They anxiously waited outside the door of the dilapidating home. Moss sprung from every corner on the exterior and mold from the interior. Beautifully unclean. The wooden door stood its royal guard far past its shift.
I heard that she was a collector, but of what, no one knew. Nestled between some of the wealthiest families, she sat year after year. The animals of the surrounding area found comfort in her and her home. Rumors of raccoons crawling out of her chimney at night was the story of the neighborhood. “How undignified!” the neighbors would gossip, yet they all seem to be here at her doorstep. The minute the house opened, right at 8 am for the estate sale, the anxious neighbors and collectors from around rushed in.
It was wildly obvious that she rarely organized, and quite enjoyed the mess. It seemed the clutter arranged itself in the most beautiful way. Colors poked out from the depths of a heap of clothes, and somehow I felt I was able to see everything. Although you would find her to be a candle type of woman, she had fairy lights covering every square inch of her home. It was loving, ominous, and intriguing. I couldn’t quite grasp all of my feelings, but overwhelmed may be the greatest one.
She added in her will that she wanted her home to be open to the public and everything of hers to be sold for a maximum of five dollars. I could not imagine collecting for all those years just to have strangers tear each relic from its brothers and sisters. My guess, she wanted a piece of her everywhere.
I searched around for about twenty minutes before a chilling feeling ran down my spine, to my feet, and back up again. Something about the way the house sat on the hill, the water dripped from the ceiling, the floorboards sank into the earth made me feel uneasy. I looked around and noticed person after person trickle out with their items, seemingly unaffected by the house’s glare on our greed. I decided to do one last search around the house before I left, just out of curiosity.
I walked into a room that had been untouched by the other visitors. I could not tell what she had this room for, maybe an art room or a sitting room? I made myself comfortable and sat in a large magenta velvet char with cross-hatched stitching. It looked out at the neighborhood and into the mountains, and I figured this must have been her sitting spot. I stood up quickly, feeling out of place, and I went back downstairs and joined the visitors yet again. As I made my way through the winding hallways, I admired the green stucco walls and tilted paintings. I heard a scratching in the ceilings and decided I had over-extended my stay.
The house was waiting for relief. Its purpose to hold, comfort, and protect no longer stood, since its favorite guest had come and gone. I held the railing down the stairs, but I should have been holding it up. The home closed in as I walked past the tired old guard, and that night, the castle fell.
