Conor, Kilkenny, Ireland
My wife and I live in a two story house in the Suburbs. I'm an author, she runs an antique shop. She brings over stuff sometimes, when there's not enough room over there, and she wants it as a temporary piece of furniture. One such item was the rocking chair.
It was placed in our living room. At first, it seemed nice, out of place with my decor, but okay as a temporary thing. Well, it soon turned out to be more than it appeared. My wife, when entertaining friends, was thrown violently out of it when it swung forward.
My mother was rocking on it, when it tipped backwards and she fell in a heap on the floor. It's creaking sounded like mocking laughter. When me and the guys were watching the game, it jerked, and I spilled beer all over a friend.
I went to sit down on it, and it was like there was someone already in it. You can hear breathing coming from it sometimes, and the last straw was when I looked in the mirror and I saw an old woman, sitting in it. She was staring at me, hatred in her eyes.
I tried to take it out of the house, but it wouldn't fit through the sitting room door. I got in just days before, and now I couldn't get it out. I set at it with my ax, I hated the thing that much. A stray piece of wood caught me in the leg, but I didn't go to hospital until I'd thrown the pieces on the grass, doused them with kerosene and set
The haunting's stopped, but the grass hasn't grown back where I burnt it. So, you tell me, have years of writing fantasy left me with an overactive imagination? Or was the spirit of an abusive old woman haunting the chair?
Because I find it hard to believe, and it happened to me.