Quick note: This is a horror short
It was perfect.
That neat rectangle of blended patterns and silken weave hung so perfectly in the store. It seemed to almost call to you on that perfect day, that day so filled with laughter and sunlight.
So too the laughed merchant, as he spoke in quick compliments while you purchased it; he charmed you with his knowledge, he assured you that this carpet was special, it would feel as if it had been in your family for generations, he loudly proclaimed as he lifted it from the wall and gently placed it upon the floor.
Diamonds interlinked so subtlety with floral arcs, patterns overlapping repeatedly without ever clashing, lines that perfectly melded into the next line as if it were formed by a hand so utterly considered in its task.
Without prompt the merchant had convinced you the carpet would suit your study perfectly. Its undaunted blend of muted colours hued to offset the wooden grain of your bookcases with elegance.
He licked his lips as he counted your money, the carpet was expensive yes but for an item of such quality, and one of such historical importance, the final cost was always to be a matter of disinterest.
It was taken home–how neat it looked on display–and laid out with a flicked roll on your study floor. Muttering pleasant nothings, the portly merchant simply waved and left without the gift of farewell; a transaction completed and his memory of this day now a spectre.
The carpet was good, exceptionally good. Its presence captivated the entire room seemingly without effort, almost appearing arrogant of its true beauty, its every knot weaved within a perfect harmony. An image of such captivation that you were sure it almost breathed, that it had life.
It was a week later.
It was a quiet week of little note when you first realised.
Crooked.
Not really a problem, carpets do move, you pushed it forward lining it up again to be square to your bookshelf. But as you walked away, near forgetting this action, the carpet was still off somehow. You knelt and pulled the rug toward you lining up the pattern’s middle with the centre of the bookshelf; seeing the even gap along the kickboard you stood back, happy that it was now aligned perfectly.
But it wasn’t.
It was obviously too close now and sat in the forward three quarters of the room. Anarchy, the whole study looked to have been slumped along one wall, shifted as if gravity had tipped everything into a corner, the effect was dizzying. You sighed and pulled it backward, looking to align it again with the lattice doors that led into the garden.
No, still not right, the couch–original, Italian, quite new in fact–looks off. You moved the carpet again, still oriented wrong somehow.
It took some time to find the measuring tape, you think it was left by the home’s previous owner as you don’t remember buying it.
1200mm from each corner to the bookshelf and 1700mm to the couch, perfect. Trending the carpet slightly forward to offset the room and give the illusion of additional space past the couch, an interior designer had told you this, it made sense. But against sense, against all logical reason, the room is still crooked
Maybe it’s the tape…before you stopped to think you’ve driven to the hardware store and have grabbed the most expensive tape measure; you’ve even consulted the shop attendant of its accuracy. It’s 19:00 on a Sunday; why is this so important?
The measurements are the same. 1700mm to the bookshelf and 1200mm to the couch, perfect for this room, but still clearly imperfect in application. Obviously, you thought, the couch is out of line. But checking proves it to be butted firmly against the wall, bad for the paint but not a matter of currency. Of course! The bookshelf! Carried up and lazily installed during the tired rush of moving, it makes sense. You removed the books, carefully taking note of the order, and shoved it closer to the wall.
Restacking the shelves, you were certain that this riddle was now solved, so silly that a small imbalance could consume you that way, so wholly.
1830mm from one corner and 1610mm to the other. ‘Ha!’ you thought leaning down and evening up this blasted carpet for the last…. Wait, that’s worse. How is it worse? With a tremble you measured again. Again and again, it’s somehow more uneven than the first time. The shelf was re-adjusted, twice, and with each microcosmic movement everything seemed to list further and further out of imbalance. Head in hand you tensely scream with frustration, a life of level headedness brought unweaved by this silly scrap of nothing, this stupid rug! Lashing out you slam your fist into the wall, sick pain rockets up your arm, pins, and needles throb in beats as your fingers shake without control. You look down, a knuckle is jutting sideways, poking a small section of bone through the skin, blood in steady trickle leaks out running down your forearm.
Drip, drip…drip.
But it doesn’t matter. Nothing…seems to matter.
You sit on the floor and look to the pattern.
What was once a thing of beauty is now was cut with bolder lines. A malaise of interlinked angles and corners jutting, prodding, outwards from the rectangle upon your study floor as like pikes piercing through you from a dozen different directions. Deeper you look into the pattern, lost in a hypnotic void. And as you watch, and as you lose yourself in the fog, you hear a whisper. Not a whisper of any language but one of a feeling, an evokement crystallized within.
A darkness enters the corners of your vision as the pattern leaves the carpet. Deeper you watch as your thoughts dissolve, lines grow bolder, lines grow-
They grow…
bolder.
The pattern! Yes, it’s…
You…SEE IT!
J.McCray
2020
Sunday Short Stories 