The middle-aged couple crept through the dusty foyer, sidestepping towering stacks of yellowed newspapers and moldy antique furniture.
“When did it get like this?” she whispered.
“Like I’d know?” her brother answered.
The siblings hadn’t set foot in the crumbling Victorian in decades, but death had forced them to rekindle their relationship with their childhood home.
“In and out,” she said.
“Absolutely.”
They weren’t after very much, just a few valuable keepsakes, nothing more. Then, an upstairs door slammed. Twice. Overhead lights flickered.
The pair bolted for the front door, hearts pounding.
Even in death, Mother would not be ignored.
The Weekday One Hundred 