Worthy Witness

The smell of mold tightened her chest; it was hard to breathe and even harder to cough.  She could see the green and black spores climbing the wall of the walk-in safe.   This room was built on slab, as was the stone-floored, wood-beamed room with fireplace that was already consumed.  She looked through the small panes of the garden doors to the room she loved most and cried.   If the rain continued for much longer, the airborne, reproductive spores would find favorable surfaces in  other parts of her vintage, historic home to supply the nutrients; its beams, the Ogee wood frames that held mirrors and pictures, the fabric of the heavily upholstered furniture and drapes, the Aubusson rugs that were framed by wide-board, Chestnut floors.

The six weeks of May into June were beyond the norm; it had rained without mercy, the temperature was 80 degrees and less during the day and stayed around 68 degrees in the evenings; it wasn’t the heat, it was the humidity of 80 percent and upwards that was causing all the damage.  She wrote in her diary, chronicling the progress, “After six weeks of rain, my riverfront property resembles the rain forest in Central America I had once toured.”

There were several days of brownouts when all electricity along the Northeast coast, from Canada to New York was shut down by of a rolling blackout that began in Canada.  Nuclear power reactors were immediately closed down, and only those who lived off the grid had some sense of normalcy.   Several days after the failure, the government admitted there was a problem restoring the utility.  Experts throughout the world worked on the problem.  Power was restored to her hamlet about two weeks later, but not before the mold had taken hold.

Christy was an older woman, proud and independent.  Her husband had long ago died, and they had no family.  She was entirely on her own, an invisible woman to those outside her little acre.   Christy’s husband was a scientist who worked out of his home, and she was his soul mate.  When he died, she became more of a recluse, even having her groceries delivered.  Old Charlie took care of the grounds, and they rarely exchanged words.  She was living in a home that would soon consume her with its visible colonies of fungus.  She prayed that the weather would break so that she might open windows and doors to let the sun remedy the situation.  She had plenty of Clorox, and it was her choice for cleaning, however, even at full strength, the liquid burning through rubber gloves and nearly overcoming her, it would not touch the fine, almost picturesque art form created by oxygen and water.  From the outside, all looked normal, but inside, the plaster and wallpaper were taking on the appearance of mottled skin, and it was deadly she knew.

The sun came out that following Sunday.  On Monday, old Charlie came to mow the lawn and trim the bushes.  He found her body on the white couch, next to the waterfall where the sun would have simmered on the rocks.  She was dressed for the garden with a floppy hat and shears in her hand.  An open book of poetry was on the ground.   Initially, he thought  she was resting, and went about the front of the house, clipping and whacking, mowing and pulling.

Returning to the back yard, there were swarms of butterflies, hatched by the warm sun, around his employer.  She still appeared to be sleeping.  He went closer, and the butterflies scattered to the edge of the rose garden.  It was then that he noticed her skin.  Her arms were mottled in green and black.  The design travelled up her neck and onto her face.  She was consumed.