The Neighborhood of Empty Houses
By: Vincent Aliquo
Tags: Storytelling, Exploration, Abandoned, Nonfiction, Writing

Photos by Vincent Aliquo

I came to realize my neighbors were nothing but empty houses. Homes over an extended grassy lot piled high with a diverse collection of belongings — from furniture and books to anniversary gifts. It has been over three years since I found these homes, and only recently, in my quarantined state, has my curiosity grown. Encapsulated in a single photo, a wooden plaque with white, hand-painted letters reading “HAPPY ANNIVERSARY” remains a nagging mystery. Dated 1980, the center of the plaque held two horseshoes, each painted with a couple’s name. Beside it, inside a plastic sleeve, a card dedicated to them with a pressed — now unrecognizable — flower, and a four-leaf clover. The photo brought back a rush of memories of the surreal parcel of land I found it in.

The anniversary plaque.

I was staying at my uncle’s place over the spring of 2017. I had nowhere to go for spring break, and my uncle, who lived in North Carolina, welcomed me to his home. This was the second time I visited his residence; in the fall of 2016, my university forced me to evacuate the city because of Hurricane Matthew. At the time, my concern about the hurricane overpowered my curiosity about the neighboring houses.

With no hurricane to distract me, it was impossible to not think about the houses. Only a thin layer of new growth separated me from the first building; a brick barn which loomed ominously over the woods. Its sight pierced my confidence when I walked past. I frequented these woods with the hope to photograph the wildlife; waking up before five to watch the world come alive. The forest bed was blanketed in dry, hay-like vegetation and formed canopies from fallen branches. My uncle told me that these woods used to be an old farm, and there was evidence of this; the ground was littered with old farm tools, teapots, and small home utensils, which small trees sometimes pushed out of the earth — such as, unsettlingly enough, a large saw blade. Often, I saw chicken wire strangle the base of trees; one such wire held the skull of a decaying canine.

The homes that surrounded my uncle’s property made me increasingly anxious. I used one of my early mornings to investigate — at least the brick barn. I trod carefully across the new growth. Shafts of crepuscular rays split the cold mist, revealing the decrepitude of the barn. Indeed, it was unused. A rusted mechanical hoe, metal shards, and scraps of wood littered the perimeter of the building. On closer inspection, the barn’s brick appearance was just mimicry; a thick rubber siding, peeling off from water damage, revealed weather-worn wood. Dead vines hugged the building, while pine trees, at a minimum of four years old, found its home around the tin awning. Inside was a thick layer of dirt, pine, wooden planks, and troughs containing only dead birds.

The barn opened to a hazy chartreuse field; the dew-laden grass and the wings of thousands of insects glowed from the morning light. The light revealed the features of another building past the barn; a two-story home, embedded in the forest — its roof bearing multiple holes. The first floor, made of layered concrete, was largely intact, however, the rest of the home made of wood had little to no walls. The poor structural integrity, made evident by its worrying crepitation, made it a plausible scenario that venturing inside would bring me harm. I only briefly ascended to the second floor, however, the roosting hornets above the staircase triggered my immense fear of aggressive, stinging insects, and promptly left the building.