Aunt Lily-Anne has a messy house. Heaps of clothes cover the floor, creating a nice warm spot for roaches and rats to hide. Boxes of various sizes are stacked high to the ceiling. Sometimes when she walks past them, they sway back and forth, threatening to topple over and fall onto a collection of broken patio chairs. When I was younger, I hated visiting Aunt Lily-Anne. The smell of sewage sludge in her bathroom mixed with the stench of rotting food made my nostrils burn. I felt sick from the moment I walked through her front door and didn’t feel better until I was home, safe inside my bedroom where I could see my floor, the walls, and the television.
But, that was years ago. I’m older now—almost sixteen—and much more aware of who Aunt Lily-Anne is—or rather what she is. Mom, Aunt Lily-Anne’s sister, told me that Aunt Lily-Anne is a hoarder. Mom said that hoarding is a disease and that Aunt Lily-Anne needs help to overcome it. For years, she has been trying to convince Aunt Lily-Anne to get counseling, but Aunt Lily-Anne refuses, so mom doesn’t visit her anymore. “She’ll come around,” Mom would say, “when she realizes that her family won’t come see her because of this mess, she’ll get help. I know it.”
Mom seems to have the answer to every problem.
Mom really thinks that staying away from Aunt Lily-Anne will force her to seek help, but I know better. Aunt Lily-Anne will never get counseling. She won’t ever decide that enough is enough and get rid of all the junk that fills her house. I call it “junk” because that’s what it is. A psychologist on a television show once said that the non-hoarder sees trash, but to the hoarder, it’s all valuable treasure. Hoarders have been through some type of loss and fear losing more—a woman doesn’t want to throw out the sneakers full of holes because those were the shoes she was wearing when her now-deceased husband proposed to her, or a man cannot even consider tossing out a baby blanket riddled in dirt and covered in mold because it once belonged to his only son who died while serving his country.
Uncle John, Aunt Lily-Anne’s husband, disappeared one day without so much a single goodbye. Most people assumed that Aunt Lily-Anne held onto all of the stuff inside her house because she sees it as tokens of memories from the life she shared with her husband before he left. Many people believe that Aunt Lily-Anne knows, deep down, that the things she hoards is nothing more than junk. She often acquires even the most soiled of items and throws them into the steaming compost her house has become. She buys fresh food only to leave it in the middle of the kitchen floor, which only serves to keep the rats and roaches coming back for more. People assume that her behavior is a cry for help. The trouble with assumptions is that they’re not always correct.
Aunt Lily-Anne is a lot of things, but she is not a hoarder.
“Alexander, boy, quit your daydreaming and get your buns over here. Can’t you see we have work to do?” Aunt Lily-Anne barked impatiently.
I pulled my eyes away from the dead cat lying next to the bed in Aunt Lily’s spare bedroom. Aunt Lily-Anne stormed into the room and glared at me, hands on her hips. Her gray eyebrows, speckled with white, were knitted close together and resembled a caterpillar resting on her face.
“What do you want me to do, auntie?” I asked.
“What do you think I want to do, boy? Get ‘em off the bed so I can get rid of the sheets.”
I turned my attention away from Aunt Lily-Anne and over to the bed. Atop the worn-out mattress was a man just as dead as the cat. I wrapped my hands around his cold ankles and gingerly walked backward, trying to not trip over anything. The body made a sickening thud as it hit the garbage-laden floor.
“Good. Now go and get those bags. Hurry up now, boy.” Aunt Lily-Anne stepped over to the body and shooed me out of the room.
“Okay, auntie.” I answered.
Upon leaving, I heard Aunt Lily-Anne hum Pachelbel’s Cannon in D Major. She was once an amazing pianist. Her fingers would glide over the keys with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel.
Now, she kills people.
Aunt Lily-Anne has a house filled with stuff, but she is not a hoarder. She’s a serial killer. When you really think about it, being a hoarder is a good cover for a serial killer. No one ever wants to come over because the house is disgusting and the smell is putrid. You’re free to murder and destroy the evidence at your leisure. The chances of someone ever finding out are slim and the smell of death is hidden by the smell of rotting garbage. That was how Aunt Lily-Anne murdered Uncle John and the six other people she has murdered, including the man in the spare room.
If hoarding is a serious behavioral condition in which people hold onto those things that others would consider worthless, serial killing must be the complete opposite. After all, what could be more valuable than a person’s life? They say hoarding sometimes runs in families. I wonder if the same can be said for serial killers.
I wonder if Mom has the answer for that one, too.
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Wow, this is a great story! I never understood the reason to be a hoarder, but I guess it does come from people who are afraid to let go of the past and keep everything.
But I like the twist. I wasn’t expecting Aunt Lily-Anne to be a serial killer!
Thank you so much! I’ve always been fascinated by the human mind and have seen countless episodes of Hoarders and documentaries about serial killers. I figured it would be interesting to combine the two!
Awsome blog! I am loving it!! Will come back again. I am bookmarking your feeds also
Thank you so much! I’m happy you enjoyed it!
Great website. Keep up with the good posts. Bookmarked your website by the way
Love your blog!