Empty Harvest (standard:horror, 1452 words)
Author: David Engar	Added: Aug 18 2002	Views/Reads: 3151/2090	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. 


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