In a shadowed corner
Of Nocturna’s Reading Room,
Beside a dying fire,
There sat
An empty chair.
Old mahogany,
Crimson velvet,
Carved with moons
And curious little stars.
Yet nobody
Ever sat upon it.
This greatly troubled
Alistair Fisk.
Occult historian,
Curio Club member,
And enthusiastic pursuer
Of unnecessary mysteries.
Fisk was a short,
Skinny little man,
Completely bald,
With enormous
Bushy grey eyebrows
That seemed determined
To compensate
For everything missing
Above them.
Beneath a long,
Dour face,
Sat a thin
Pencil moustache,
A sour complexion,
A long aquiline nose,
And surprisingly
Large lips
Usually pursed
In scholarly disapproval.
He dressed
With considerably more colour
Than his disposition suggested.
A black pinstripe suit,
Bright red silk shirt,
And immaculate
Black bow tie.
Wherever Fisk went,
So too went
His ebony cane,
Its golden head
Carved into the grinning face
Of Mephistopheles.
He considered it
Tasteful.
Others
Had their doubts.
And now,
Alistair Fisk
Had discovered
A mystery.
The chair.
He searched
The club archives.
He consulted
Ancient books.
He examined
Old photographs
Through a magnifying glass.
And there,
Again,
The chair.
- Empty
- Empty.
- Empty
- Empty.
- Empty
- Empty.
Always
The same chair.
Always
Unoccupied.
Fisk discovered
Ancient traditions
Of chairs left vacant
For the dead.
He studied
Victorian séances,
Funerary customs,
Spiritualist societies,
Forgotten rituals,
And obscure ceremonies
In which an empty seat
Invited spirits
To join the living.
He found accounts
Of chairs reserved
For departed ancestors.
Seats placed
At midnight tables
For wandering souls.
And ancient customs
Warning that certain chairs
Must never,
Under any circumstances,
Be occupied.
Perhaps,
He wondered,
Nocturna’s chair
Awaited someone.
Someone
Who had died.
Or worse…
Someone
Who had not yet
Arrived.
For three nights
Fisk barely slept.
Finally,
Unable to endure
The mystery any longer,
He found Mr Rook
Quietly arranging newspapers
In the Reading Room.
Fisk approached,
Mephistopheles
Tapping ominously
Across the floor.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
“Mr Rook.”
“Mr Fisk.”
“I must ask you
About the empty chair.”
Mr Rook glanced
Across the room.
“Ah.”
“Nobody sits upon it.”
“No.”
“It has remained empty
For generations.”
“Indeed.”
Fisk leaned heavily
Upon Mephistopheles.
His enormous eyebrows
Lowered.
His large lips
Pursed.
His voice became
Almost a whisper.
“Why?”
Mr Rook considered
The question.
Then replied,
“Because
It is broken.”
Silence.
The fire crackled.
Fisk stared
At the chair.
Then at Mr Rook.
“Broken?”
“One of the rear legs.”
Mr Rook returned
To his newspapers.
“We really must
Get that fixed.”
Alistair Fisk
Closed his notebook.
Three nights
Of research.
Forty-seven books.
Two hundred years
Of occult history.
And one
Broken chair.
He turned
And walked away,
Mephistopheles
Tapping behind him.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Such were
The mysteries
Of Nocturna.
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