Wallpaper

I remember the textured wallpaper we used to have in our apartment. As a child, I loved looking at it; it always seemed to me like it had a life of its own.

The "pimples" on the wallpaper formed whimsical images. When I went to bed, I always looked at the scenes unfolding before me. I don't even remember exactly what I saw—only isolated images.

I always found these memories pleasant, but recently I've reconsidered my attitude toward them. When I was in the hospital, I had absolutely nothing to do. So I tried to sort through the memories of my early childhood. And I discovered that there was little pleasant in the images that appeared on the wallpaper.

Something like a centaur, with wooden legs replacing severed legs. A girl with suspiciously long teeth. An earless cat with a human hand protruding from its mouth.

But that's not the scariest part. The scary thing is that this wallpaper truly had a life of its own. Yes, it sounds crazy, but I'm now absolutely sure of it.

Later, I found some old photographs. You can see that wallpaper in the background. It's not the most beautiful sight at all. And in the photographs, you can see that the bubbles that had formed on it changed their location each time. The same place, but different patterns.

Now that wallpaper is hidden under two layers of newer wallpaper. But they're still there. And sometimes I think I see those bubbles starting to rise on the surface. Maybe there's nothing to be afraid of—after all, that wallpaper never did anything to me during my entire childhood. But it's still too strange.