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dwin had heard the tales of his dear old Aunt Agnes, generally from his oafish father during one of his many drinking binges when his tongue would loosen into tirades of pointless anecdotes and expletives. Over time, he had gotten quite adept at deciphering the exact moment when his father crossed over from painful sobriety into blissful inebriation.
“She’s a pack rat, through and through!” his father would always start as he cracked open another of, what would turn out to be, many more beers to follow. He took a deep swallow of the carbonated fluid and whipped his mouth with his bare forearm, before he continued. “Never threw anything away . . . just kept on collecting things—and it don’t matter what it was . . . antiques, furniture, cans, bottles, newspapers . . . you name it, she got it in that house of hers. Now . . . don’t ask me why she is the way she is. She’s got some kind of sickness, you know . . . in the head!”
Edwin had heard the story many times before; but this time, he took a keener interest in the details, had practically taken notes in his head. He had not seen his father in some time and was barely on speaking terms when he showed up at his doorstep. However, he knew a six-pack of brew would buy his way into the house—if only for a little chat among father and son. He knew the alcoholic bribe of affection would initiate the essential information he had been longing for.
“So . . .” Edwin pried, while opening another beer and shoving it into the bloated, sweaty mitt of his father; he was met with no resistance on the other end. “Does Aunt Agnes still live alone in that big old house?”
“Used to live with her mother before she succumbed to double pneumonia—that’s where she got it from . . . that pack ratting disease,” he paused for another deep swallow of brew and let loose a tremendous belch. “Never married and never had any children of her own. Supposedly, when she was younger, she became involved with some low-life sailor. Story goes . . . he knocked her up then fled to sea to fight the Japanese. Her father demanded she have an abortion and set up one of those back alley deals—wasn’t legal back then. But he had no trouble making the arrangements . . . he certainly had the money to make it happen. Her father was a smart man . . . made all his money investing in asbestos in the twenties and sold his stock before they knew it killed ya. Lucky fucking prick!”
By the descending coarseness of the dialogue, Edwin knew the beer was taking its hold on his father.
“Didn’t Aunt Agnes inherit his money?” Edwin inquired, now disposing any subtlety.
“Sure did!” he belched out with distaste. “The whole fucking kit-n-kabootle—never work a Goddamned day in her whole miserable life. Just wakes up every morning and collects stuff. Real loony tunes, that one is! Haven’t been there since I was a kid . . . some thirty-odd years ago. Right when her mother passed. The whole house was completely filled with shit even then . . . a massive house that you could barely walk around without knocking something over—if you can imagine that! The hallways just pilled high with newspapers! Like walking through some insane hedge maze made of paper. I got lost—barely made it out with my friggin’ life . . . and that was thirty years ago! Heaven knows what that place looks like now and what might being growing under the mounds of trash and filth.”
“About the money . . .” Edwin impatiently redirected his father, “does she have it all in a bank account or tied up in stocks and bonds?”
“No siree-bob!” his father willingly and drunkenly offered up. “Don’t believe in banks . . . keeps all her money hidden somewhere in that house. Geez—what a take that would be for some lucky crook who happened to stumble upon that house and finding that wad of cash. Of course, he’d have to find it first and that ain’t no easy fucking task. It’ll take weeks . . . hell—years to dig through all that shit. But it would be some haul though . . .. I’d bet my life on it!”
Edwin would bet, too.
Having heard all he wanted to hear, Edwin abruptly left his father without a single word of goodbye. It was just as well, their relationship was strained at best; he thinking his father was no more than a pitiful drunk, his father regarding him as a cold-hearted reptile not worth trusting. Both men were right in their assumptions of each other—his father, perhaps, more so and Edwin would not deny it. He had his share of run-ins with the law—petty theft, fraud, etc.—causing his family no end of grief. But no matter how many chances he was given to reform, Edwin would not learn his lesson and continued his misdeeds until, finally, his was completely disowned by his entire family.
Now, completely broke and unable to acquire any more money from his folks, Edwin had to think of others avenues to attain the much needed funds . . . and fast. That was when dear old sweet Aunt Agnes came to mind.
Having never met her personally, and aware of her self-isolation from the outside world, Edwin wisely surmised that word of his questionable past and misbehavior would not reach her delicate ears. His plan was genius in its simplicity . . . Aunt Agnes must be well into her nineties by now—old, feeble, and most likely senile. He could just stroll in and introduce himself, have a friendly little chit-chat, locate the money, pocket it and be painlessly on his way before she even realized what had happened. She would probably forget the whole meeting altogether. Even if she did remember . . . who would believe a crazy old shut-in with a house full of newspaper and, presumably, jars filled with her own urine—mustn’t throw anything away!
Besides, if the old bag didn’t cooperate properly . . . it would be a shame if some tragic accident were to befall her . . . say, a heavy stack of newspapers crashing down on her and pinning her to the floor with no one to hear her screams. It would take months before anyone would suspect something wrong; by then, he would be long gone—the perfect crime!
He arrived at Aunt Agnes’ house slightly after nightfall. It was massive. Edwin’s mouth began to water with the thought of the treasure that awaited him inside. He stepped upon the porch and the dry, old wooden boards ached loudly under his weight. The entire facing of the house under closer examination was in want of much needed repair, but that didn’t phase Edwin’s enthusiasm one bit. Just the taxes Agnes would pay alone for such a hulk of a house in North Jersey betrayed the great wealth hidden inside. He rung the doorbell and heard it wheeze dreadfully behind the huge oak door. He waited patiently for some time before he finally heard the light pitter-patter of old feet shuffling towards the door.
The door opened just a crack, held firmly in place by a chain-link lock. A small wrinkled face appeared through the opening and peered out suspiciously.
“Who’s there?” the weathered face spoke in a shrill and raspy old voice.
“Aunt Agnes—it’s your great nephew . . . Edwin Brewster . . .” he replied in a calm, deceptively unassuming voice and well-rehearsed smile. “My father is your sister’s daughter’s son.”
“Edwin?” the face thought aloud, slightly befuddled.
“Yes—Edwin. Don’t tell me you don’t remember me?”
A painful look of reflection clouded over the tired old eyes peering through the doorway. Suddenly, they lit up and the door slammed harshly in Edwin’s face, nearly hitting him square in the nose. He could hear through the thick wood of the door the old lady prattling away, unlocking and unfastening numerous locks and bolts, almost comical in their abundance. It was like he stood in front of some grand gateway into a Gothic house owned by Boris Karloff or some other antiquated bogeyman.
Edwin smiled; phase one of his plan was complete. His next task lay somewhere behind the door.
The door flew back open to reveal his Aunt Agnes beaming with a tremendous smile. She was very old and feeble looking, barely cracking four feet in height. She was dressed like a typical old spinster woman: plain and dull colors with a heavy wool-knit sweater draped around her shoulders. Her skin was wrinkled, pellucid—revealing a dense network of blue and purple veins—and hung loosely over her bones like some oversized and over-stretched shirt. Her nose held under tremendous weight a pair of Coke bottle glasses so thick that it was probably very dangerous to walk in direct sunlight for fear the magnification from the lenses could burst her eyeballs into flames.
She held her arms out wide to greet him. Begrudgingly, Edwin obliged her and leaned down for a hug. She pulled him down harshly by his neck and squeezed so tightly that, for a moment, Edwin believed that he was mystically transported inside some gallows. Unable to breathe, Edwin pried the old woman from off of him.
“Oh, Edwin! Dear me . . . dear me . . .” Agnes babbled elatedly. “It’s been such a long time! Why—last time I saw you . . . you were only this tall.”
She held out her hand out to her knee to illustrate the height.
Edwin’s exterior smiled charmingly, while his interior retched with apprehension. Did she really know who he was? Have they really met before? If she did, his father certainly never mentioned it the thousands of times he bitched about her. No—he tried to reassure himself—she must be confusing him with someone else. Yes—that was it . . . it had to be! The mind plays tricks on itself when you get to be as old as Aunt Agnes is. Certainly, she had to be senile.
Now, Edwin was truly smiling on the outside. This was going to be like taking candy from a baby!
Inside, nothing could have prepared him for the conglomeration of junk that surrounded him; his father’s recollections simply could not do justice to the twisted mutation of clutter that littered the entire interior of the house. The front hallway was lined with towering stacks of old newspapers piled all the way to the ceiling. The floor was carpeted with an assortment of receipt papers, crumpled tissues, and emptied out cans of cat food with the lids lying not too far away. Edwin had troubled deciphering where the clutter ended and the house began. As best he could tell, both had melded together becoming one disturbing and freakish entity.
“Come . . .” Agnes said warmly, “let’s have a sit in the parlor.”
She led the way through the maze of stacked newspapers. Edwin fancied it to trolling through some dank catacombs not unlike those fabled underneath the Paris Opera House. Who knows what terrors might lurk around the next corner, he thought disconcertingly.
As they turned the first corner, scores of feral cats scattered in a hundred different directions; some ran further into the maze while other simply disappeared into the clutter.
“Don’t mind them,” she reassured him, “Those are my little darlings . . . they don’t like new people much.”
Edwin smiled politely, once again masking his disgust.
They were passing through what must have at one time been a dining room, but what few remnants could assert the fact were completely blanketed under dear old Aunt Agnes’ “collection.” Instead of just newspapers, the dining room was loaded with canned goods, unwrapped toilet paper rolls, full bottles of oil and vinegar, boxes of tin foil and storage wraps, and what ever else one might find in a grocery store; stacked and categorized in their respective places together as if still on the shelves. Upon closer examination, Edwin discovered many cans of food dated before he was even born!
“The market has so many good sales,” she confessed with a tinge of bashful laughter, “I simply can’t help myself sometimes.”
“Well, one can never have enough . . .” he reached out for the nearest aluminum can and studied its label, “. . .cream of mushroom soup, now can they?”
Agnes smiled.
She approached two large sliding doors to the parlor and slid them open with tremendous effort; paper, cans and other debris spilled at her feet. The parlor was much like the rest of the house only taken to the extreme! Ever present were the newspaper towers and assortment of cat food cans, in some places measuring around three feet deep. The tables and furniture were all completely covered with assorted litter as if they were being slowly swallowed in quicksand. There was a fireplace at the far end of the room filled with rusted hubcaps and antique tools. The walls and shelving were aligned with an array of antique dolls and tinker toys—all blanketed with a thick layer of dust, surely the result of decades of neglect. To his right was a dismantled and carelessly piled together old rocking horse whose dead eyes stared blankly back at him. The whole room was a decaying shrine to a forgotten childhood past forever fading further in time. The air was thick and a putrid odor invaded his nostrils. He tried to breathe only from his mouth, but he could somehow still smell the foulness, choking his lungs. Edwin couldn’t quite place the smell, or where it may be coming from, but he had little doubt that something lay dead beneath the clutter. Either way, he surmised, it was apparent that the windows of the parlor had not been open for quite some time and proper ventilation was nonexistent.
“I’ll make us some tea,” Agnes announced sweetly and darted off down the hall.
Edwin pushed aside some objects on a sofa and sat alone in the massively overcrowded parlor. He studied the little trinkets that decorated the room and fancied that some may be more the a hundred years old. He debated swiping a few and hocking them off just for good measure, but decided to focus squarely on the treasure at hand.
He began to ponder playfully to himself the location of the old bag’s money, which must cleverly be hidden underneath the colossal mess; there must be a safe or something around here. With all the clutter, it would take some time and energy to locate it blindly. As hard as he tried to concentrate on the money, he couldn’t help but relapse upon the overwhelming trash that surrounded him. At the far corner of the room, the sea of clutter rose to an enormous mountain that peaked up to the ceiling. He wondered how any human being could possibly live in such filth, let alone as long as Agnes had.
From the corner of his eye, Edwin saw something shift underneath the pile of clutter. He turned his head quickly to get a better look, but the movement had ceased. He could have sworn he saw something move, but could not fathom what it could be . . .
Agnes returned with a silver tray of tea and placed Edwin’s cup before him on the jammed coffee table. With a sigh, Agnes retired to her favorite rocking chair that was held immovable under the clutter. He looked down at the brown stained porcelain of the teacup and vomited a little in his throat; he did not plan on drinking out of it.
There was a long and uncomfortable silence as both stared at each other vacantly.
“So . . . Edwin,” Agnes finally spoke out breaking the God-awful silence, “what brings a young man such as yourself all the way out here to visit an old tired lady like me?”
“Well, actually . . .” Edwin snapped into his carefully rehearsed speech, “I believe I came to a point in my life where I really would like to know more about my family—past and present. I’d really like to know more about where I came from.”
“Isn’t that nice,” she remarked, gingerly sipping from her teacup.
“I’m actually working on a sort of family tree . . .” he continued, laying it on as thick as he could, “I’m trying to gather as much information about my ancestors as I can. If they are still alive, I try to contact and, kind of, interview them. Your name was next on my list, so . . . here I am! Learning about my heritage . . .”
Edwin trailed off as his attention shifted once more to the clutter. He didn’t mean to stare, but he simply couldn’t take his eyes off from the mess around him. He had to admit it was impressive.
“You will have to forgive me,” Agnes said with a little embarrassment, “I don’t normally have much company these days . . . I’m afraid I allowed myself to fall behind in my cleaning duties.”
“There’s no harm in having a few things that brings one pleasure,” Edwin retorted, trying to appear understanding and charming.
“I just can’t seem to help collecting things . . .” she confessed, “It would be a shame to throw away such nice things. Can you believe some people just throw perfectly good things in the trash!”
“Waste not, want not,” Edwin agreed.
“They’re just little trifles and treasures from a life long lived,” she romantically observed, “They are as much a part of me as breathin’ is.”
Edwin’s attention waned once more and began to focus his gaze on a large portrait of a man above the fireplace. The man pictured was a robust and stern looking figure, his cold stare burning through the canvas. Strangely enough, it was the only area of the entire house that did not seem cluttered or dusty. It appeared as though it were routinely cleaned—or, perhaps, moved on a regular basis. His eyes became ablaze with the notion that was creeping behind them. The portrait was definitely large enough to house a safe behind it. He could think of no better place to keep one.
“I see you’re admiring the portrait of my dear late father,” Agnes keenly surveyed.
“Yes—it is quite striking.”
“He was a good man,” Agnes concurred with a quivering sigh, “To this very day, I miss him terribly.”
Agnes took a handkerchief from her shirtsleeve and dabbed it gently against the corners of her eyes while she lovingly stared at the portrait.
Again, Edwin spied something rustling underneath a pile of clutter off to his left. He could hear a faint scratching on the floorboards buried below as it moved from one end of the room to the other. Must be some poor cat, he pondered, that ventured too deep in the clutter and now was struggling for its life in the dark abyss, desperately seeking a way out into the light. After a few more tussles, the scratching stopped.
“So, now, tell me Edwin . . .” Agnes inquired, her voice receding from its friendly tone to a much lower and more business-like register, “Why did you really come all the way out here tonight?”
“I . . . I don’t understand . . .” was all he was able to mutter, having been thoroughly caught off his guard.
“Really, Edwin—you must think me quite the old fool . . .” she spat back with some mild amusement, “Do you really think I would believe your cock-and-bull story about some ‘family tree’ and all the ‘heritage’ nonsense?”
Edwin remained speechless; his eyes carelessly darted back to the portrait above the fireplace.
“Still admiring that portrait, I see?” she once again sharply observed, “It is very . . . what was the word you said . . . Oh, yes . . . striking. It is, I must agree. It’s also very large, don’t you think? Almost large enough to hide something behind it. Now—what do you fancy a person could hide behind such a large and . . . very striking portrait. A safe, perhaps? Yes . . . that’s what you are thinking. It is a pity you’ll never know either way.”
Agnes rose slowly from her seat—her old and brittle bones creaking like the old board of the house—and carefully made her way to a small end table that housed an antique candlestick telephone. She picked up the receiver up to her ear and began to dial casually, her index slowly spinning the rotary dial with purposeful glee.
“I’m calling the police now,” she announced, “I suggest you be gone before they arrive.”
“I can’t let you do that, Aunt Agnes,” Edwin said coolly with a devilish grin.
Like a panther, Edwin leapt from his seat and pounced on his aunt as if she were a prized baby gazelle. He ripped the phone from out of her hands and pulled the phone line from out the wall with tremendous force. Agnes screamed and struggled to break free from his powerful grip, but it was hopeless. He raised the phone high above his head and sent it crashing to her skull; one blow was all it would take. Her body fell to the ground like a lifeless doll. Edwin stood above his aunt and dusted off his clothes.
Triumphantly, he marched over to the portrait and gazed at it—a fortune at his fingertips. He grabbed the portrait with both hands and lifted it off its hinges. He carelessly threw it aside and looked up to be only greeted by a bare wall—no safe! He grappled with wall, searching for some crease to betray a hidden compartment but found nothing.
It couldn’t be, he thought . . . he was damn sure it would be behind here. All her talk about the portrait was a tease—a sick little game she was playing with his head. The old bitch would be laughing right now if he hadn’t cracked her skull. He was determined to get the last laugh.
Enraged, Edwin tore off all the remaining picture frames from the wall and sent them crashing to the floor but found no safe. He pulled out all the drawers and dumped their contents out to the floor, but found nothing of importance. Desperately, he dug through the pile of clutter about the room, but found only more clutter underneath. Out of breath, he stood over the unconscious body of Aunt Agnes.
“You think you won . . . eh, old bag?” he said, whipping away the sweat from his brow with his shirt sleeve, “I ain’t through here yet! I wonder what could be waiting for me upstairs.”
Serious, he threw off his sport coat as he reached the second floor of the house. Not surprisingly, the hallways were filled with the usual chaotic blend of clutter. He made his way to the master bedroom and threw open the door; more cats fled like cockroaches from the light. Methodically, he rampaged through the room, but failed once more to locate the money. He then turned his attention over to the bed—old people sometimes hid their money in mattresses, he surmised. He took a small pocket knife from his pants pocket and began to shred the mattress with the sharp blade; metal springs and white cotton bled from his sloppy incisions. He reached in with his bare hands and pulled out its fluffy innards, but found nothing else.
More determined than ever, Edwin marched from room to room repeating the same actions: rummaging through all the clutter, searching through all the furniture, ripping through the mattresses—still finding nothing. Defeated, Edwin returned down to the main floor of the house.
He opened a door leading down to the basement and was met once more by the horrid, putrid smell that had greeted him in the parlor; this time, however, much stronger than before. He flipped a nearby switched that lit a single 75 watt bulb below, exposing the thoroughly dank cellar filled with moldy cobwebs. The floor was completely covered with newspaper and other debris.
He reached down to the railing and immediately retracted his hand in disgust. Examining it, Edwin observed a strange clear mucus-like slime, which he soon whipped clean against the wall. Looking downward, he noticed the same peculiar substance forming a trail down the steps and into the cellar depths below.
He heard something rustling behind him and turned around just in time to see a large stack of newspaper crashing down on him. The tremendous weight of the blow sent him careening down the staircase; his body hitting every step on the way down and finally landing hard on the newspaper padded floor. He could sense immediately that he had been seriously injured in the fall, as the sprinklings of newspaper hit his body and he could feel nothing. He tried to lift himself up, but could not move—he was paralyzed. Edwin glanced up towards the basement door to see his dear old Aunt Agnes peering down at him; the beaming smile having returned to her face.
“It has been fun, my dear Edwin,” she called down to him with maniacal glee, “but I’m afraid it is getting late and I must bid you a goodnight. I am very sorry you did not find what you came for . . . but I do believe what you find in that cellar to be much more interesting than any sum of money.”
She released a sadistic laugh, which raised the hairs in the back of Edwin’s neck; the only area of his body that still had any feeling left.
“Goodbye . . . dear Edwin.”
With that, she turned off the light bulb and shut the door leaving Edwin alone in the darkness. Again, he tried fervently to move his numbed muscles, but was completely paralyzed. He feared that he had broken his neck in that plunge down the staircase.
Suddenly, he heard something rustling underneath the newspapers to his left. Barely able to glance over, with his eyes slowly adjusting to the dark, Edwin saw the movement of the paper like he had earlier upstairs. Once again, he heard the clawing of the floor, except stronger than before; somehow the clawing seemed hungrier. With a grand burst of energy, the thing under the papers began to circle around him like a shark sizing up a tasty morsel; he could see nothing but the disturbance of the paper as it tunneled underneath.
Edwin tried to shift his weight over to the stairs in some vein hope that he might be able to pull himself up, but it was useless; he barely moved an itch. He lay there helpless as the horrible thing circled closer and closer to him.
Panic began to set in—he could sense his bowels loosening and soiling his pants. He cried out for help, but was only answered by the muffled giggles of his Aunt Agnes who stood behind the door, amusedly listening with her ear pressed against the wood.
All of a sudden, the circling of the thing stopped; the papers remained motionless. Edwin could smell the foul breath of the creature—it was right below him! He felt a slight tugging on his right leg. He could do nothing as his body was pulled under. Within moments, he was completely buried underneath; his screams muffled by the clutter . . . . |
Agnes tapped the side of the cat food can with her fork and a bevy of feline critter emerged from out of every orifice of the house; circling around her legs and crying with shrill hunger. She dumped the food into several bowls and watched as the cats fought with one another to eat their fill. There were so many of them, forever growing in numbers . . . she hardly knew how to keep track of them anymore.
She sighed deeply with satisfaction—it would take more than a simply bump on the head to do this old girl in, she thought.
She shuffled through the cramped hallways, making sure all her little trifles and treasures were neatly back in their respective homes again, just the way that she liked them to be.
She was content to live alone in this house—no use changing the way things are in her age. She had all the companionship she would ever need right here: she had her cats, her precious trifles and treasures, and also that thing that lived within the clutter.
God knows how it ever got there, and damn if she knew how it grew so big, but it was there nonetheless and wasn’t planning on leaving anytime soon. Besides, it wasn’t much trouble and sometimes came quite handy; sometimes she hardly knew it was there at all. It kept alive mainly on old scraps and left over cat food—sometimes indulging itself on the occasional cat, much to Agnes’ disliking. But there were so many cats, she could probably do with one less from time to time.
Of course, it also indulged itself on the occasional unscrupulous relative that would happen by, expecting to take advantage of a feeble, old woman and steal all her money.
Fools—she thought—there was no money here; at least, not enough to make such a fuss over. True, she still didn’t believe in banks, but she was not a stupid woman. She invested it all in something that she did believe in . . . her trifles and treasures.
Besides, they all seemed to keep the thing well fed and content. It was quiet now; it was always groggy after a big meal.
Yes—she was content to live just the way as she always had and, somehow, she could sense that the creature under the clutter was as content as she was to keep things as they were. No sense in disturbing things unnecessarily.
Yes . . . she thought to herself as she sat in her favorite rocking chair . . . life was good! |
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