The Couch That Faced North

I’m Liam, twenty-three, sharing a mouldy attic in Manchester because the rent’s cheap and the landlord doesn’t ask questions. The couch shows up on the curb like it’s waiting for me—black leather, fat buttons, zero stains. I haul it up four flights, sweat dripping into my eyes, thinking I’ve won the lottery. That night I crash on it, telly flickering some old kung-fu flick, and dream of a woman combing her hair with a jade pin, over and over, the strands falling like rain.

Next morning my flatmate Priya barges in, nose wrinkled. “Dude, it smells like a temple in here.” I sniff—nothing but stale pizza. She points at the couch, now angled toward the front door. “That thing’s facing north. My gran says that’s the death direction.” I laugh, wave her off with a crisp packet, but the cushions feel colder, like someone left the freezer open underneath.

Week one: the lights dim whenever I sit down. The Wi-Fi drops the second my back hits leather. I blame the wiring, tape the router to the ceiling like a disco ball. Doesn’t help. At 3:07 a.m.—I check—the hallway reeks of sandalwood so strong I gag. I open the door, hallway’s empty, but there’s a single red chopstick balanced on the carpet, pointing the same way as the couch. I chuck it in the bin, heart doing drum’n’bass.

Priya’s gran, Mrs. Lim, shows up with groceries and a face like thunder. She takes one look and spits rice wine across the rug. “Li gui,” she hisses, “hungry ghost sofa.” Apparently the couch is a ferry, its back to the kitchen (fire) and feet to the door (water), classic yin-yang split. North is the Gui Men, the Ghost Gate, and leather’s dead skin—ghosts love recycled corpses. She makes me drag it three inches south-west, sprinkles rock salt that fizzles like popping candy. The cushions sigh, leather groaning like an old man settling into a bath.

Peace lasts two days. Then the buttons start bleeding—tiny black drops that smell of soy sauce. I Skype Mum; she thinks it’s mould, tells me to Febreze. Priya finds me scrubbing with bleach, knuckles raw. “You’re feeding it,” she says. “Bleach is metal, metal cuts wood, wood feeds ghosts—something like that.” My head spins. We flip the couch to air the underside and there’s a yellow talisman stapled to the frame, inked with red characters that swim when you stare. Mrs. Lim burns it in a saucepan, coughs up grey smoke that spells “sorry” before vanishing up the vent.

That night I dream clearer: the woman again, this time she’s crying jade beads that clink like coins. She grabs my wrist, nails ice-cold, and drags me through the wall into the flat next door—except it’s 1997, wallpaper sunflowers, a dude in round glasses chanting with a compass. He’s the feng-shui master, name’s Master Chow, and he’s trapping something inside the couch, stitching the leather with catgut and cursing in three dialects. The woman is his wife, gone missing in Kowloon, her spirit wedged between springs. He promises to bring her back, but the ritual snaps, lights blow, and he vanishes—just a slipper left smoking.

I wake up with couch imprint on my cheek and catgut thread wrapped round my thumb. Priya’s gone; note says she’s at her boyfriend’s till “your sofa stops being haunted.” Fair. I’m alone, skint, can’t afford a new couch, can’t sleep on the floor because the boards ripple like water at night. I google “DIY exorcism,” get a Reddit thread that says bury the thing at a crossroads, but I’ve no shovel and the council cameras are brutal.

Plan B: reverse the flow. I haul the couch to the roof, angle it south-east—direction of the Green Dragon, apparently. Storm clouds gather the second it spins. I dump bowls of rice either side, stick two pound-shop dragons on the arms, light incense nicked from the Thai takeaway. Wind howls, incense tips, flames lick the leather. Couch doesn’t burn—just sweats, black beads oozing faster. The woman materialises, half-transparent, hair whipping like seaweed. She mouths “thank you,” then dives into the rice. Couch sags, buttons pop, springs ping like cheap fireworks. Smell lifts, sky clears, and I’m left with a skeleton of rotten wood and a single jade pin rolling toward the gutter.

I chuck the frame in the bin, pin in my pocket. Landlord shows up next day, sees the empty space, shrugs. “Previous tenant left that thing. Said it was lucky.” I nod, pay rent, sleep on a blow-up mattress that smells like plastic and freedom. Sometimes at 3:07 I wake, jade pin warm under my pillow, and hear faint Cantonese lullabies. I whisper “you’re welcome,” roll over, face south-east, dream of dragons that don’t bite.