Under the Rug

The wind howled, fresh off Pleasant Bay, in the late evening's gloom. I ducked into my mothers house, home from a long day spent fishing in the cold North Atlantic.

I looked at the wet snow and mud my rubber boots tracked onto the worn kitchen floorboards. I will sweep that up as soon as I warm my fingers a bit mom."

"Don't worry, my sister said, rolling back the knit rug. Sometimes I sweep dirt under here if I can't find the dustpan." I rolled my eyes. Mom looked at my youngest sibling with wide-eyed terror, fingered her rosary beads and crossed herself.

"I told you to never, never lift the rug," she gasped.

The house was built on an old Mic-Mac burial ground, according to local legend. "Every time new dirt is allowed to sprinkle through these floor boards, another spirit is released from its earth-bound prison."

Mom pulled out her worn deck of tarot cards, hoping to make the right arrangement that would save one of us from certain death. The rough hewn walls and floor creaked and moaned around us, seeming to call out for our souls.

The Hanged Man showed, and the spirits licked their lips in anticipation.



206 Words