Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - The Seductive Dread of the Oxblood Chair An Haunted Legacy Consumed by Decay #1

Episode Date: July 20, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales#hauntedfurniture #paranormalencounters #ghoststories #hauntedhouse #supernaturalhorror  When a mysterious oxblood leather chair arrives at a crumbling estate, its dark energy begins to infect everyone around it. The narrator becomes obsessed with its presence, slowly uncovering the tragic and violent history attached to the piece of furniture. As reality fractures and paranormal events escalate, the line between the living and the dead blurs. This is not just a haunting—it's a legacy of dread that consumes everything in its path.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales,hauntedfurniture, cursedobjects, paranormal, supernatural, hauntedhouse, psychologicalhorror,ghoststory, antiquehorror, horrorfiction, horrorwriting, gothicvibes, hauntedlegacy,creepyvintage, cursedchair, oxbloodchair

There's so much rugby on Sports Extra from Sky. They've asked me to read the whole lad at the same speed I usually use for the legal bit at the end. Here goes. This winter Sports Extra is jam-packed with rugby. For the first time we've been every Champions Cup match exclusively live, plus action from the URC, the Challenge Cup, and much more. Thus the URC and all the best European rugby all in the same place.

Get more exclusively live tournaments than ever before on Sports Extra. Jampack with rugby. Phew, that is a lot of rugby. Get Sports Extra on Sky for 15 euro a month for 12 months. Search Sports Extra. New Sports Extra customers only. Standard Pressing applies after 12 months for the terms apply. You didn't deserve what happened.

And it doesn't have to define you. You don't have to carry it alone. I know a safe place where you can tell your story, and you'll be believed. Call the Dublin Rape Crisis Centre National Helpline on 1-800-77-888-8-8. Whenever you're ready to talk, they'll be ready to listen.

My grandparents' house is mine now. They passed within a year of each other, and as the only grandchild, the small, quiet house on the edge of town fell to me. I wasn't ready to sell it. It's a time capsule, filled with their 60 years of shared life. The faint scent of my grandmother's lavender soap still clings to the bathroom towels. My grandfather's worn-out paperback westerns are still stacked on his nightstand. Moving and felt less like a fresh start and more like becoming the new live-in caretaking. of a museum of memories. And in the center of the living room, like a king's throne, sits the chair. It's a massive wingback armchair, upholstered in a dark, oxblood red leather that's

cracked and worn smooth in all the right places. It's a piece of furniture from an era when things were built to last forever. It's imposing. It commands the room. And it was my grandfather's favorite place on earth. Every memory I have of him in this house, he's in that chair. Watching the news, reading his books, falling asleep with his mouth slightly agape, a gentle snore rattling in his chest. It was his. When I first moved in, I saw it as a piece of him I got to keep. A comforting presence. After a long day of unpacking boxes and sorting through a lifetime of trinkets, I'd sink into it. And that's when the feeling would start. It wasn't a bad feeling, not at first.

It was just, heavy. The moment my back hit the worn leather, a profound, almost unnatural wave of exhaustion would wash over me. My eyelids would feel heavy. The deep cushions, which my grandmother was always plumping, seemed to sigh and settle around me, hugging me a little too tightly. The soft leather would creak like a contented groan. It was easy to let go. My thoughts would turn to mud, my focus would blur, and the silence of the house would be replaced by a low, humming drone in my ears.

The first few times, I'd catch myself just as I was about to nod off, shaking my head and pushing myself out of the chair's deep embrace. It felt like surfacing from underwater. I'd stand up, feeling disoriented and strangely weak, my heart beating a little too fast. I chalked it up to stress, to the emotional and physical toll of the move. But it kept happening. Every single time. I could be wired on three cups of coffee, but the second I sat in that chair, the sleepiness would hit me like a tranquilizer dart.

It started to feel less like comfort and more like a strange, invisible force. I started to describe the sensation to myself as drowning. It felt like the chair was a pocket of deep, still water. and sitting in it was like stepping off a ledge. It pulled you down, into the quiet, into the dark. I began to avoid it. I'd sit on the stiff, uncomfortable sofa instead. I'd eat at the kitchen table.

But the chair was always there, in the corner of my eye. Watching. Waiting. Its deep red leather seemed darker in the evenings, absorbing the light in the room. I felt, judged by it. A piece of furniture. I know how insane that sounds. About a month after I moved in, my mom came over to help me finish sorting through some old photo albums.

She saw me perched on the edge of the sofa and smiled sadly. You're not sitting in the chair, she said. It wasn't a question. Nah, I said, trying to sound casual. That thing's dangerous. I sit in it for two seconds and I'm out for the count. It's like a black hole for consciousness. Her smile faltered, just for a second.

A strange, shadowy expression passed over her face before she smoothed away. Your grandfather was the same way. He could fall asleep in that chair in the middle of a marching band parade. He used to say it was the most comfortable thing he'd ever owned. Said it just, fit him. It's more than comfortable, I found myself saying, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. It's heavy. It feels like it's pulling you in.

My mom was quiet for a moment, her gaze fixed on the chair. The look in her eyes was one I'd never seen before. It was a complicated cocktail of love, grief, and something else. Something darker. Fear, maybe. He loved that chair to death, honey, she said, her voice soft and final. She turned back to the photo album and changed the subject. The conversation was over.

Her word stuck with me. He loved that chair to death. The incidents got stranger. One Saturday, I was exhausted from a long week. I made the mistake of just dropping into the chair for a moment to take my shoe. There's so much rugby on sports extra from Sky, they've asked me to read the whole lad at the same speed I usually use for the legal bit at the end.

Here goes. This winter sports extra is jam-packed with rugby. For the first time, we've got every Champions Cup match exclusively live, plus action from the URC. Cup and much more. That's the URC and all the best European rugby all in the same place. Get more exclusively live tournaments than ever before on Sports Extra. Jam-packed with rugby. Phew, that is a lot of rugby.

Get Sports Extra on Sky for 15 euro a month for 12 months. Search Sports Extra. New Sports Extra customers only. Standard pricing applies after 12 months for the terms apply. I know what you're feeling and I was there too. And I know you might think that there is nobody to talk to, but I promise that you're not alone. It was never your fault and you deserve some.

support and healing in your own time. Whenever you're ready to talk, Dublin Rape Crisis Center will be ready to listen. Call the 24-hour National Helpline on 1-800-77-8888. Who's off. Just for a moment. The next thing I knew, I was waking up. The room was dark outside. My neck was stiff and a line of drool had dried on my chin. I checked my phone.

It was 10 p.m. I had lost seven hours. Seven hours, gone in an instant. I felt groggy, but more than that, I felt drained. Not like I'd had a restful nap, but like something had been siphoned out of me. My whole body ached with a deep, bone-weary fatigue. I stood up, my legs unsteady, and looked at the chair. In the dim light from the street lamp outside, I noticed something I hadn't seen before.

A dark stain. It was deep in the seat cushion, near the back, almost a part of the leather's natural pattern, but not quite. It was a large, irregular shape, a few shades darker than the surrounding Oxblood red. It looked organic. I spent the next day trying to clean it. I used leather soap, conditioner, everything I could find. But the stain wouldn't lift. It was like it wasn't on the leather, but in it.

The more I scrubbed, the more I felt like I was just polishing a scar. And as I worked, a smell began to fill the room. It wasn't just the familiar scent of old leather and my grandfather's pipe tobacco. It was something else, buried deep within the fibers of the chair. A faint, sickly sweet, coppery odor. The smell of old meat. I recoiled, my stomach churning. I started to feel a real, tangible fear of the chair.

It wasn't just a piece of furniture anymore. It was a place where I lost time. A thing with a stain that wouldn't wash out and a smell that reminded me of a butcher's shop. The breaking point came last week. I was cleaning out the hall closet, a task I'd been putting off for months. It was full of my grandmother's old coats, boxes of holiday decoration. and at the very back, a small, sealed cardboard box labeled personal papers, Dad. My mom must have packed it away after the funeral.

My curiosity got the better of me. I figured it was just old bank statements and tax returns, but I felt I should go through it before tossing it. It was mostly what I expected. But at the bottom, beneath a stack of old utility bills, was a bundle of letters, tied with a faded ribbon. They were letters my mother had written to her sister, my aunt, who lives across the country. They were dated from the summer two years ago. The summer my grandfather died. I knew I shouldn't read them. It was a violation of privacy. But I was drawn to them. I needed to understand the

weirdness my mom had shown, the feeling of wrongness that permeated the house, a feeling that was concentrated in that damn chair. I untied the ribbon. The first few were about his declining health, his refusal to go to the doctor. Then I got to the last one. The letter that explained everything. My hands began to shake as I read my mother's familiar cursive. Dearest Sarah, I'm sorry I haven't been able to call. I haven't been able to speak about it.

The funeral was, it was what it was. But you need to know what actually happened. You need to know how we found him. The police report will say he died of a heart attack, and that's true. But that's not the whole story. He hadn't answered our calls for over a week. It was that awful heatwave in July, and I was so worried. We kept calling in calling.

Finally, I used my spare key and went inside. The smell, Sarah. Oh, God, the smell. I'll never get it out of my head. I thought an animal had died in the walls. I found him in the living room. He was in his chair. He had been there for the entire week.

In the heat. I don't want to write down the details. You don't want to know them. Just, picture it. He was, he had become a part of it. The coroner said it was the worst he's seen in 20 years. They had to, they had to practically peel him off the leather. So much of him had, soaked in. They took him away, and I was left in the house with that,

that thing. The chair. It was ruined. It was horrifying. It was covered in, him. I should have thrown it out. I should have burned it. Any sane person would have. But I couldn't. It was his favorite chair. He spent half his life in it. It was the last thing that held him. It felt like throwing him away all over again. I know it sounds crazy. On the many days of Christmas, the Guinness Storehouse brings to thee. A visit filled with festivity. Experience a story of Ireland's most iconic beer in a stunning Christmas setting at the Guinness Storehouse.

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They took it away for a week. They used chemicals, ozone treatments, I don't know what else. They told me it was completely sanitized, completely clean. They said you'd never even know. So I brought it back. It's still there. Sometimes I look at it and all I can see is him, happy and reading his book. And other times, all I can see is how he was when I found him.

I think keeping it was a mistake, Sarah. I think it holds more than just memories. I dropped the letter. My blood ran cold. I felt the bile rise in my throat. The stain. The smell. The drowning feeling. It wasn't my imagination. It wasn't a metaphor. My grandfather had died in that chair. He had laid there for a week, in the sweltering summer heat, and his body had putrified. It had decomposed. It had liquefied and seeped and soaked into the cushions and the leather and the very frame of his favorite chair. The drowning sensation wasn't just sleepiness. It was the chair, saturated with the final.

of death, trying to do to me what it had done to him. It was the memory of decomposition, a physical echo of a body breaking down. The chair hadn't just held him. It had consumed him. I stumbled out of the closet, my legs like jelly, and stared into the living room. The chair was no longer a piece of furniture. It was a tombstone. A monument to decay. A predator disguised as a comfortable place to rest. The dark red leather looked like dried blood. The worn arms looked like grasping limbs. The deep cushion was a waiting mall. It had had a taste and it had been sleeping ever since. Now I was here. I was its new meal. I had to get it out. Now. I grabbed one of the arms, intending to drag it out the front door. The moment my hand touched the leather, the feeling hit me,

stronger than ever before. A wave of dizziness and exhaustion so profound my knees buckled. The air in the room grew thick and cold. I heard a sound, a low, wet, sighing sound, that seemed to come from the chair itself. It wasn't the creak of leather. It was the sound of a lung emptying for the last time. My arm felt impossibly heavy, glued to the chair. I felt a phantom weight set along my shoulders, pushing me down, urging me. me to just sit. To just rest for a minute. To give in. To drown. No, I gasped, wrenching my hand away as if from a hot stove. My mind raced. I couldn't just drag it out. It wouldn't let me. It would drain me, pull me in, and finish me right here. I needed to destroy it. I needed to desecrate it so thoroughly

that there was nothing left. I ran to the garage. My hands found my grandfather's old wood-splitting axe. It was heavy, the handle worn smooth from his grip. I walked back into the living room, my heart hammering against my ribs. The chair just sat there, waiting, radiating a palpable aura of hunger and death. I didn't hesitate. I raised the axe over my head and brought it down with a scream of rage and terror. The axe blade bit deep into the top of the wing back with a sickening, wet thumb. It didn't sound like hitting wood and leather. It sounded like hitting flesh. A foul, sweet stench billowed out from a gash, a concentrated version of the smell I'd noticed before. It was the smell of the grave. I didn't stop. I hacked and I tore and I ripped.

I was a man possessed. With every swing, I felt the chair's influence weaken. The sleepiness receded, replaced by a frantic, liberating energy. I splintered the wooden frame. I shredded the leather upholstery. I tore out handfuls of the deep, stained batting inside, which felt damp and spongy to the touch. It took an hour. When I was done, the chair was gone. In its place was a pile of shredded, stinking refuse. I dragged the pieces, armful by armful, out into the backyard, onto the concrete patio. I doused the pile in lighter fluid and threw a match on it. It went up with a roar.

The flames burned a greasy, black-orange color. And the smoke, the smoke was thick and black and carried that same, horrific, sweet smell of decay across the entire neighborhood. It was the chair's final, dying breath. I stood there until the pile was nothing but a scorched black circle on a concrete and a pile of glowing red embers. The house feels different now. It's lighter. The air is cleaner. The profound silence has returned, but it's just empty now. It's not waiting. But I can't stop thinking about it. Was it just a chair? Just an object so saturated with a

horrific event that it held a kind of psychic, toxic residue. The end.