Mrs. Jones

It was like some giant had lifted off the roof and dumped in the entire contents of a thrift store.

The huge room seemed cramped and choked by teetering piles of boxes, furniture and other clutter.

Tall wardrobes bursting with clothes, cardboard cartons vomiting sheafs of paper onto the dirty floor, stacks of chairs missing legs, broken toys, soiled dolls.

The house reeked of damp mildew, cat piss, rotting food, spoiled milk.

Basted over everything was a sickly artificial scent I later learned came from hundreds and hundreds of dryer sheets Mrs. Jones scattered over the piles to discourage the vermin.

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