illustration from The Mysteries of Harris Burdick by Chris Van Allsburg
The Bump under the Rug
“Ah! It’s a
rat!” cried Mrs. Harris, my dear every Thursday bridge partner. “I’m not going
in there anymore!”
“I’m telling
you, it’s the fairies!” said tiny Mr. Field, with his tiny voice, trying to see
something from behind Mrs. Harris who wouldn’t budge from the door despite her
fear of rats. "They come every night!"
“Where’s your cat,
Mr. James?” asked Barry, the delivery boy, in his usual cheeky tone.
“Right there,” I
replied annoyed. Kitty was standing at the edge of the rug, too scared to
attack, watching warily the big bump under the rug. The bump began moving
again, even faster than before, toward that corner where the rug reached right
underneath the big, old chest of drawers.
Under our four pairs
of unbelieving eyes, the bump vanished. Kitty darted towards it, but it was too
late.
Just like one
week before. And one week before that, when it had first happened. Barry had
been there too, and Mrs. Harris, and Mr. Field.
I said
"good bye" to my neighbours, tipped Barry for delivering my bag of
groceries from his uncle's store, and returned to my apartment.
I knew there was
nothing behind the chest, because I had checked last time, but just to be sure,
I checked again. Nothing. At least my neighbours had seen it too so I wasn't
imagining things.
That night I
didn't go to bed. I sat on the armchair, with a baseball bat in my right hand and
a plastic bowl in the other, and waited. I was determined not to fall asleep
this time so I didn't eat anything, not even the almond cake. Barry's uncle
made a terrific cake.
Soon after
midnight, I heard a scraping sound. I kept still, pretending to be asleep, but
I was watching carefully. Soon enough, a bump began moving under the rug, from
the corner underneath the chest. When it reached the center of the room, I
jumped and threw the bowl over it.
Whatever it was,
I had caught it.
"Let me go!"
said a tinny voice.
I fell on my
back.
The bump wasn't
moving anymore, but it looked like it was shaking. Kitty was hissing loudly and
wagging his tail.
"Who's
talking?" I managed to say. "Who are you?"
"Let me go
and I'll tell you."
"Talk, or I
won't let you go. Who are you?"
"I'm the
previous owner of the apartment above yours..."
Mr. Allen? How
could that be? I knew him well. We'd been neighbours for twenty years. He'd
recently sold his apartment and had moved to Florida. The apartment was rented
now by a young woman, Miss Jones. How could that be?
"Do you
like almond cake?" the tinny voice continued. "So did I... so much
that I ate some every night. Barry's still delivering it, I see. All full of
Uncle Gary's black magic. Until one night, it will be Uncle Gary delivering the
cake. His spell will turn you into a doll too. A little, animated, docile
doll...And then you too you'll have to obey him. Go through the apartments,
steal things, scare people into selling them dirt-cheap to... guess who? Uncle
Gary..."
As for me, that was the last time I was going to eat almond cake, or any cake for that matter.
Happy, Spooky Halloween!
And these are my carved pumpkins for this year...
