Under the Rug

It, was there again in the usual place under the blood red rug. He didn’t know what it was and every night he’d hear it thumping in the walls, lurking in the ceiling, scampering past his closed bedroom door and then he’d find it in the hallway under the blood red rug. The rug extended throughout the hallway like a stream of flowing crimson. He though it was a rat and figured it would go away-he didn’t find pleasure in killing animals. But ever since it invaded his home he would have reoccurring phantasmagoric nightmares that were awfully vivid.
He would become curios to look under the blood red rug and would make his way out of his bed, out of his bedroom, into the hallway or at least that’s what he thought he was. The walls and floor and ceiling were not a pale brown but an empty black and the blood red rug was replaced with a river of crimson that splashed against the walls. He could see its form barely peeking through the crimson water. His curiosity at zenith, he’d go up to it and before reaching down to pick it up, ending his deadly curiosity, there’d be a sudden flash of dark grey and he’d wake up screaming and drenched in sweat.
The grandfather clock in his room struck twelve and began to chime as he, like in his dreams, stood in the hallway staring at the bump it made in the blood red rug. He brought a chair with him-if he killed it before seeing it then it could not attack him. He lifted the chair high in the air and with brute strength hit the bump as hard as he could, causing the wooden chair’s legs to split and snap some of the pieces sticking into the rug. The bump instantly flattened and there was a sick spurting and crushing sound. His hand reached down to lift the blood red rug, but he hesitated-what if it really was nothing but a rat? He’d be worked up over nothing, yet his curiosity forced him to know. He swiftly lifted up the side of the blood red rug, uncovering it, and what it was made his skin shift to paper white. He could not comprehend the…the thing that lye motionless by his feet.
It, was a woman’s head with thick, leech-like black tendrils protruding from her severed and bleeding neck. Her eyes were a hard and bottomless coal black. Her once youthful blonde hair ,wet with rusty metallic smelling blood, clung onto her grey, scratched, sore, puss oozing, rotted skin. Her nose to her chin was crushed by the chair revealing spilling tissues, a ripped greenish black tongue, and pieces of her yellowish brown teeth and little splinters of wood that pierced through the tissues. He was paralyzed. Fear had quickly taken over him like a starving parasite. All he could do was stare, truly shocked, for this was the head of the woman he in murdered two weeks ago.