The House Where Dirt Grew

By Craig Colgan

In a town where secrets are kept hidden no matter the cost, elderly widow Mae Reese discovers that her house seems to be growing “dirt.” No matter how hard she scrubs, scours, mops, and cleans, the “dirt” is everywhere, consuming her once immaculate home. Over time, she begins to see the connection between this mysterious onslaught of filth, and the long-ago murder of teenager Betsy Palmer, and learns that even the dead can exact revenge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Aug 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798889101017

Craig Colgan

Originally from Pearl River, New York, Craig Colgan has been an elementary school teacher for the past twenty-six years, starting his career in the University Heights section of The Bronx before relocating to Dutchess County where he has been teaching for the past 18 years.  The House Where Dirt Grew is his first novel.

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The House Where Dirt Grew

Craig Colgan

Austin Macauley Publishers

The House Where Dirt Grew

About the Author

Dedication

Copyright Information ©

Acknowledgment

About the Author

Originally from Pearl River, New York, Craig Colgan has been an elementary school teacher for the past twenty-six years, starting his career in the University Heights section of The Bronx before relocating to Dutchess County where he has been teaching for the past 18 years. The House Where Dirt Grew is his first novel.

Dedication

For my grandparents, Pete, Flo, and Gerry.

Copyright Information ©

Craig Colgan 2023

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Colgan, Craig

The House Where Dirt Grew

ISBN 9798889100997 (Paperback)

ISBN 9798889101000 (Hardback)

ISBN 9798889101017 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023910756

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

[e-mail]

[phone]

Acknowledgment

A special thanks to Dorothy Hedges, Jen Macri and my sister, Gail,

for all their patience and support.

Every neighborhood has one. The eyesore. The house that no one seems to take care of. The long-neglected property that has become such a fixture in the minds of those who live around it that they no longer note its appearance. It, the house, has become part of the landscape, blending in with the everyday expanse and views from the neighboring homes that the people who dwell in these homes no longer notice it.

But the main character of this story, The House Where Dirt Grew, is much more than a long-neglected house, lived in by those who perhaps feel that its appearance means nothing.

With its overgrown, weed-infested lawn; its shrubbery in need of such attention that it’s almost impossible to tell where one sad bush ends and another begins; it’s cracked sidewalks and driveway now overrun by errant plant life that was somehow able to fight its way through the concrete debris and seed itself in the rough, long hidden soil beneath; gutters that resemble a greenhouse seedling bed, sprouting a variety of flora with leaves brimming over the very edge of the lips of the mildew covered aluminum piping, the moss ravaged shingles on the sagging roof.

And the filthy windows, the peeled paint on the structure itself; the doors, the shutters; the neglect so staggering that the casual passerby is simply, well, stunned and appalled, by both the image and magnitude of the decay that seems to be feeding off of The House Where Dirt Grew.

It is simply unbelievable! A visiting relative once exclaimed to a family member who had recently relocated to a lovely little cape cod only a few doors down from The House Where Dirt Grew. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I come from Steuben County! And you’re telling me that it’s not abandoned, that someone actually lives there!

That’s what I hear, the newest addition to the community replied as she poured herself another glass of pinot grigio. Although, I’ve haven’t seen anybody yet. Supposed to be some old widow or something.

Well, the town should really do something about it! The visiting relative snorted as she stepped away from the window which afforded her a side view of the topic of their discussion. It’s disgusting! I’m surprised you moved here. I mean, this house is lovely, but to live on the same block as that! I don’t think I could it.

What can I say? Was all her first cousin once removed could reply. The price was right.

And she was right about that: the price was certainly ‘right’, but even taking that into account, many town-folk, including the former owners of this cape, had been surprised that it had finally sold. Real estate trends had never really affected any of the homes in close proximity to The House Where Dirt Grew; it was always a buyer’s market in that neighborhood, although no one every seemed to be buying, no matter how ‘lovely’ the home may be.

In fact, most of those who found themselves living within the scope of its decay conceded that they would never be unable to unload their properties until the lone occupant of the house had died. And all of them, and I mean all of them, couldn’t wait for that to happen. Then maybe someone would do something about it, they had all thought. Maybe then someone would tear it down. Burn it, even.

This derelict property. This embarrassment to the community. Maybe after the last surviving occupant had died, something would finally be done. Afterall, no one lives forever. Right? It was just simply a matter of time.

But who was this woman who lived in this house, perhaps the most vilified domicile in the town’s two hundred plus year history? What kind of a woman would live in such filth? Many assumed that she just didn’t she care about how she lived or what people said about her. That she was an extreme hoarder who had no qualms about living under such deplorable conditions. That she must be insane.

And maybe she was. I’ll let you be the judge.

***

Before we go any further though, let me say that there were those in town who remembered how it used to be, The House Where Dirt Grew, a time when the house and grounds were lovingly well tended by the woman who lived there. In those days, no one could possibly have imagined that over the ensuing decades, the house would morph into the shambles that it now was. Now, as town-folk drove past the dilapidated, mildew-encrusted domicile, many would wonder what happened to this seemingly meticulous woman who called the house, home?

Rumor had it that she was physically ill. She was hardly ever seen in town anymore, only occasionally spotted in the grocery store or the local pharmacy. Not that many people really cared or were particularly interested in her well-being. In fact, quite the opposite. You see, there were those in the community who hated her, reviled her. Would have rejoiced at the news that she was dead. But enough of that now. We’ll get to all of that later.

Needless to say, for those who spied her out and about, it was clear that something was seriously wrong with her, something new. To some, it seemed as if she and her house were both decaying at the same time. Anyway, the days when all had appeared well for The House Where Dirt Grew and its inhabitants had long passed, and now we find ourselves in the present.

***

Somebody’s got to do something! Where is the mayor in all this? A local resident exclaimed as she slowed her car to a mere crawl while passing the monstrosity that monopolized so much town conversation. It looks like it’s getting worse! If that’s possible!

Oh! It’s possible! Her every agreeing companion replied as she flicked her still-smoldering cigarette out the window. Take a look at what’s coming out of the gutters. There’s a small forest sprouting up there! And don’t even get me started on that smell!

I know! It’s unbelievable! The driver spewed as she rounded the corner and picked up speed. The whole neighborhood smells like road kill!

And to be quite honest with you, this observation about the fetid stench that was now emanating from The House Where Dirt Grew was not entirely inaccurate, and these two ladies were not the only ones to notice it. In fact, anyone who traveled through the neighborhood couldn’t help but notice the noxious odor even before they could see the house. Even in a steady breeze, it was hard to miss.

Everybody was aware of it to some degree. But no one more than the widow who was the object of so much animosity and who still called the house ‘home’.

***

No more! No more! I can’t take it! The widow pleaded to the empty room around her. It doesn’t stop! This wasn’t here half an hour ago. And she was right; the half-inch of oily grime that now covered more than half of her corroding kitchen counter hadn’t been there half an hour before. It appeared quite suddenly during the time she had been busy trying to clean what seemed to be shit stains in her toilet; eerily similar stains to those that she now scrubbed on her kitchen counter and which seemed to materialize out of thin air. I know this wasn’t here before!

But knowing something this didn’t make the stains less real, and did not change the fact that the filth was there. The widow, known as Mrs. Reese, did her best to navigate her way down the hall to the bathroom while carrying a pail filled with some of the most putrid-looking water to ever grace the planet with the intent of emptying it down the bathtub’s drain. As she did so, she prayed to God for some sort of divine intervention, for she truly believed now that only God himself could help her.

Where is all this coming from? I don’t understand it! She cried as sweat dripped from her aged forehead and fell to the warped hallway flooring below. With more physical discomfort than she’d like to admit, Mrs. Reese and her pail finally reached the doorway of the small bathroom, the once white tiles now plagued with a variety of molds and mildew; the shower curtain resembling something more from a jungle than the local Woolworth’s: long, green and hanging from its rod by what seemed to be a series of menacing vines held together by an invisible force.

With great difficulty, she heaved the pail filled with all the grime it could handle and slowly emptied it down the tub’s drain. She leaned against the bathroom wall, momentarily trying her best to ignore the grime that encased her sink, her toilet, and her tub. Please, God! Please…Help me… she whispered as she gripped the pail’s handle and headed out of the small room, kicking up dust bunnies the size of softballs as she did so. Please. I can’t take this anymore…

***

I can’t take this anymore! Mrs. Reese shouted up the stairs many years ago, long before she became a widow, and decades before her home evolved into The House Where Dirt Grew. Ethan! Are you listening to me? I want you to pick up that mess in the driveway before the neighbors see it! It looks like a pig sty out there!

I don’t know what you’re talking about! Ethan replied from behind his locked bedroom door. You’re crazy!

Oh! I’m crazy, am I? Mrs. Reese erupted as she picked up her burdensome Electrolux vacuum cleaner and hauled it up the small but spotless staircase and reached the landing outside Ethan’s bedroom door. I’ll show you who’s crazy! Come out here now!

Fuck you! Ethan called out in reply as he opened his bedroom window and began to lower himself to the garage roof below. It’s just my bike! If it bothers you, you go pick it up!

She’s at it again! A neighbor who lived two doors down commented as Mrs. Reese’s profanity-laced tirade echoed throughout the small enclave of modest homes. Probably yelling at that one boy of hers. He’s always getting on her bad side.

And he certainly did. In fact, just about the only thing that Ethan Reese ever did was to get on his mother’s ‘bad side’; that, and trapping neighborhood cats, which he would then drown in the small stream that ran behind his family’s house. Poor Ethan. He never really had a chance. It’s a shame because underneath it all he was rather intelligent, and not altogether bad looking, except for his acne.

During this time his face had been ravaged by it, and he spent many a night picking at his face in the bathroom mirror until his mother banged on the door and accused him of engaging in what she considered some rather sinful activity. I know what you’re doing in there! She shouted on one occasion as she pounded on the door with such force that the hinges began to dislodge from the doorframe that held them. And God knows too! He knows everything!

But Ethan wasn’t interested in what God knew, masturbating, or even the pimples that had overrun his face. What Ethan was really interested in was a girl he had noted while making his way down the halls of the local high school. She recently moved to town, and looked so, what was it? He couldn’t think of the word. Was it ‘pure’? Yes. That was it. To him, she looked ‘pure’; ‘untouched’. Ripe for the picking.

***

And so, on that long-ago day, Ethan Reese made his way down from the roof of the garage and headed for the stand of trees that flanked the small stream that ran behind his home. He thought nothing of his mother, who remained outside his locked bedroom door screaming at the top of her lungs, calling him every vile name her limited vocabulary could command while not yet realizing he had vacated his room. No. He thought nothing of this, but of the new girl; of her sweet smile, and the way she wore her hair.

***

Why! Why! Why! I don’t understand this! The widow Reese wailed as she wiped up the greasy puddles from her kitchen floor. These unsightly puddles were a new occurrence in The House Where Dirt Grew, as was the latest infestation of God knows what that not only stained her tub, but the sinks in both her bathroom and kitchen and her washing machine as well.

It had all started a few days before, this recent onslaught of filth, when Mrs. Reese noticed small puddles of a greasy mass of unknown origin oozing out and spreading across the kitchen floor; the floor she had mopped only moments before. These small puddles had now morphed into pools large enough to cover most of her linoleum kitchen floor, the sight of which caused the poor widow to suffer from severe heart palpitations.

Please! Help me, Lord! She pleaded as she did her best to wipe up the sticky matter with a series of yellow-stained rages. Look at this! Look at my floor! Look at this dirt! What have I done to deserve this? What? Why is this happening? Why? I’ve always kept my house clean! Nothing like this has every happened before!

And it hadn’t. As I’ve already indicated, there was a time when The House Where Dirt Grew was anything but ‘dirty’. In fact, quite the opposite. But that was a long time ago, when life within its plaster walls had been very, very different.

***

So? What if I did? It’s only the newspaper! It’s not like I took a shit on the floor!

How dare you? How dare you? Mrs. Reese shrieked as she swatted at Ethan’s head with her handy spatula, connecting more times than not. How dare you speak that way to me? And how dare you leave that mess in my living room? I just cleaned it! Look at what you did! Why I ever gave birth to you is beyond me!

That, as well as many other things were indeed ‘beyond’ Mrs. Reese’s understanding, but at present she had no time to argue with her eldest son. The laundry that hung from her clothes line was almost dry, and she wanted to tend to it before she wiped down her window sills. Now! Clean it up or else!

Or else what? Ethan almost chuckled. What are you going to do to me? Yell at me? Hit me again? Go ahead! You can’t hurt me!

Oh yeah? Want to see me try? His mother responded as she essentially hyperventilated herself across the room, fists flailing, feet kicking, cussing, hissing, virtually grunting, spatula forgotten as it dropped to the floor below while she attacked her son with such ferocity that, despite his best efforts to defend himself, he fell right through the closed screen door and tumbled down the steps of the front stoop. You’d be surprised at what I can do!

And Ethan had to admit that this time, he was indeed surprised at what his mother could do. But Ethan had a few surprises of his own. And as he stumbled his way down the sidewalk, spitting out what was left of his one tooth and a whole lot of blood, he couldn’t wait to show his mother just what that was.

***

Him? Oh God? That’s Ethan Reese! The very pretty and extremely vicious Betsy Palmer replied to the new girl’s inquiry. Why do you want to know about him?

He’s been looking at me. That’s all, the new girl, whose name was Lourdes Chapman, said as they made their way down to Mrs. Schweitzer’s music class. It’s probably nothing. Really.

I wouldn’t be so sure of that. Betsy observed as she noted the retreating Ethan as he headed toward the nearest staircase. I think he’s fucking crazy! And so’s his mother! Everybody in town knows about his family. They’re all fucking nuts! If I were you, I’d steer clear of him.

Like I said, it’s probably nothing, Lourdes said as they entered the noisy music room, and headed for their assigned seats. I’m just going to forget about it.

***

Oh my God! What is that smell? Mrs. Reese cried out as she did her best to pull herself out of bed, ignoring the pain in her legs, her arms, and her shoulders. God! It’s terrible! And it was terrible, this smell. In fact, as she made her way toward the bathroom assuming that this terrible smell had to be plumbing-related, Mrs. Reese thought that she had never, ever in her life, smelled anything so noxious, so revolting, so filthy.

To her, the stench, which now seemed to permeate the entire upstairs of her home, was worse than a soiled diaper, worse than a rotten egg, even worse than an overloaded garbage can baking in the summer sun. As she entered the small bathroom, she anticipated the worst, and yet, there was nothing: sewage hadn’t backed up in either the toilet, the sink, or her bathtub.

She was so relieved, so grateful, when she discovered that her bathroom wasn’t swimming in shit, that she barely noticed the large, black smears of a grease-like substance that covered much of the wall next to her rusting medicine cabinet.

What the hell is this? Where is this coming from? She asked the empty house as she made her way down the staircase, kicking up dust bunnies the size of golf balls while swatting at the cobwebs that suddenly seemed to be everywhere. What’s the hell going on here?

The old widow searched high and low, and despite looking in every room, in every nook and cranny of the decaying house, Mrs. Reese could not find the source of this terrible, nauseating smell. However, much to her horror, she did unexpectedly find puddles of a grease-like substance all over her recently mopped kitchen floor, and some kind of mysterious-looking grit now coated all of her window sills.

Yet, as she trudged her way from the shambles of her dining room into her dilapidated living room and virtually collapsed into what was left of her easy chair, the origin of this horrendous, noxious odor remained a mystery.

***

Are you telling me you don’t smell that?

No, dear. I do. But what do you want me to do about it?

I don’t expect you to do anything about it! What I expect is that she’s going to do something about it!

How do you know it’s coming from her house?

Where else would it be coming from? Mr. Altobelli fumed as he popped the tab on another Coors Lite, his third in less than an hour. For Christ’s sake! The place looks like shit and now it smells like shit, too! Literally! I’m not kidding! I’ll bet her sewer pipes must have backed up, because that smell is definitely shit!

Oh! Must you keep saying that word? It’s so crass. Can’t you call it something else? His wife reprimanded as she busied herself in the nearby kitchen. And I don’t think that’s it. The word you keep saying. I think it’s something else.

Something else? Like what? Her husband scoffed as he downed the beer and belched loudly. What do you think it is?

Oh. I don’t know, Mrs. Altobelli lied as she absentmindedly wiped at her gleaming kitchen counters. But I don’t think it’s what you think it is. I think it’s something else.

"Yeah! Well, how can you be so sure! What makes you such an