- Joined
- Jan 18, 2023
- Messages
- 470
- Thread Author
- #1
Inspired by the book cover, UNDER THE RUG.
It all started in late October - Last year, every two weeks of my life in this godforsaken house, if I can ever bother calling it a
"house"
The first time it happened? Well, I was walking in the middle of the night - l'd say about four in the morning, my foot stumbled on a bump in the carpet, looked pretty big for just some water or something wrong with the wood under the carpet - It didn't feel hard - It felt almost like a mass, like I had just tripped over some spilled food or some sort of meat.
I looked at it, and it just stood there under the carpet, not moving or giving any source of what it could be, sometimes I still wish I thought it was a mouse or something along a pest.
But it wasn't.
That first night, I didn't lift the rug. I told myself I was imagining it. Maybe it was the cold, or the lack of sleep, or the leftover bourbon I had with dinner. I convinced myself of every excuse until the next time - exactly two weeks later, same hour, same spot. But this time, I heard breathing. Slow, wet breathing, like something sick trying to pretend it wasn't there.
I froze. I stared. And then I ran.
For a month, it didn't come back. I almost thought it was over.
Then, on the second Thursday in December, the lump returned
— larger now, pressing up with more shape. I swear I saw a handprint rise from beneath the carpet like something was reaching up from under the floorboards. Five long, clawed fingers, flexing against the weave.
I moved out of the room. Slept on the couch. Still, every second Thursday, it returned.
when I finally got the courage to rip up the carpet, I found nothing. Just smooth wood.
But every two weeks, just before dawn, the wood shifts. The rug rises. I don't sleep anymore. I just sit in the corner with my back to the wall, waiting for the sound:
Of it Scraping the floor..
Of it Breathing..
Of it.. Whispering.
I think it's learning me. Memorizing the rhythm of my steps.
Getting bolder and bolder.
Last night, I didn't wait for it.
I sat with my shotgun across my lap, finger twitching against the trigger guard. I hadn't spoken to anyone about it — who would believe me? There was no one I trusted, and by now, I didn't need stories or explanations. I just needed it gone.
At exactly 4:00 a.m, the rug lifted.
Not high - just a subtle bulge, like something stretching beneath skin. But it moved. Slowly. Cautiously. Like it knew I was awake. This time, it didn't settle back down. It stayed, pressing harder, like it was ready to rise.
I stood.
The shotgun felt heavier than usual, like it knew what I was about to do.
I approached the bump, heart punching against my ribs, and with one sharp motion, I yanked the rug aside - revealing nothing. Just the same old wooden floor.
But the shape remained.
A dark mass still pulsed under the boards, not visible, but there. Like a lung swelling. Like flesh waiting.
So I took the barrel and jammed it straight against the floor, right where the center of the mass seemed thickest. I didn't hesitate. I pulled the trigger.
The blast split the silence and shattered the boards.
For a second, I thought l'd just ruined my own flooring. Then I heard it. It screamed.
Not human. Not animal. Something in between - furious and wounded.
Black liquid oozed up through the cracks like blood that didn't know how to die. The floor shook, the boards buckled, and I heard it crawl — fast, panicked — toward the far wall and vanish beneath it.
It hasn't come back since.
I patched the hole, burned the rug, and haven't stepped barefoot in that room again. But I don't feel safe. Not really.
Because nature has rules — that thing, for all their terror, still bleed.
And if it's still bleeding, it's still alive.
And if it's still alive...It remembers me.
It all started in late October - Last year, every two weeks of my life in this godforsaken house, if I can ever bother calling it a
"house"
The first time it happened? Well, I was walking in the middle of the night - l'd say about four in the morning, my foot stumbled on a bump in the carpet, looked pretty big for just some water or something wrong with the wood under the carpet - It didn't feel hard - It felt almost like a mass, like I had just tripped over some spilled food or some sort of meat.
I looked at it, and it just stood there under the carpet, not moving or giving any source of what it could be, sometimes I still wish I thought it was a mouse or something along a pest.
But it wasn't.
That first night, I didn't lift the rug. I told myself I was imagining it. Maybe it was the cold, or the lack of sleep, or the leftover bourbon I had with dinner. I convinced myself of every excuse until the next time - exactly two weeks later, same hour, same spot. But this time, I heard breathing. Slow, wet breathing, like something sick trying to pretend it wasn't there.
I froze. I stared. And then I ran.
For a month, it didn't come back. I almost thought it was over.
Then, on the second Thursday in December, the lump returned
— larger now, pressing up with more shape. I swear I saw a handprint rise from beneath the carpet like something was reaching up from under the floorboards. Five long, clawed fingers, flexing against the weave.
I moved out of the room. Slept on the couch. Still, every second Thursday, it returned.
when I finally got the courage to rip up the carpet, I found nothing. Just smooth wood.
But every two weeks, just before dawn, the wood shifts. The rug rises. I don't sleep anymore. I just sit in the corner with my back to the wall, waiting for the sound:
Of it Scraping the floor..
Of it Breathing..
Of it.. Whispering.
I think it's learning me. Memorizing the rhythm of my steps.
Getting bolder and bolder.
Last night, I didn't wait for it.
I sat with my shotgun across my lap, finger twitching against the trigger guard. I hadn't spoken to anyone about it — who would believe me? There was no one I trusted, and by now, I didn't need stories or explanations. I just needed it gone.
At exactly 4:00 a.m, the rug lifted.
Not high - just a subtle bulge, like something stretching beneath skin. But it moved. Slowly. Cautiously. Like it knew I was awake. This time, it didn't settle back down. It stayed, pressing harder, like it was ready to rise.
I stood.
The shotgun felt heavier than usual, like it knew what I was about to do.
I approached the bump, heart punching against my ribs, and with one sharp motion, I yanked the rug aside - revealing nothing. Just the same old wooden floor.
But the shape remained.
A dark mass still pulsed under the boards, not visible, but there. Like a lung swelling. Like flesh waiting.
So I took the barrel and jammed it straight against the floor, right where the center of the mass seemed thickest. I didn't hesitate. I pulled the trigger.
The blast split the silence and shattered the boards.
For a second, I thought l'd just ruined my own flooring. Then I heard it. It screamed.
Not human. Not animal. Something in between - furious and wounded.
Black liquid oozed up through the cracks like blood that didn't know how to die. The floor shook, the boards buckled, and I heard it crawl — fast, panicked — toward the far wall and vanish beneath it.
It hasn't come back since.
I patched the hole, burned the rug, and haven't stepped barefoot in that room again. But I don't feel safe. Not really.
Because nature has rules — that thing, for all their terror, still bleed.
And if it's still bleeding, it's still alive.
And if it's still alive...It remembers me.