The Matting Under the Desk

When I was nine, we lived in a rambling old farmhouse on the edge of the moors, my older brother and sister and I. My father had left before I could walk, and my mother worked nights at the clinic, so the three of us were often left to our own devices. The house was full of drafts and odd noises, but the worst part was the long, dark hallway that led to the bedroom I shared with my sister, Claire. I was always put to bed first, on the top bunk of the rickety wooden frame, and I would lie there, listening to the wind moan through the eaves, trying to ignore the way the wardrobe doors would shudder, as if something behind them was pushing to get out. ‘It’s just the wind,’ Claire would say, but she never looked convinced.

One night, I woke to the soft weight of our cat, Jasper, curled on my chest, purring like a tiny engine. I must have shifted in my sleep, because suddenly I felt him slip off, plummeting into the darkness below. I froze, waiting for the thud of his landing, the patter of his paws on the floorboards. But there was nothing. Not a sound. My heart hammered. I leaned over the edge, peering into the black, and called his name. No meow. No rustle. Panic seized me, and I swung my legs over the side, dropping to the floor. The boards were icy against my bare feet. I dropped to my hands and knees, patting blindly for Jasper’s familiar fur, expecting to find him under the desk where he usually hid. But instead of soft, warm fur, my fingers brushed against something else.

It was a patch of dense, oily matting, like wet wool that had been left to rot in a ditch. It was coarse and tangled, and it felt strangely alive, breathing under my touch. I snatched my hand back, a scream catching in my throat. I scuttled backward, my spine hitting the bunk bed’s leg, and peered into the gloom. The matting was still there, a dark stain on the floor, but it seemed to be growing, spreading out from under the desk like a pool of ink. I could smell it now, a faint, sour odor, like old sweat and decaying leaves. I wanted to run, but my legs were jelly. And then, from under the desk, came a noise – a slow, wet slithering, as if something was pulling itself across the floor. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying it would go away, but when I opened them, the matting had moved closer.

I scrambled to my feet, bolting for the door, but it was as if the hallway had stretched, growing longer and darker. I ran and ran, but the door to the rest of the house stayed out of reach. Finally, I burst through, slamming it behind me, and collapsed against the wall, gasping. Claire found me there, shaking, and asked what was wrong, but I couldn’t find the words. I just pointed at the door, which was now slightly ajar. She frowned, pushed it open, and peered inside. ‘There’s nothing there,’ she said, but her voice was thin. She turned to me, and in the dim light, I saw something in her eyes – a flicker of fear she tried to hide. She helped me back to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of the house pressing down on me.

Over the years, we moved away, and I tried to forget that night. But even now, at seventeen, I sometimes wake in the dark, my hand tingling, and I swear I can feel that matted texture against my palm. Last week, I found an old photograph of the farmhouse, and in the corner of the shot, under the desk in our room, I saw a dark, formless shape that I know wasn’t there in the original. And in the center of it, something that looked like a face, pressed up against the wood, watching me from across time. I haven’t slept with the lights off since. And sometimes, when I’m alone, I run my fingers over the carpet, half-expecting to find that oily matting, waiting for me to have the courage to feel it again. But I know if I do, I’ll never pull back in time.