Grass grew thick and tall and unevenly. An old, rusted push mower existed on the property, tucked away in the shed, which was itself molding slowly, but even if there had been somebody to use it there would be no point. No push mower could make it through that.
There had been a tidy vegetable garden once, filled with asparagus and lettuce and kale. Now wildflowers, yellowing grass, and the hardier species of root vegetables had taken over.
The lawn, such as it was, led up to what at first glance appeared to be a green box. Vines had covered the brick walls of a house quite thoroughly. As a result, the mortar was crumbling. A second story window had been left open a crack, and the enterprising vines had made it inside.
The room the greenery had chosen to invade was full of stillness. Most abandoned houses have at least some movement; a mouse, the drift of dust motes in the golden light, the expansion of the floorboards in the summer, or even some air displaced from another room. The only thing that moved here was the tip of the vine, industrially adding new cells, reaching further inwards in search of water and nutrition. The dust had settled years ago.
Piles of magazines blocked the door. Books, in some spots as high as the ceiling, loomed precariously over the bed in the middle of the room, but anything that was going to fall already had. Not that you could tell.
Clothing had accumulated. There was a closet, and had it been open, mounds of laundry, covered in a dense layer of dust, would have been visible. Enough shoes for a small army had been lost in that closet, and under the bed, and among the clothes and books and magazines.
The bed itself was ancient. It had been built when even second-best beds were something to be put into wills, and it would remain until the rot that suffused the lower floors finally overcame the upper floors. The bedding, when in use, had been changed rarely, and there were ancient stains that originally could have come out with a bit of scrubbing but now were more permanent than the peeling floral wallpaper.
A figure, easily mistaken for part of the furniture due to its frozen countenance, sprawled across the bed an books and clothes and shoes and magazines and dirt. The dust that covered it was not as thick as in the rest of the room. The window had been left open during the chilly fall months, and the winter that followed had been brutally cold and dry. This accounted for the mummification.
Outside, a crow cawed hoarsely. It sounded almost like a human laugh.
Reading Cactus 