"The 13th Chair"

 

 Arrival, Thunder, and a Corpse

A gust of wind stirred the fallen leaves around Zane Faulkner’s long black overcoat as he stood at the edge of the mountain road, gazing up at the looming palace. The sky was a slate of deep gray, with clouds curling low over the ancient stone building. A faded brass plaque beside the iron gate read:

“Castle Aramoor – Est. 1889”

Eli pulled his collar tighter and shivered. “Remind me again why we’re spending the night in a haunted museum?”

Zane smiled faintly. “Because someone rich, eccentric, and bored decided to host a dinner party in the middle of nowhere — and sent me a personal invitation.”

“And me?”

“You were the plus one,” Zane said with mock sympathy. “The goat tied outside for the wolves.”

Eli grumbled, but followed him through the gate.

The palace sat atop a lonely cliff, with sharp ridges falling away on three sides. It was quiet, save for the whispering wind that rattled the bare trees and tapped against the tall, dusty windows. The front door creaked as it opened, revealing a liveried butler with a candle in hand.

“Mr. Faulkner,” he said in a crisp accent. “You are expected.”

They stepped into the grand foyer. A crystal chandelier hung like a frozen waterfall from the ceiling, dimly glowing. Zane handed off his coat and glanced at the butler’s eyes — calm, trained, and observant. Interesting.

As they entered the main hall, conversation buzzed around a long oak dining table set for thirteen. The room was lavish — portraits of long-dead aristocrats stared down from dark-paneled walls, and a roaring fireplace offered the only warmth.

Twelve guests.

Thirteen chairs.

Eli whispered, “Bit ominous, don’t you think?”

Zane’s eyes swept across the room. He recognized three faces instantly.

Alicia Marlowe, investigative journalist, known for her sharp tongue and sharper heels.

Colonel Renford, retired military, who once accused Zane of “making a mockery of proper investigations.”

Dr. Sebastian Crowe, a well-known criminologist with a smile that never reached his eyes.

The rest were strangers — elegantly dressed men and women of wealth and status. Some looked up as he entered. A few exchanged knowing nods. One or two glanced at him with polite confusion.

“Who’s that?” someone whispered. “Detective, I think…”

“Zane Faulkner,” a woman’s voice answered with awe. “They say he solved the Hemlock Train murders in under an hour.”

“Pfft,” came another voice. “Must’ve gotten lucky.”

Dinner was served. Polite conversation clinked against silverware. Laughter bounced nervously off the old walls. Outside, the wind howled louder now.

Zane said little. He observed.

And then — the lights flickered.

The chandelier above gave a hesitant sputter. Then all at once — darkness.

A sharp crack of thunder split the air. Someone screamed. Another person gasped, “The lights!”

A crashing sound. A chair toppling. Scraping heels on stone.

Eli’s voice: “What the hell was that?!”

A moment later, the emergency lamps glowed faintly to life.

Everyone froze.

There, in the dim flicker of backup light, slumped over the 13th chair — was a man. Head twisted at an unnatural angle, eyes wide open, unmoving.

Dead.

Chaos.

Chairs scraped. Voices rose. Someone sobbed. A woman fainted. Eli stood frozen, blinking.

Zane didn’t move. His eyes were already on the man’s wrist.

Blood had soaked through the sleeve — a thin line trailing from under the cuff to the table’s edge.

His voice cut through the noise like a blade. “Nobody moves.”

Everyone turned.

Zane stood, calm as ever, his gloved fingers adjusting his cufflinks. “Until I say otherwise, nobody leaves this room. The killer is among us.”

There was silence.

Then: “What gives you the right to—?” a sharp male voice snapped.

It was the tall man in the gray waistcoat — sharp-featured, arrogant posture.

“Who do you think you are, issuing orders like some cheap theatre detective?”

Zane looked at him mildly. “I’m the only person in this room who doesn’t appear confused.”

Eli finally blinked back to life. “He's right. We all saw it. The lights went out — and when they came back, someone was dead.”

Colonel Renford grunted. “It could have been an accident.”

Zane stepped toward the body. “A man doesn’t accidentally twist his own neck like that, Colonel. Nor does blood drip from an ‘accident.’”

The room fell silent again.

Zane knelt beside the victim. Middle-aged, sharp suit, silver tie pin shaped like a serpent. No ID visible. No spilled drink, no knocked-over plate. Just the body and the chair.

Eli whispered beside him, “Did you notice?”

Zane nodded. “Yes.”

Alicia spoke up. “Notice what?”

Zane stood slowly. “There are thirteen chairs. But twelve guests were invited.”

He looked directly at the butler. “Were you expecting thirteen?”

The butler, unshaken, replied, “Sir, I only follow orders. The invitations were sent by Lady Wensley herself. She passed away two years ago — her estate manager handled the list.”

Eli whispered, “So either the killer forged an invitation…”

“Or someone came who was never meant to,” Zane said softly.

The man in the waistcoat scoffed. “Oh brilliant. So now we're chasing ghosts?”

Zane turned to him. “What’s your name?”

The man smirked. “Victor Hensley. And no, I didn’t kill anyone. But I also won’t sit here while a pretentious coat-flapper plays Sherlock.”

Zane smiled. “Duly noted. Sit down anyway.”

Victor’s face darkened. “This is absurd!”

Zane stepped closer, his voice calm but steel-edged. “A man was murdered five feet from where you’re standing. So forgive me if I interrupt your weekend plans. You’ll stay, Mr. Hensley — until I say otherwise.”

Victor hesitated — then sat.

The Investigation Begins

Zane examined the scene with surgical precision. He picked up the silver napkin ring from beside the corpse’s plate — wiped clean. No initials. No fingerprints.

The wineglass was half full — untouched.

Eli leaned in. “Did you see how the lights went out just as he raised his fork?”

“I did,” Zane murmured. “And the fork never touched the food.”

From across the table, Dr. Crowe spoke. “Curious. Do you suppose the killer triggered the blackout?”

“Possibly. Though more likely — they used it.”

“Used it?” Alicia asked.

Zane’s eyes gleamed. “The timing wasn’t a coincidence. The murder was planned for that exact moment. The storm, the old wiring, the darkness — all pieces on the board.”

Victor interrupted again, his tone heavy with sarcasm. “And I suppose you’ll tell us next that the killer wore an invisibility cloak?”

“No,” Zane said. “They just wore confidence.”

Some guests chuckled nervously. Victor scowled.

Zane walked around the table, tapping gently on each chair’s number etched into the wood. “You know what bothers me, Eli?”

“What?”

“Every chair has a number. 1 through 12. But this one—” he gestured to the victim’s seat, “—has no number at all.”

Alicia’s eyes widened. “An extra chair?”

Zane nodded. “Or one brought in. Placed precisely where the power would fail — where the guests wouldn’t notice the change.”

Eli blinked. “You think the killer brought their own chair?”

“I think the killer planned every detail — down to the last seat at the table.”

Thunder boomed again overhead.

  The Clue, The Confrontation, The Confession

Thunder cracked again, louder this time, rattling the stained-glass windows of Castle Aramoor. Rain had begun to fall in hard, slanted sheets. Lightning briefly lit the dining room as if in flashes of interrogation.

Zane stood at the head of the table now, silent, his hands behind his back, observing the guests — one by one.

“Let me make something very clear,” he said, his voice low but undeniable. “No one is leaving this palace until the killer is identified.”

Victor Hensley groaned loudly. “You can’t legally detain anyone. This is just a dinner party — not a crime scene from your little novels.”

Zane didn’t flinch. “I’m not detaining you. I’m making a suggestion. But if anyone tries to leave...”

He tilted his head. “I’ll simply tell the media a guest fled the scene of a murder before I completed my investigation. Let’s see how that plays in court.”

Victor opened his mouth to argue — then stopped. His jaw clenched.

The others remained silent, rattled.

Zane turned to Eli. “Take a note of everyone’s name and where they were seated. Exactly. And their drink preferences.”

Eli blinked. “Drink preferences?”

Zane gave him a knowing smile. “Details matter.”

45 Minutes Later

The storm outside howled like a warning. Most guests had relocated to the parlor room under Zane’s instructions. The body had been respectfully covered and left in the dining room. The butler — who insisted his name was Philip — had prepared coffee and was assisting Eli with the list.

Victor Hensley hadn’t stopped talking. Or complaining.

“I mean, listen to this — ‘Where were you sitting?’ ‘Did you like red or white wine?’ What is this? A wine-tasting alibi game?”

Dr. Crowe frowned at him. “You seem unusually disturbed, Victor.”

Victor scoffed. “Because we’re being interrogated by a man with great hair and a god complex.”

A few chuckled under their breath.

Eli sighed. “I liked him better when he was panicking.”

Zane, meanwhile, was silent — examining an antique clock on the mantelpiece. He brushed a finger over its glass face, then glanced toward the window. The rain continued.

Alicia joined him. “Find something?”

Zane tapped the glass again. “Clock stopped at 9:04. Same minute the lights went out.”

“That’s when the body was discovered.”

“Yes.” He stepped back. “It stopped because the lightning hit nearby — the power surged.”

She raised an eyebrow. “So?”

Zane turned to her. “So the killer knew that would happen. They timed the murder with the blackout caused by the storm. But the real question is…”

He looked around.

“Who knew exactly when lightning would strike?”

The Gathering

Zane called everyone into the main hall.

The storm had calmed a little, but rain still tapped the tall windows like curious fingers. The guests stood uneasily in a semi-circle as Zane stood before the fireplace, Eli beside him holding a notebook.

Victor leaned against a column, arms crossed. “Well, Detective, ready to tell us what happened? Or are we here for your dramatic monologue?”

Zane smiled. “Dramatic monologues are quite revealing — if you’re paying attention.”

He paused — then began.

Zane’s Reveal

“There were twelve guests invited tonight,” he said. “Each carefully selected. Some knew each other. Some didn’t. But there was no mention of a thirteenth person. And yet — a thirteenth chair appeared.”

He began pacing.

“That chair had no number engraved. Unlike the others. It was placed at the farthest end of the table, where the storm’s glare would obscure its uniqueness. Clever.”

Eli raised a hand. “The wineglass at that seat was untouched.”

“Exactly. And the silverware was misaligned — one fork slightly bent, unlike the palace’s uniform set.”

He turned to Victor. “Now, Mr. Hensley here has been very vocal — almost theatrically so — in objecting to this investigation. Which made me curious…”

Victor narrowed his eyes. “Here we go.”

“…but then I realized something. The killer would want us to suspect the loudest man in the room. Classic misdirection. Victor’s job tonight wasn’t to kill. It was to distract.”

The room tensed.

Dr. Crowe spoke cautiously. “You mean... someone else committed the murder... while we focused on him?”

Zane nodded. “Exactly. Victor is many things — irritating, pompous, insecure — but he is not the killer.”

Victor blinked. “Wait... I’m not?”

Zane ignored him.

“The true killer,” he said, “has been hiding behind a mask of humility. Politeness. Even helpfulness.”

He pointed toward the coffee tray.

“The only person here who had complete access to the wine glasses before dinner was served — and would never be suspected — is…”

Everyone held their breath.

Zane turned slowly.

“…Philip. The butler.”

A stunned silence. Then Philip — calm, expressionless as ever — tilted his head.

“I beg your pardon?”

Zane stepped closer. “You placed the thirteenth chair. You poured the wine. And you delivered the invitations. You worked for Lady Wensley’s estate — and when she died, no one questioned that you continued.”

“But why?” Alicia whispered. “Why kill a guest at a dinner party?”

Zane’s voice lowered. “Because the man who died wasn’t a guest. He was Philip’s older brother.”

Everyone gasped.

Eli looked down at his notes. “The victim’s silver tie pin — serpent design — is registered in the family crest of the Blaine family. Philip’s original name was Thomas Blaine.”

Zane continued. “The Blaine brothers were heirs to a massive inheritance — but when their father died, the older brother inherited everything. Philip, or Thomas, was written out.”

He turned to the butler — no, to Thomas Blaine.

“You changed your identity. Entered the service of Lady Wensley under an alias. Waited years. And tonight, you orchestrated the perfect stage for revenge — a storm, a blackout, and a room full of strangers.”

Philip… Thomas… said nothing. But his fingers twitched.

Zane raised a hand. “Don’t. I wouldn’t. I’ve already locked the gate. The police are on their way.”

Philip's expression cracked — only for a moment. Then his shoulders slumped.

“Well,” he said softly, “you really are as good as they say.”

Eli whispered, “I thought Victor was the killer for sure…”

Zane smiled. “So did everyone.”

Epilogue: Morning Mist

Hours passed. The body was removed. Statements were taken. Police arrived, handcuffed Philip Blaine, and led him out without protest.

Dawn crept over the horizon. The storm had passed. The palace looked less sinister now, almost peaceful.

Zane and Eli stepped out into the chilly morning air. A light drizzle fell from the sky, soft and silvery. Birds stirred in the trees, and the sky hinted at blue beyond the gray.

They walked toward the car in silence for a few moments.

Then Eli said, “You know… for a second I really believed it was Victor. He was too obvious.”

Zane chuckled. “That’s what misdirection is for.”

Eli looked at him sideways. “But you knew from the beginning, didn’t you?”

Zane didn’t answer immediately. He adjusted his coat collar as a gust of wind blew past.

Then, with a sly smile, he murmured,

“The killer wasn’t sitting in the extra chair…

He was the one who placed it.”

They reached the car. Eli opened the door, shaking his head.

“You and your chairs…”

Zane looked back once at the palace, rainlight glinting off his dark eyes.

Then he whispered, just loud enough for the breeze to carry it away —

“Every perfect murder begins with the perfect seat.”

He smiled.

And disappeared into the mist.

[THE END]