The House, the Hoarder, and the Rats

The House, the Hoarder, and the Rats

He never left the hallway light on

just the glow of an old TV

where voices bled into silence

and silence was always louder

Windows sealed with cardboard sheets

the kind that softened in the rain

he stuffed the gaps with rags and bags

then stood back, proud of the patchwork

You’d smell the place before you saw it

sour, warm, heavy as a secret

no one knocked twice

no one looked too long

He named them all, the little ones

nibbling under cupboard doors

left bowls of pasta by the fridge

cracked open tins for special guests

The rats came bold by wintertime

no longer crept, just walked and claimed

they nested in his dressing gown

and curled beside his boots at night

He told the boy from Social Services

they were his last real friends

said they listened when he spoke

and never asked for money

His sister came one Christmas Eve

stood outside with binbags

a scarf around her angry face

and grief beneath her gloves

She didn’t step beyond the path

just stared into the dark

he never came to meet her there

she left without a word

They found him weeks beyond the thaw

one hand resting on a broken broom

his eyes still open, one rat near

the only one that didn’t run

No flowers came, no prayers were said

just masks and gloves and quick disgust

they emptied out his life in skips

and burned the rest at council cost

The house is gone, a bare grey plot

the neighbours say it’s better now

but sometimes late, the cats act strange

and no one parks along that side