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Nothing was ever supposed to be out of the ordinary in their small house.

When they moved into the neighborhood, everything had the HGTV style appeal; gardens were dotted along the well kept lawns of our inclusive community, and every weekend that summer, the street came abuzz with friendly banter and the aromatic smell of barbecue.

I have lived in this neighborhood for a while. I smirk at their arrival. I pity their ignorance, yet I am filled with relief.

The story goes that the family received the house as part of an inheritance, perhaps from an estranged aunt or uncle. They were just heading out from the city, and the belongings they brought that had once filled their tiny apartment were now scarcely enough to fit their new home. Hence, when us neighbors decided to through them an 'impromptu' welcoming party, they were thrilled at the gifts we presented them with.

Amongst these was a chair. We do not need to discuss its origins, but in order to understand its relevancy, you must know that all of us had been desperate to get rid of the object for years, but no matter what we do, it always returns to the one of us who is 'fortunate' enough to have been presented with it last.

And that is me.

Or was me.

Last night was their first night here. I had to close my windows to muffle their screams of horror. Their horror is a type I am all too familiar with.

I suppose I ought to tell you why, but if I expose too much, you may be putting you own self in jeopardy.

But what I can tell you is that when the chair was in my possession, I was the reoccurent victim of night terrors so paralyzing that I know I will never fully recover from them. Especially the blood. I'd dream it was everywhere, and sure enough, every morning , the white velvet cushion is saturated with blood. And there was always a series of bloody thumbprints on my face and chest, trailing out the window.