When I was in college, I stepped on the carpet man.
While walking home from class, my friend David and I came upon a rolled-up carpet in the middle of the sidewalk. It was tan, lumpy, and placed perpendicular to the walkway, blocking our path.
David and I noticed the curious shape and position of the carpet, but we continued walking, stepping on it as we made our way back to the dorm. The rug had unexpected knots beneath its surface, like tumors rearranging themselves beneath my feet, but I quickly dismissed it.
“Probably just trash from the nearby construction,” I thought.
Living in New York City, I was no stranger to the bizarre. I’d seen it all, and after only a few months in the city, I felt like nothing could faze me.
But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something about that carpet was… wrong.
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