main menu | standard categories | authors | new stories | search | links | settings | author tools |
Empty Harvest (standard:horror, 1452 words) | |||
Author: David Engar | Added: Aug 18 2002 | Views/Reads: 3391/2233 | Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes) |
Nostalgic visit to the farm. | |||
Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story ring. As I stepped up onto the porch, its state of ill-repair became evident. Its surface was built out of rows of thin, two-inch-wide boards, perpendicular to the house. The boards, uncared for and weather-worn, rarely met at the edges, most having small gaps with edges rounded from wear; some were missing entirely. The roof's underside was better, similar to the porch floor only less worn, and still painted white; it was supported by four evenly-spaced, simply-carved pillars. The pillars were rotting and there was a dip in the roof at the end of the porch. In two places adjustable iron bars had been inserted behind the pillars to augment the support. Windows, heavily laden in dust and grime and curtained with some thick fabric, blocked the view inside. A creaky, wood-framed, screen door with a rusted spring and a hook latch opened to reveal a paneled entry door (now ajar), partly reinforced with a thick piece of plywood. Leaving the door standing open, I crossed the threshold into what I presumed to be a kitchen. The small room was dark and dirty, lit only by the light of the open doorway and what faint glow managed to penetrate the thick, once-white, curtains. Wallpaper, from an era predating LeRoy, had peeled loose at the top of the walls and dangled lazily. The planks of the wood floor bowed and separated into little ridges, causing me to stumble. Regaining my balance, I noticed each wall held something different, if uninteresting. Stacks of old newspapers and paper grocery bags, lining the left wall, contributed a large amount of dust and particles that unpleasantly contaminated the air. The far wall was stacked half-way up with damp, chopped wood, adding to the room's mildew smell and providing homes to many-legged centipedes, earwigs, beetles, and countless other pincers and crawlers. Aside from the only path into another room, the wall and corner on my right were curiously lined with water-filled milk cartons. Every object had a light layer of silt generated from the room's centerpiece, an ancient looking wood stove. The stove was apparently serving no function at the moment as the temperature in the first room was, aside from the wind, no warmer than outside. Not seeing any source of comfort here, I made my way to the next room. Entering the second room was like a fast walk through a museum. Apparently, at some point, a more modern kitchen was desired. This larger room with several windows (actually unmasked and providing light through a layer of grime) revealed an electric stove, a kitchenette from the set of “Leave it to Beaver,” a card table, and a ceiling fan. The wallpaper in this room was holding to the wall, even if the style was old, and the linoleum flooring was almost level. I was imagining the next room as a modern kitchen with a dishwasher, garbage disposal, and microwave when, with the flip of a very old switch, electric lights illuminated the webbed corners sending an insect scurrying and revealing a display on the card table in the corner that sunk my spirits. Sitting atop the table was a potted evergreen the size of a houseplant. It was decorated with tinsel and several tiny ornaments, its peak absurdly adorned with a full-sized star. Around the tree were two board-game-sized presents, large and strangely disproportionate to the tiny tree, and a coffee cup where LeRoy had sat for the preparation. In the decrepit, dirty, mildewed surroundings the tiny Christmas display was out of place and outnumbered. The tiny tree, burdened by too many decorations and dwarfed by the larger presents, was especially pathetic. In a cold room with a filthy floor and webbed corners where spiders cowered from the shadowy light filtering through dirty fixtures and grimy windows, the meek exhibit of gaiety seemed sick, begging for pity like its disturbed creator. LeRoy, having arrived at his childhood home, intended to spend Christmas here. Tweet
Authors appreciate feedback! Please write to the authors to tell them what you liked or didn't like about the story! |
David Engar has 1 active stories on this site. Profile for David Engar, incl. all stories Email: davidengar@yahoo.com |