THE MAN IN THE ORANGE CHAIR

It all began with the hum. A deep, vibrating frequency, like a broken refrigerator humming in a room that's been abandoned for years. Except the room wasn't abandoned. The room was my living room, and I had been sitting in it for five hours.

The man in the orange chair had been sitting there, too.

He didn't say anything at first. Not when I walked in. Not when I stared at him. Not when I checked my phone, and there was no signal. Not when the hum started. He just sat there, legs crossed, hands in his lap, looking at the TV that wasn't turned on. A faint, flickering light danced across his face as if something was on, but I couldn't see it.

"Do you want something to drink?" I asked, because what else do you say to the man in the orange chair that's always been empty?

He shook his head, still staring ahead, a slight smirk curling the edges of his lips.

I tried to call someone. My mom, my dad, the pizza place. Nobody picked up. But the hum got louder. It settled into my chest like a second heartbeat. The man in the orange chair didn't flinch.

"Do you hear that?" I asked, my voice too loud for the silent room.

The man blinked slowly, as if considering. Then he looked at me for the first time. His eyes were dark—bottomless—and in that moment, I realized something strange. The orange chair was gone. Or maybe it had never been there. Maybe he had never been there.

But he was. I knew that much. He was always there.

"You've been waiting," he said finally, his voice like gravel under tires. "For someone to tell you the answer."

I laughed, but it came out like a hiccup. "What answer?"

He didn't laugh. He didn't move. "You know."

And here's the thing: I did know. Somewhere deep inside, beyond all the noise and the distractions, the apps and the messages, the work emails and the half-finished projects, beyond all that garbage—I knew. I didn't want to know, but there it was. Like a splinter under my skin.

"You can't stay here," he said, uncrossing his legs. "They'll find you."

I didn't know who they were, but I could hear them now. Footsteps, growing louder, echoing from nowhere and everywhere. Not footsteps on the floor, but footsteps in the air, in the walls.

"I don't understand," I said. But I did. I just didn't want to.

The man in the orange chair was silent again. Then he stood up, stretching his arms like he'd been asleep for years. The chair—if it was even still there—morphed, the orange turning to a fleshy, soft pink. I didn't like it.

"What happens now?" I asked, feeling my voice stretch too thin, like the air had been sucked out of the room.

His smirk deepened. "The game's over. Has been for a while now."

There was a knock at the door. Not a real knock—more like a thunderous rattle of bones. A dull thud in the walls.

"Who's there?"

The man shrugged, indifferent. "Them."

I blinked, and suddenly he was closer, so close I could smell something, like burnt rubber or rain on pavement. His breath against my face, cold as ice. His eyes—black and endless—looked through me, past me, into something I couldn't see. And I saw it in him, too.

The hum pulsed in my brain, sharper now, drilling into my skull. My teeth felt loose, my eyes ached, but he didn't care.

"I'll go," I said quickly, my voice shaking. "I'll leave. Just—tell me what's happening."

"Doesn't matter." His smirk faded, and his face turned blank. Hollow. "You'll forget anyway."

The door rattled again. Louder. Closer.

I glanced back, afraid to look away from the man, but more afraid of what was behind me. He was gone now—just gone. But the chair, the orange chair, was still there, vibrating gently, like it had a heartbeat.

The walls around me began to bend, like they were made of some kind of melting rubber. The hum turned into a chorus of whispers, thousands of voices talking over each other, too loud to make sense of. The room shrank, and grew, and shrank again. I felt myself shrinking with it.

I reached for the chair—because what else was there? But when my hand touched it, the fabric was wet. Slimy. I jerked back, but my hand was stuck, sinking into the chair, into the fleshy pink that had overtaken it. I pulled, but it swallowed me whole, dragging me down into it, deeper and deeper until the room disappeared.

All that was left was the hum.

And then, silence.

The door opened.

"Hello?" A voice, familiar, but not mine. The sound of keys on the table.

Footsteps. Hesitant. Then, the soft hum.

And there, sitting in the orange chair, was the man again. Or maybe he wasn't. Maybe I was.

The door creaked shut.

They were still out there.

And I had been waiting.

For you.