Man in the carpet

MAN IN THE CARPET


There is a man in the carpet. He comes out at night. When it is dark. When you’re not looking. But when you look, he is there.

It is a carpet. There are flowery designs in it. But there’s a man too. If you look. Sometimes. Not everybody sees him.

He makes me scared. I know that I am here and he is there, but he makes me feel scared. By the moonlight and the glare of the streetlamps outside, I can see him. I know I don’t have to look at him but I do. I know he isn’t real, but I’m not sure. I turn the light on to get rid of him, but he is still there.

Sometimes during daylight I gaze at the carpet, to see if he’s there. Sometimes he isn’t, though sometimes he is. He looks like a cowboy. He has a hat. The face is a long distance away but I’m sure I’d know him if I walked across him in the street. It’s not scary in the daytime. Or if it is, I can go downstairs and when I come back it’ll be okay.

There are other things in the carpet. There’s a bear. I like the bear. He is nice. He is there all the time, most of the time. Not like the man.

There are things in the wallpaper too. Faces. Shapes. There are bottoms in the wallpaper. Big, round bottoms; lots of them. But none of them scare me.

Now there’s a rug over the carpet. The man isn’t there. Well, he is. Lurking. But I don’t know him anymore.