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One can only imagine what the neighbours thought as the random bits and pieces began to accumulate on Terry’s front lawn. It happened slowly, with a few things gathering in the far corner of the yard. But as the days and weeks passed, the pile grew a little bigger. And then bigger still.

There was an influx of junk whenever there were hard rubbish collections in the area. No-one ever saw Terry go through the items that had been left on the kerb for collection, but somehow a piece or two of most people’s off casts ended up on Terry’s front lawn. Old exercise bikes without pedals, bits of metal shelving with gaping, rusted holes, brooms with broken handles or missing heads, they all seemed to find their way to his place.

To be fair, items were stacked and sorted, so there was some sense of order. But it was the sheer volume of stuff that tended to make people shudder as they walked past. Most were just relieved that they didn’t have to live next door to Terry, or behind his house. Surely, it had to be some sort of vermin wonderland with all of that junk stored all over the yard?

There was no fence on Terry’s property, but by either good management or dumb luck, the contents were all kept within the boundary, so people could still pass by. Some locals had, of course, complained to the local council about the health hazard that was the junkyard. Official letters were issued, but as the items were on Terry’s property and not causing a direct risk — yet — to others, there was little that could be done.

Kids liked to imagine monsters hiding among the piles of stuff, and some of the more creative locals could see the odd item which had the potential to be restored or reused in some way. But whilst the junk was there for everyone to see, Terry was much harder to spot as the years went on. He surely left the house to get food and supplies, but actual sightings were rare, and no-one could recall the last time they’d actually spoken to him.

Then a rumour started about a body in the junkyard. Most didn’t take it seriously, speculating that it was probably an old Halloween decoration that Terry had picked up from somewhere. The council was contacted, letters were sent, but no updates were forthcoming. Then someone from the local newspaper turned up, and was watched by some neighbours as she carefully picked her way through the teetering piles of junk to the front door of Terry’s house. She knocked repeatedly on the door, announcing who she was and why she was there. After a couple of minutes, she turned, making her way back through the collections of empty tin cans and broken toys. When she reached the footpath, she stopped and called the police. There was something very wrong in the junkyard.

This piece was written to a prompt on the Writer’s Digest website. The Junkyard: there’s something hinky in the local junkyard.

Photo: Waste to Art, Lithgow