The Eastern Bizarre Tales

The stool moved again. Not a wobble. Not the floor settling. It jumped — straight up, then slammed back down onto the wooden boards with a dull, violent THUD. My father’s sworn brother did not breathe. He lay frozen on the narrow military bed, eyes wide in the darkness. Then— THUD. The sound was heavier this time. Something was wrong with that stool. He had only moved into the house three nights earlier. It was a newly built single-story unit assigned to returning soldiers on the outskirts of Qingdao. Bare walls. Hard floor. No history — at least, that was what everyone believed. The first nights were quiet. Too quiet, he later said. On the fourth night, just past midnight, the sound woke him. THUD. THUD. THUD. Slow. Rhythmic. Deliberate. At first he thought it came from the neighboring unit. But when he held his breath, he realized the sound was inside his own room. Coming from the corner. He did not want to look. But silence is worse than fear. So he reached for the switch. The bulb flickered on. The stool stood perfectly still. Four legs planted. Innocent. Waiting. He did not sleep again. By morning, he went straight to his company commander. The old officer had survived wars, famine, and things he never spoke about. Fear was not a language he tolerated. “You’re a soldier,” the commander snapped. “And you’re afraid of furniture?” But my father’s brother would not let it go. Finally, irritated, the commander said: “Fine. Tonight I’ll stay with you. Let’s see what dares make noise in a soldier’s house.” He brought his pistol. Just in case. Though neither of them admitted why. They left the light off that night. Moonlight spilled across the floor, pale and cold. For a long time, nothing happened. Then— THUD. The commander sat upright instantly. Both men stared toward the corner. The stool rose. Not tipped. Not dragged. It lifted cleanly off the ground. Hovered. Dropped. THUD. Neither man spoke. The commander slowly reached for his g*n, but did not stand. The stool jumped again. Higher this time. As if something beneath the floor had struck it from below. Once. Twice. Three times. The commander’s face had gone gray. “Tomorrow,” he said hoarsely, “We dig.” At dawn, engineers arrived. They tore up the floorboards and began cutting into the earth beneath the house. One meter down — nothing. Two meters. Then the shovel hit wood. Old wood. Soft with rot. They uncovered a coffin. It lay directly beneath the corner. Directly beneath the stool. No one spoke as they pried it open. Inside was a body dried almost to leather, dressed in the dark, formal garments of another century. No decay smell. No insects. Just a face collapsed inward… Except for the mouth. It was slightly open. As if still trying to speak. Or breathe. Or scream. No report was filed. In those days, such discoveries were considered inconveniences, not mysteries. They carried the coffin away and burned it outside the city. The house fell silent after that. No more jumping. No more sounds. Nothing. My father’s brother lived there for years without another incident. But he refused to ever place anything in that corner again. He said the ground there felt… thin. Years later, when my father asked him what he thought had made the stool jump— The old man shook his head. “I don’t think it was trying to get out,” he said quietly. “It felt more like…” He paused for a long time. Then finished: “Something down there was trying to see if anyone was still walking above it.”