches deep, but by the time the rest of us crawled out of the wreck, she was already gone. I don't know if it was guilt, remorse, or a need for closure that made me take a seat in that old wooden chair a few days after the funeral. But I did. I closed my eyes and felt that tired

heaviness in my bones. Well, well, well, great-great Aunt Livia said, after a few moments of silence. If it isn't the soccer player, you've grown up? I could practically hear her wink. Why the long face? I need to talk to someone. I choked the words out. Someone on this side. So that's how it is, Livia paused.

I don't think that's a good idea, kid. See, most people don't linger here. Their spirits move on. The ones who stick around have a reason. And it's not usually a nice one either. Sure, some stay to look after the grandkids or whatever, but mostly it's grudges, bitterness, revenge. Trust me, if she's here, we don't want to meet her. But any member of our family can use the heirlooms as they see fit, right? I insisted angrily. Sure, kid, sure. I smelled tobacco as Livia blew a cloud of ethereal cigarette smoke into my face.

Don't expect any help from me. With that, Livia was gone. I almost stood up to go after her, but stopped myself at the last second. I sat for hours in empty darkness, plotting, listening to Astral Winds Blow. Occasionally I'd hear other things, too. Mary's singing somewhere far away, or something big skittering by. My father asked no questions when he lifted me out of the chair the next. morning. He only warned me to be more careful. I wish I would have listened.

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Veilethe's joyed to fashion responsible. The conditions apply. When I asked to look through Grandma Zoe's heirloom book of rituals, she was just pleased that I was taking an interest in her family gift. She had no idea what I was planning. I won't go into detail about the right I performed to call upon Erica's spirit. After what happened later, I wouldn't want anyone else to try it. Once it was completed, I sat down in the old wooden chair, a blindfold around my eyes,

a cut-out photo of Erika held against my heart. I felt a heaviness and that familiar sinking feeling. But when I crossed over, I knew right away that something was different. Of course, I'd never actually seen this space I usually visited when I went to the other side. But all the same, I had a sense of its dimensions. A high-ceilinged room, much like the one I'd left behind, but with tall doors on the right wall and windows on left, where sounds came in from outside. This time was different.

I had the sense that I was in a vast, open space, maybe some kind of floodplain. My feet sank and the legs of the chair sank into the spongy ground. Stormy winds raged overhead, and somewhere, water fell drop by drop into a ponderance. puddle. How I longed to open my eyes. Splash, splash, the sound of footsteps approaching through shallow water. Bare feet somehow knew. There was no reply, but the footsteps stopped, very, very close to me. I should have been able to hear breathing. Instead, I only heard the rain-lashed wind and the steady drip of water. Erica? I tried again. At that point, I don't think it mattered if it was really her standing in front of me or not. There were things in my

heart that I was bursting to say. I clenched Erica's photo tighter. I am so, so sorry. It was my fault. If I could take it back, we should have slept on the floor, called our parents, turned ourselves into the police, anything. Most of all, I miss knowing who you could have been. A shriek cut me off, rising in volume until I was pressing my hand. to my bleeding ears. It was like hate concentrated into a sound. Hot white pain exploded in my skull, so intense that for a moment, I didn't even realize that the chair was sinking into the marsh below. The sludge came up to my knees, then to my chest. I tried to push back up with my arms, but it was useless. My hands just sank deeper into the muck. I felt its thickness around my

chest, constricting, suffocating. I even considered trying to escape. from the chair. But where would I go? And what would I be spending eternity within this endless, nightmarish swamp? The rain intensified. The grimy water splashed against the bottom of my chin. Herica! When the sludge was tickling my lips. Erica, help! As if in response, cold, wet fingers untied my blindfold. She was daring me to look, to see what I'd done to her, to spend eternity in this place. I shook my head and shut my eyes tight, snorting muck out through my nose. Even so, an image filled my mind of what stood before me, paste white waterlogged skin hanging from bare bones, stringy muck-filled hair, empty eye sockets, and a distended mouth that screamed

with endless hate. I couldn't hold my breath any longer. Putrid muck poured down my throat into my burning helpless lungs. It was enough to make me open my eye. Six hands heaved me up and onto the floor, where I choked, gasped, and puked swamp water all over Mom's carpet. My father patted my back. My mother got me a glass of water.

But Grandma Zoe slapped me across the face, hard. Did you really think we wouldn't find out what you were up to? She snapped. Sir Justin told your uncle, as soon as he sensed your presence on the other side in a place you shouldn't have been, and a good thing, too. Otherwise, Grandma Zoe shuddered. Not everywhere over there is as cozy as the chairroom.

There are places that the light never reaches. My blindfold and photo were gone. The only thing I'd brought back from the other side was a stomach full of foul-smelling muck. Unsurprisingly, I followed my parents' example. I haven't used the chair since. It still sits in the corner of my family home, waiting, perhaps, for another descendant, one brave enough to explore the mysteries of the other side.