Have you ever heard of the Collyer Brothers? Theirs is one of the more interesting tales in American history, if not a bit morbid. As a brief introduction, they were a pair of brothers who lived in New York City. During their lives there in Harlem, they became infamous for their hoarding. It wasn’t known until their rather macabre deaths the extent of their compulsion. To this day the impact the Collyer Brothers left on the city is still somewhat well known.
I’m an amateur historian. Although I don’t technically have an area of expertise, I pride myself on the era of the late 19th to early 20th century. Furthermore, I’ve always been more interested in microhistory. This means that I enjoy learning about the lives of less impactful people and events. Being from Harlem originally, the Collyer Brothers have long been a fascination of mine. Naturally, when some of the artifacts auctioned away from the Collyer estate were put up for sale, I jumped at the opportunity. Finally, I had the chance to get in the weeds with some serious, firsthand artifacts of one of my guiltiest pleasures.
The collection I bought consisted mostly of documents found at the household. Not the flashiest things taken from the estate, but any historian knows that documents, especially primary sources like these, are invaluable. It was while looking through these bills of sale, family letters, and other such documents that I found something that stood apart. The rest of this post will be my transcription of the papers I have found. Afterwards, I’ll share my thoughts. Especially those that unnerve me.
-————————————————————
A wintery gust rolled through the house. The frail, old man shivered as the frigid tendrils of wind slipped in through his collar and ran down his spine. His folded arms tightened. His ghostly breath hung in the air. The fire had died in his sleep. As he sat in his own armchair, Homer turned his attention to Langley’s weathered, dark green one. The once brilliant reds of the fabric roses now muted to filthy brown blotches.
“Where are you, Langley?” Homer muttered to himself.
Another wicked chill pierced through Homer’s shirt. His coat, at this point little more than a faded cowhide, hung on the coat rack, just out of arm’s reach. He extended his hand. His long, unkempt, and yellowing nails just scratched at the sleeves of the leather coat, but in extending his arm, his ill-fitted shirt pulled back. The wind stung at the open skin of his wrist.
“Damned thing!” Homer snapped, pulling his arm back in and rubbing sensation back into his wrist. The wind rattled the windows of the decrepit mansion.
Undoubtedly, Langley had moved the coat rack. Perhaps he’d nudged it aside on his way out to the market square. When Homer had fallen into his midday nap, the rack was directly next to his chair. And his walking stick. Where was his walking stick? Homer hunched his head as far over the edge of the chair as he could manage. His legs were old and they were beginning to give in to the condition. Walking was manageable only with the aid of his walnut cane. Standing up on his own was out of the question. But the walking stick was on the floor right next to his chair. It had only fallen over; likely from the gusts. Homer decided that the cane was an easier accomplishment than the coat. Once he had the stick, he could pull the coat rack closer.
The first thought was to nudge the stick closer with his foot, but the few muscles left in his appendage refused to obey him. Homer slammed his fist on the arm of his chair. His leg had been stiff and numb for months, but now it felt like a wooden club attached to his body. He massaged his left knee, trying to work any sensation out of the flesh. After several minutes, and another wicked chill, he gave up. The leg had no feeling whatsoever. Although the thought of hypothermia being the cause crossed his mind, he knew certainly the true cause was the worsening of his disease.
Homer let his head fall back against the chair. He faced the broken ceiling, but his eyes darted to the coat rack. He let his gaze trail the seams of the fabric until it reached the table below. His meal from the night before still sat there. On top of the plate were scraps of meat and crusted potatoes. His steak knife rested among the clutter next to the plate. His mind began to wonder. He grabbed the knife with a trembling hand. His knuckles hit a cup which fell and shattered on the floor, decorating the piles of clutter and dust with shards of glass. Homer tightened his grip on the knife and brought it to him. How numb was his leg? Homer hesitated, telling himself no good could come from the experiment. But curiosity got the better of him. With one hand he pulled up his pant leg, and with the other he pierced his calf. Not deep, but only enough to be sure. It was as he feared.
Homer set the knife back down. As a bead of wine dark blood formed from the wound, yet another gust struck him, and now his frustration was at a peak. He grumbled as he forced himself to his feet. He pushed his arms to their limits, trembling, shaking at his body weight, but somehow he managed to get up. Now he smirked and let out a slight chuckle. He was not too far gone just yet. But his mistake was in reaching for his cane rather than his coat. He leaned over to grab it but felt a tug in his gut when he realized that he had gone too far, leaned too far. His muscles could not cope. His arm was not close enough to the ground to reach the cane, and yet he had gone too low to pull himself back up with his own strength. He crumbled. And now he raged. He cursed and shouted as much as his waning lungs would allow. The wooden planks below him were cold. The air around him was cold. His muscles were exhausted and unfit. He gave up the fight. He simply laid there, staring at the piles of clutter filling the rest of the sitting room. Mountains of rare collector’s items mixed with old car parts. Expensive artworks, vases, and sculptures. And garbage, refuse, and rubble. For a moment he wondered how it had gotten to this point, but he did not dwell on the thought. He could not dwell on the thought. For as disgusting the condition of his house was, he could not do a thing to change it. He was too weak and too poor now. And even if he could change it, he knew that he would not. His greed had always been this way. Even before his body was sick, his mind was sick. He was plagued to live in a junkyard of his own making. One that he despised, yet craved more so.
The only thing in this world he cared for more than possessions, was his brother Langley. Langley, who cared for Homer, and who had been the only one to never abandon him, despite his lifestyle. His greed. His gluttony, sloth, envy. Truly his collection of sins was as broad and indiscriminate as the rest of his hoard.
“Please hurry home, Langley,” Homer muttered. Then he accepted his situation, and rested his cheek on the floor.
-——————————————————————-
“Good God, Homer!”
The old man opened his eyes. His sight was blurry from his nap, but he saw the familiar skinny shape of his younger brother, Langley, rushing to his aide. He grabbed Homer and helped him to his feet.
“Are you alright?” he asked. Homer could not make out his facial expression yet, his vision was still foggy. But the bushy mustache under a long pointed nose. The bald crown of his head matched with wild, wavy locks of hair underneath. That silhouette was the calling card of his brother.
“I’m fine. I’m fine,” Homer insisted as he slumped back into his chair. “I fell over trying to get my coat.”
Another gust swept through the house.
“Grab it for me, will you? The chills are dreadful.” Now Homer’s vision had cleared up completely. He could make out his surroundings. Langley gave him his coat, and tried to help him put it on, to which Homer chastised him. “I’m not a child, you know.”
“No,” Langley said, walking to his chair opposite the fireplace. “A child could pick themselves up, yes?”
Homer let out a guttural chuckle. “How do you know I didn’t simply prefer the ground?” Langley shared a bemused snort at this. Even now with his coat on, the frigidness of the room lingered on him. “Put a fire on, won’t you, Langley?”
The younger brother got up from his chair without complaint. “I could offer a hand,” Homer said.
“It’s no trouble, Homer,” Langley insisted. “Besides, I don’t want you falling in.” Homer chuckled again.
“Homer,” Langley continued, not looking away from the tinder. “How is your leg? Is it feeling better?” When Homer did not answer, Langley turned and looked over his shoulder at him. “It’s worse isn’t it?”
“Much worse.” Homer rubbed his leg again, hoping this time to feel something, but nothing came. He remembered his experiment from earlier. As soon as Langley had placed the logs in their right spot, and the fire began to grow, Homer spoke up. “I found something rather peculiar today.”
Langley stopped just in front of his tan lounge chair. “It wasn’t It, was it?”
“No, no, no. Of course not. I haven’t seen that thing in some time,” Homer assured him.
Langley faced Homer completely, taking a step forward. “Then what?”
Homer hesitated for a moment. Then, with some effort, leaned over and rolled up his pant leg to reveal the incision on his calf. Langley squinted at first, perhaps not understanding what he was witnessing. And why would he? Normally a cut would be red and bloody. But this cut was black as coal. The muscle underneath decayed and ashy. The skin surrounding the cut was sickly white, and hard as stone. The bead of wine dark blood from earlier it seemed was the last of its kind in the old man’s leg.
“This is no disease, Langley. This can only have been caused by… well… It. That thing”
Langley met Homer’s eyes. The concern and confusion upon it were only rivaled by the fear. He worked to regain his composure. Brushed off his trousers and said, “What… what can we do?”
“There is no longer any we, Langley. Whatever the monster is, it has clearly anchored itself to my flesh.” Langley kept eye contact, challenging Homer to state his intentions aloud. Homer obliged and said it plainly. “You must leave.”
“No.” Langley said plainly. Firmly. “I will not leave you here to rot away. To fade alone in your filth, Homer.”
“You’d rather rot away in my filth with me?” Homer inquired. He waved the thought away with his hand. “This is not a suggestion, Langley. I am ordering you to leave. I do not want you in my house any longer. You have shown me far too much patience and kindness for me to allow it.”
“Homer, your condition worsens by the day. If I left tomorrow, and you awoke unable to move your legs, you would starve.” Langley paced, his arms moving emphatically. “You already cannot raise yourself up from a minor collapse—”
“Damnit, Langley! This conversation is finished! I will not have you in this home a day longer!” The brief fit of rage left Homer breathless. He took a moment to gather his energy. He coughed through a scratchy, dry throat. “I will not sit back and let the only family to ever care for me… die alongside me.” Homer looked to the fire roaring behind Langley, but dared not meet his gaze directly. “That is final.”
Langley shook his head and sat down. He put his chin in his palm and looked past the clutter and out the window. As dusk light fell upon his face, Langley said, “Do you really think I would be any safer on the road?”
“Given there’s no monsters on the road, yes, Langley, I dare say you’ll fare better than I.”
Langley did not look away from the window. The shadows from the fire flickered across his face. “I saw it today, Homer. The monster. It.”
Homer straightened himself. With a quivering lip inquired, “Where? In the kitchen again? It hasn’t made it past the first floor has it?”
Langley shook his head. “You misunderstand me, Homer. I did not see It here.” Langley took a moment to continue. Before he did, he turned back and faced Homer at an angle. Now as his face was lit by the flames directly, Langley appeared much older, and much more haunted. The salt and pepper waves of his unkempt hair hung down, obscuring his eyes from Homer’s view. “I saw it in town. Just out of sight, like always. Just near the edge of a wall. Just out of sight so that I questioned my own senses. It was in an alleyway across the street from me. And it was staring… straight… at… me.”
Homer’s breathing increased in speed as he took in this information. The misty condensation passed his eyes. His heart beat, and his lip trembled as he pleaded to himself, “That’s impossible. No, no, this can’t be.”
“It is, Homer,” Langley said with no emotion. “I’ve thought of it all day. You see, that Thing isn’t just tied to you anymore. Even if I did leave, It would follow. Perhaps It would take you first, then find me. Perhaps It would follow me and leave you to starve. All that I’m certain of, Homer, is that I cannot leave you. Now more than ever, we’re in this together.”
Homer swallowed hard. His voice nearly cracked as he muttered, “Together then. And when we die, let us hope it will be quick. And let us hope the afterlife is kinder to us than this one ever was.”
-————————————————————-
Have you noticed what unnerved me so much about these documents? Yes, obviously the conversation between the two is rather preternatural, but it’s quite common to get authors embellishing the story of the Collyer’s given the nature of it. It is precisely the fact that this reads like the telling of a story. This isn’t an account from either of the brothers. It’s written in the third person, and as far as I’m aware, no other person lived in the house. I called the previous owner to inquire about the possibility that some drafts of a fictional story made it in with the collection, but the owner denied it. Some parts of the collection were never touched, even immediately following the emptying of the house.
These were only some of the pages, I’m sure, but they were the only ones of this kind within the letterbox. I have mixed feelings about all this. On the one hand, if what’s written is true, it disturbs me quite a lot. On the other hand, though, the thought of me being the first person to read through these documents is exhilarating. I still have many more boxes full of documents to sift through. If I find more like these, I’ll post an update.