Oriental Rug Eternal

Sydney perched on a step stool in the middle of the freshly painted room, admiring her work of the past four days. She knew her mother would not approve of the color and that made her smile. Her mother would have said, in her smug tone, that it was actually a dreadful color.

"But it isn't your house anymore now, is it," Sydney said aloud. Her voice echoed in the high-ceilinged room, which was empty of furniture and floor coverings.

The sun was setting so Sydney scrambled to clean up the paint cans and sheets that covered the aged hardwood floor in the substantial dining room. "By the way, Mother; this is my living room now, too," Sydney said in a curt manner. She continued talking as she rolled the sheets into a big ball.

"You won't like that either, but it is my house. I always thought this would make an amazing great room and Mother, I will definitely be using that fireplace this winter after all these years."

Sydney eyed the fireplace. She made a mental note to order a cord of wood from Abraham Winters, whom she had not seen in years. She also wondered if Abraham was even still alive.

When she was 20, Sydney made the break from the New Hampshire town of Noble and her niggling mother. Except for holiday visits and an occasional few days in fall at the old house; Sydney stayed away as much as possible for the last 30 years.

Dragging a threadbare Oriental carpet back into her living room, Sydney made another mental note to shop for new rugs later that week. Family heirloom or not; she would donate the dust-filled carpet to the local Goodwill, along with some of the furniture she despised.

Oddly, donating it somehow made her feel less unappreciative of the things that belonged to her mother.

The sun was gone and the house was getting dark. Sydney rolled a hefty antique chest to the far side of the room and placed a sizeable hurricane lamp on top of it. All the over-sized pieces of antique furniture in the home had small casters on them, which Sydney thought was quite ingenious.

When she clicked the light, that end of the room glowed warmly in the hue of the burnt orange walls. With the light on, Sydney also noticed the carpet she had just rolled out now had one corner flipped over almost to the middle, exposing the worn underside.

She flicked it back into place with her foot, as she headed to the doorway, which led to the entrance hall. Sydney stopped dead in her tracks when she thought she heard a croaky voice whisper near her ear, "like my rug?"

Looking into the room, Sydney tensely scanned the empty space. At the back, near the bay window, Sydney logically denied what she thought was a barely-visible silhouette dart by the window, but she was acutely aware something unseen may be in the room.

"Mother, I own this house now and I won't tolerate a visit from you. I will not be frightened here like I was when I was a kid. I am not afraid of you anymore and you are not welcome here in my home." Sydney spoke the words clearly, but with trepidation. She was determined not to show fear.

In a huff, Sydney rolled the Oriental rug up and forcefully dragged it to the entrance hall. With one hand she whipped the front door open, tossed the rug out on the porch and slammed the door shut as she shouted, "I hate that damn rug!" "It will be in the trash tomorrow, Mother...whadaya think of that!"

Grabbing the ball of sheets she used for painting, Sydney opened the front door again and threw the sheets on top of the rug. "Yep...those are your sheets I used to cover the floor...in the trash they go," she said in a loud voice. "There will be a lot more stuff going to the landfill...time to turn the page now, Mother."

In the kitchen, Sydney heated water for a cup of tea, but remembered the bottle of wine her friend sent with her when she moved back to New Hampshire. Pamela said to enjoy the wine when Sydney finished "rearranging" the old house to her liking, or; to calm her nerves when "Mother" paid her first ethereal visit.

They both laughed about that at the time, but after what took place minutes before, Sydney was thinking Pamela may have been closer to the truth than they could have known. She poured a glass of Palazzone Dubini Bianco and defiantly raised a toast to her old/new home.

The harsh ring of the doorbell startled Sydney and she instinctively looked at the clock. "Who in the hell would be coming here at 8 o'clock at night?" Sydney did not think anyone even knew she was living in the house.

As Sydney hesitantly made her way to the front door, she glimpsed the dimly lit living room. In shock, her hand flew to cover her mouth and she held her breath. She was sickened to see the rug she threw out on the porch, was back on the floor again, where it had been for the past 40 years.

Still covering her mouth with her hand, Sydney watched in horror as one corner of the rug swiftly folded over by the force of an invisible hand. Already trembling with terror; Sydney began to quiver violently from an inhospitable chill that aggressively encircled her body at the same moment.

Her heart pounding uncontrollably, Sydney jerked when the doorbell sounded again; this time, in three piercingly shrill consecutive rings. Sydney was shaking and unable to take her eyes off the rug. Unconscious of her movement, she viciously turned the handle and snatched the door open.

Looking confused and breathing heavily, Sydney stammered, "Mother, what are you doing here?" Her mother stared back at her daughter, even more confused.

"You were going to finish writing your book today. We are celebrating tonight with that bottle of Palazzone Dubini Bianco, remember? You finished writing the book didn't you, Sydney...and why on earth is this rug and all these sheets on the porch?"