I Was Told Never to Move the Rug in the Baby’s Room

I set my bike down on the Whitakers’ lawn like I always did. Mrs. Whitaker answered the door with her usual warm smile. “Thank you again, Emma,” she said. “Help yourself to the fridge. We’ll be back by one.” They were halfway out the door when Mr. Whitaker grabbed my arm. “Under no circumstances do you move the rug in the baby’s room. I will know.”

“Y-yes sir,” I responded.

I was shaken. I didn’t understand why he grabbed me — especially over something as trivial as a rug. I should’ve left. Knowing what I know now, I should’ve grabbed the baby and ran.

Mr. Whitaker smiled and shut the door. I went over to the baby and did my normal routine. I fed him and changed him, kept a close eye on him until eight o’clock. Bedtime. I grabbed him and walked up the stairs, where his door was kept tightly shut. 

*“That’s kinda odd,”* I thought, *“That door’s usually wide open.”*

But I dismissed the thought, switched the baby to my left hand, and opened the door. After stepping into the room, I glanced to the floor where the carpet lay. It was a Persian rug and other than the fact that the rug didn’t really fit the decor of a baby’s room, I wouldn’t have noticed it was there at all unless Mr. Whitaker had said something. So I put the baby in his crib, and turned to leave, but I caught my foot on a crease in the rug. 

I grunted in pain but tried to make as little noise as possible so as to not stir the baby. I stood up, rubbed my elbow and as I shut the door, I noticed that the carpet had moved from its original resting spot when I fell. I didn’t care, so I went downstairs, and raided the fridge, grabbing a Dr. Pepper and I sat down on the couch. I groped for my phone which was in my pocket and before I could even enter my passcode I heard the dreaded noise of all parents and babysitters. The baby was crying. 

“Ughhh,” I grunted as I hoisted myself off of the couch. Then another noise invaded the silent crevices of the house. A noise that made gooseflesh run down my spine. It wasn’t another cry from the baby. It was a screech, like some sort of wounded animal. I dashed up the stairs, rounding the corner between the couch and the hallway that led to them, taking them three at a time until I reached the top. The baby’s door was still shut but an eerie red light glowed through the bottom. I threw myself at the door and slung it open, my mind was completely blank, until I saw something that made the first round of fear feel like ecstasy.

Gooseflesh spread down my arms and legs. and my mouth opened with the intention to scream but no noise could be found. The rug had been moved and underneath it was a glowing pentagram, presumably red with some kind of dried blood. I looked up at a face that was neither human nor animal. It was nothing of this world. It was seven feet tall and had gray skin that resembled wet leather. Its eyes glowed a ghastly yellow. Its arms hung over its mouth and a horrible squelching noise escaped its mouth. It was holding the baby, or that is, what was left of him in its maw. It made eye contact with me and with a violent crunch what was left of the baby snapped in two and plopped onto the ground, like a child that was done with its toy and saw something new and shiny.

It smiled — evil, grotesque, and hungry. I tried to turn around and run but I was paralyzed with fear and even if I wasn’t that thing would most definitely catch up to me. It lunged. My arm shot out to defend myself… and was gone in a single, wet crunch. Blood spurted. I screamed. If the yell of the baby’s screech didn’t alert the neighbors, this one did. It stepped over me and stared down, Its mouth was inches from mine. The smell of iron and rot filled my lungs. Then… nothing.

Moonlight shone into the baby’s room. The house was quiet. Too quiet. The pentagram pulsed faintly under the askew rug. Waiting.