“Welcome, visitor! Just what is your name?”
“Plum. Artemis Plum.”
“Welcome, Plum. Call me Mr. Conner. I’m sure you’ll like it here, as you are highly irregular. Highly!” He hopped off his stool. “Come with me.” And then he waddled off into the house, leaving me no choice but to pick up my suitcase and follow.
The inside of the house was musty, and also dusty, with a small amount of light coming in from the dirty windows and the rest of the light coming from some unevenly spaced oil lamps. The floor was either covered with a really ugly rug, or a hundred years worth of grime. Dust bunnies the size of tumbleweeds were squashed into the corners, the cracked leather couch was covered in a somewhat-clear tarp. Ivy spilled through an open window and pooled across the linoleum, like an invasive snake. There was a broken chandelier still handing from its chain, books everywhere but the empty bookshelf, and the kitchen door hanging askew on a twisted hinge.
“Oh my,” I said. Mr. Conner just smiled.