The Dark Green Rug

*Mentions of blood, subtle descriptions of murder and emotional manipulation.

I like my uncle. He’s funny. He wears dark brown pants with straps on his white shirts. Sometimes he brings me toys with blue and yellow colours, sometimes with a little bit of red. He always has a hat on, one with a dark green colour, like the smooth dark green rug placed in his trunk. He hasn’t ever parted from it since he bought it six years ago from a dusty thrift shop.

It’s me favourite, he always says, because it has a good colour. That is why he always makes sure to clean it thoroughly after all his frequent road trips. "With water and soap, everythin’ gets clean,” he says. Just like the dark red spots you barely see.
I have a good eye for things, he usually tells me, especially when I point out that he’s wearing the same shirt as yesterday or when he looks tired as though he could sleep and still not be awake when Mum brings me home from school. Or when he’s wearing two different socks, when he forgot his watch the other day, or when his nails have dark brown dirt under them.
“Burgundy,” he says then, “that's what it’s called. Like purplish red.” Purple and red, he explains, when I frown and my mind goes weird, like when I’m confused. “Burgundy comes from France", he says, “from good ol’ wine." He’ll bring me to France one day, he promised, so I can see for myself. “Cannot, will not, shall not trust them cheap half bottles of wine,” he repeats, so I remember and pronounce every word right.
“Pro-noun-ci-a-tion,” he says, “you have to learn that still in school. It’s what gets ya wine in the first place, but as long as ya have them brains and a good taste in things, ya gonna be fine.”
“Like me rug,” he says, “paid that crippled man half the price for it!” That’s true. I know. He called us after that, my mum and I, to tell us about how he couldn't find a carpet and ended up buying a rug, and to say he’d be coming over.
He usually calls to let us know, to check where Mum is and if I’m still at school. He brings chocolate if he’s late, which he said he would do, but he usually forgets. He rings the bell those days, to let us know that he is finally here.
Mum is not very fond of uncle, it seems. She loves him, she keeps on telling me, maybe more than she believes. "It’s my brother, I can't not love him."She says. "That’s a double negative,” I say then. “I learned that from uncle,” I tell her. She smiles and says nothing anymore.
Sometimes she says she’s full of it, him staying out late, not having a good job, wasting money, and bringing strangers into the house. “He can’t keep doing it!” It’s for work, he says then. “No,” she says, “it’s because you took after Dad!” Well, he mumbles, someone has to keep on doing it then.
They usually get into nasty fights with words, a verbal fight then. She screams, he yells, pushes over the small coffee table in the living room sometimes, and drives off. Where to, I never seem to find out. And I never seem to meet those strangers, maybe because Mum says he should keep them away from me. I’m still a kid. I suppose I am, but I can’t help it if I'm a bit curious though.
He didn’t call today, to say he would pay us a visit. Mum wasn’t home either. I was doing homework, I told myself I would say when she asked what I was doing when he came in. He didn’t ring the bell, either. When I heard his big car coming in the driveway, I ran to the window and stood on my tiptoes.
It was dark outside, no one was outside. It was raining heavily, white paint smeared the sky for a split second. Uncle wasn’t wearing a hat today, maybe he was nervous and forgot, I told myself. He forgets sometimes when he’s nervous. He’s here without Mum knowing, maybe that is why he is nervous today.
Mum doesn’t want him here when she’s not at home, especially not in the dark. I wonder if I should call her. The telephone is just there on the wooden counter. I look at it for a moment and debate whether I should do it. I don’t like making difficult decisions, it makes my tummy go round and round like roller coasters in a big bowl of soup with meat and broccoli and little pieces of greens.
Uncle steps out of the car and opens the trunk. He looks at the house for a moment. Red is smeared on his grim face, and I look away quickly before peeping again through the window. He doesn’t seem to notice me looking and waving as he unloads something heavy. Or at least, something heavy wrapped in his smooth dark rug.
He opens the door with much difficulty. “Hello, uncle,” I say, smiling. He suddenly drops the rug, and it falls with a thud on the floor.
“Kid,” he says. “Whatcha’ doin’ here?” he asks, as if he forgot it’s my home.
“Why, I live here,” I remind him.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. At that moment, we both look down to the rug. It smells like rotten fruit and it looks like it’s soaked in something deep and dark. There is something like fine threads falling out of it. And I suddenly think, he’s brought a stranger into the house.
But it looks like the brown hair of a doll, almost like the brown kind of colour from our neighbour’s hair. She’s a friendly lady, with lovely hair. She wears long skirts and gives me candy every time I go there.
He puts a finger to his lips. “It’s a big surprise. Don’t tell ya mum, ‘bout this.”
“Is it a doll?”
“Could be,” he says and tries to remove the red from his face.
He sees me looking at his smooth green rug. “It’s a good rug, don’t ya think? Covers everythin’ up.”
It does cover up something, I think. I don’t answer and ask, pointing to his face, “What’s that?”
“But just blood, nothin’ grave.”
He picks up the big present with the brown hair and walks towards the basement. “Stay here.” I don’t mind waiting in the dark, but I feel a little uncomfortable. My hand begins to tremble, and so too my little pinky. I guess we’re both nervous.
I hear loud footsteps and lots of thudding in the basement, and I force myself to sit tight. When he comes back, the red is almost gone from his face and he has his rug folded in his hand. A little bit of red falls down on the ground. Mum wouldn’t be happy with a filthy floor, but I say nothing.
“Wish we could talk a bit, but I’m havin’ an ol’ friend for dinner,” he says. It sounds like an excuse, like a thing you say to not do a thing. But I say nothing, he must have a good reason. He leaves the house, gets in his car, and forgets to wave goodbye.
I love my uncle, even though he might act a bit strange at times. He wears a hat, though he forgot today, and he brings me toys.
I walk back to the sofa. I wonder if I’ll see the friendly lady again tomorrow.

Entry in the flashfiction spooktober contest (edited version)