The Collector

A submission for Writing Forums’ Literary Manoeuvres competition under the theme ‘Wrong House’. I came second in this! The judges said called it ‘rushed and cheesy’. Yes it was, and yes it was.

But still, second. So there.

There’s no room in the drive for the van, so the crew park in the street and carry their equipment onto the property, piece by piece. They take careful steps, like tightrope walkers, picking their way through the soggy piles of newspaper, weather-worn clothes, abandoned toys and wet clusters of garbage.

From the street, the smell is offensive, but as they near the front door, its belligerence grows. The crew — Andrew with camera, and Toby with boom mic — strap face masks over their mouths and noses. But Clara, the self-anointed ‘professional organiser’, must endure the stench unprotected. Andrew points his lens at a stained teddy bear, lying face-down in a puddle of filthy water. Clara waits for him to turn back to her so that he can get her knocking on the front door. After two long minutes of silence, Clara knocks again. This time, they hear the shuffling on the other side of the door.

“I’m coming, goddammit.”

The voice sounds rough and wet, like thick bleach poured down a corroded drain. It takes longer than they expect for the door to open, and then Clara and the crew are treated to the full extent of the stink. It wraps around them, moist and warm, a foul blanket that they have no choice but to breathe deep into their lungs. The homeowner stands before them. An unremarkable woman, somewhere between sixty and a hundred. Her jowls hang nearly to her shoulders. The dull grey roots of her unwashed hair transitioning suddenly to vivid orange at its wiry ends.

Behind her are mountains of things. Knitted things, metal things, things in boxes and bags and baskets. Things inside of, and on top of, things. Things that have been piled up, shoved aside, pushed down and forgotten for years.

“Hello, Mrs. Williams, my name is Clara. I’m a professional organiser and I’m here to — ”

“No thanks.”

The older woman starts to close the door, but Clara is fast. She recognises the symptoms of an undiagnosed hoarder as well as she knows what makes good TV.

“Mrs. Williams, your family called the producers of ‘Obsessive Compulsive Collectors’ and asked us to come and help you. They’re worried about you. They care about you.”

Mrs. Williams pauses, and stares down. Clara stifles a smile. She knows how to tug a heartstring. But then, and too late, she hears the guttural, back-of-the-throat snorting that precedes an opaque, sticky glob of phlegm hitting the breast of her pink cardigan.

In the gobsmacked silence, Mrs. Williams moves to slam the door shut again. Again, Clara stops her short. They stare at one another in open hostility.

“You’ve got the wrong house, love,” Mrs. Williams eventually smiles with rows of sharp and tiny yellow-brown teeth.

But Clara persists. She and the crew push forward, into the house. It’s not possible to avoid standing on Mrs. Williams’ things, and they all feel the crush and crumple of broken possessions hidden under the blanket of detritus as they walk. Clara uses bright pink rubber gloves, and picks out items of interest as they move through Mrs. Williams’ home. Mrs. Williams herself remains defiantly silent. Clara shows homemade dolls, unfinished tapestries and long-dried cat faeces to the camera. She tuts occasionally to Mrs. Williams, who declines to react.

It’s only when they enter the main bedroom, and recognise shapes of animals and children strung up from the ceiling, that Clara thinks, perhaps, they might actually be in the wrong house. Andrew continues to film, capturing the way the figures sway gently in the breeze from the AC. They are almost unidentifiable in their extreme state of desiccation, hidden beneath so many layers of gossamer webbing.

Clara turns, dumbfounded to Mrs. Williams who, for the first time, looks bashful.

“I know what you’re going to say…. And yeah, alright, I know I shouldn’t eat in bed.”