The Eighth Chair by Mark Moran

The invitation came unbidden, a slim envelope of cream paper slipped under my door. Its edges were crisp, its ink black and exact. Dinner at Blackthorn Hall, Donegal. November 10th. Eight. No name, no flourish. Just an address and a command. I held it too long, and felt it graze my fingers. I went.

The drive north sliced through Donegal’s green hills, their peaks blurring into a slate blue sky that leached into dusk, sagging too low. Birch trees leaned, their gnarled, bare branches taut as if listening. No headlights pierced the dark, just the engine’s drone and a drizzle rapping on the windshield like fingernails. The road twisted and narrowed and dragged me onward.

Blackthorn Hall emerged ahead, a heap of stone and slate slumped into the slope. Its windows gaped, leaking a dim light. Its gable roof had shed tiles like peeling skin. Black crooked chimneys stabbed the sky. I stepped out, boots crunching on gravel that shifted, then stilled. A dull buzz lingered, unplaceable.

The door opened as I approached, exhaling damp wood and stale smoke. Inside, sconces flickered, their weak glow smeared across walls papered in an ugly green that twitched faintly, alive. A figure stood ahead. Gaunt and angular, suit sharp but frayed at the cuffs, face pale and blank. He did not speak, simply tilting his head and leading me through an archway. His shadow trailed a beat behind.

The dining room sprawled, the air thick with dust, burnt sugar and a tang of something sharper. A candlelit table stretched too far, dark wood warped, set for eight. Seven sat, stiff, unfamiliar. A solicitor from Belfast, voice clipped; a woman in a velvet coat, accent southern; a man with a tic, face twitching; a nurse, knuckles white; a writer, lips pursed; a young woman twisting a scarf; a bearded man, silent.

Names floated up, fleeting. “Who sent them?” the solicitor asked. The writer frowned. “Mine was on my desk.” The woman in the coat blinked. Hers had arrived unstamped. No one knew.

The first course arrived – soup, grey and steaming, served by hands that slipped from view. Spoons scraped, sharp against the hush. Talk of the rain that had hounded their journeys through the backroads drifted. The broth turned metallic on the tongue. Lamps curled their light inward.

The solicitor learned forward. “This place – Blackthorn Hall. Been empty since the eighties, hasn’t it?” The nurse nodded. “Owner went missing. Chair pulled out, wine poured.” The tic-man grinned. “Bog swallowed him.” The scarf tightened in the woman’s grip.

Roast lamb arrived, rare, blood pooling under the knife, seeping onto plates that gleamed too bright. Red wine followed, dark, like ink. Talk frayed. Stern portraits on the wall shifted their eyes when I looked away, snapping back when I turned. The solicitor coughed, a dry rasp. The writer traced his glass.

“What’s the hour?” the nurse asked. Silence answered. No clocks ticked. My watch was still, hands frozen at eight. The figure lingered by the door, shadow lagging.

The woman in velvet stood, chair scraping, then froze, and sat. Fruit came for dessert. Too sweet, too ripe, like swollen tongues in a bowl. They hummed low, a vibration in the teeth. No one touched it. The air grew stale and damp, and smelled faintly of rosemary. Conversation was replaced by the faint creak of the house settling, or shifting, around us.

I sat, the floor cold through my soles. The portraits’ eyes rested on me. The wine trembled, showing a face not mine. Eyes too wide, mouth too slack. The writer whispered, “I think we’ve been here before.” His breath brushed my ear though he sat across the table. A laugh escaped the black-stained lips of the woman in velvet. A note that hung too long.

The fruit’s hum sharpened, piercing my skull. My reflection in the wine flickered, gone, then back. Wrong. My hands felt light, borrowed. My legs shifted, restless, though I hadn’t meant them to. I stood, the table tilting faintly under my palms. The others watched, still. I moved toward the door, drawn by something unseen, steps sinking into a floor that yielded, then stiffened.

The hall dimmed, lamps faint. The figure followed, silent, hands fidgeting. The air tasted of rust and cold iron. The dining room faded into a low hum.

The door hung ajar, a black sliver of night spilling in. Outside, matted grass had replaced the gravel, stretching to hills that pressed too near. The car sat where I’d left it, though its lines were blurred, like a sketch left in the rain. The house breathed behind me, windows tightening, stone shifting.

I didn’t look back. The road ran straight and hills slipped by, dark. The dashboard clock flashed eight, then blank. Blackthorn Hall shrank in the mirror, then dissolved.

At home, the invitation lay there, creased. I burned it, watched the flames take it slow, curling the edges black. 

The next day, I asked about the Hall. 

Empty, they said. Always was. 

No dinner, no guests. Just stone up there, waiting.