Pleasant Thicket Place

I know I shouldn’t be the least bit surprised; we’re the youngest occupants in the neighborhood, after all. We’re nothing like Ms. Hadley, who’s been retired since the Cold War — though, at her age, she cheats the system and pays a company to manage her estate. Up the hill are the Gillespies. North of them lives crotchety Mr. Frier. You can catch them both riding their mowers every other day.

Trim, mow, repeat.

As for us, I like to think we try our best. If it’s a rainy week, the lawn’s lucky to see the underside of our mower — and by then, it feels too far gone. Even on dry days, we drag our feet, muttering, “Work was hard today,” as if that explains everything. Honestly, there are only so many hours in a day. Do we really intend to spend them in ratty tennis shoes, pushing a mower through knee-high grass thickened by our own procrastination? Of course not.

Come to find, we were being watched.

This was not the HOA, as we initially feared — with their parasitic-like grasp on the homes in the neighborhood over. No, this was something entirely different — bigger, more powerful.

This all hit the fan right before the start of a new month, when I noticed a fluorescent green piece of paper crumpled in our lawn. Logically, I ignored it. Plenty of people littered, and it had likely found its way into our yard like a lost puppy. Did I always dispose of that litter? No — that was the job of the Midwest winds. Besides, if it hadn’t been for its vibrant color, I wouldn’t have seen it at all in the thicket of our ever-growing suburban grass.

It wasn’t until days later that my husband, drenched in sweat and grime, dropped the familiar piece of litter on my lap.

“‘Buy a house,’ they said. ‘It’ll be fun!’” he muttered, angrily. “This isn’t what I signed up for.” It was clear he had accidentally hit it with the lawn mower, slicing it in half. Before I could respond to his frustrations, he walked out of sight, leaving me with the torn, mud-covered green paper.

In bold letters, it read:

CITY OF DUNNING GROVE

Department of Neighborhood Standards

NOTICE OF VIOLATION — PUBLIC SAFETY THREAT

The pit of my heart sank to the basement of my stomach: Public Safety Threat? I braced myself for the rest, unsure how the city could come up with such stern language to describe us, of all people. You’d think the City would know where the real threat was — not our polished, clean-curbed streets that all ended in cookie-cutter cul-de-sacs.

The notice continued:

You are hereby notified that a Code Inspector of the City of Dunning Grove has determined the condition of 403 Pleasant Thicket Place, to be a menace and dangerous to the neighborhood, families, and residents of the City, and thereby constitutes a nuisance.

I stared at the word dangerous like it might grow legs and strangle me. A menace? Dangerous to families? What exactly did they think was hiding in the grass — my great uncle Vernon with his Tommy gun? Sure, he had strong opinions about property lines and threatened the local youths with his colorful expletives — but he’d been dead since ’96.

Regretfully, the notice continued on — appearing more like a short story contest entry.

You are further notified that, in order to abate said nuisances from the premises, you are required to cut the weeds, bushes, and tree overgrowth. The nuisance must be removed within fourteen (14) calendar days of this notice. If you fail to act, a summons to appear in court will be issued.

NO FURTHER NOTICE WILL BE GIVEN.

Please be aware that failure to comply may result in a summons to appear before the Dunning Grove Municipal Court on misdemeanor charges, which may lead to foreclosure.

I could hardly comprehend the words leaping off the green fluorescence — threatening foreclosure over a lawn with subjectively long overgrowth. Sure, we’d let the grass go, sagging like the beer belly of a fifty-year-old alcoholic — but ruler’s honor, it wasn’t any longer than eight inches.

Perhaps one or two dandelion weeds found a home on our lawn — but that was nothing to foreclose over. Mr. Wilfred, a couple of streets up from us, across from the middle school, had his lawn covered in a thick blanket of dandelions. In fact, the entire middle school population could practically blow a wish on those airborne seeds every day for a month. Where was his foreclosure notice?

“Honey, you could’ve told me sooner we were a menace and a danger to our entire city. Talk about a major oversight.” I hollered, waiting for his dense footsteps to return from the other side of the house — they did, and now our faces matched in a red hue of frustration.

“What I don’t understand,” he said, rubbing his temples, “is why we have to live in the one city with the sadistic Code Inspector who threatens us with a misdemeanor. Our friends in the City of Brookvale got a notice for their lawn, and you know what happened? The city paid to have it cut.”

“Brookvale,” I scoffed. “Somehow we have the mortgage payment of a Brookvale home, and the inspector of an insipid dictator, high on weed-killer.” I ranted, but my husband didn’t laugh — not even a curve of the lips into a smirk. Instead, he crossed his arms and stared at the notice again like it might suddenly go up in a rage of flames.

That’s when I pulled out my phone, dialing the number listed at the bottom — the one for the Neighborhood Standards City Administrator. I received a faint click, and then the dead tone of a line that went nowhere. I might as well have stood at the precipice of a ravine and shouted at the top of my lungs — at least then I would’ve gotten an echo in return.

“No answer. Seems odd.” I set the phone down, mystified and not ready to have both a criminal record and be homeless. One or the other — but not both.

“Honey, didn’t you just mow? We’re in the clear for when they come back, right? It’s dated…” I glanced at the top of the notice. My vision flickered — a single stressed blackout, quick and pulsing, “thirteen days ago.”

“We cleaned it up right under the wire, I’d say.” He replied, his breathing having calmed a little bit, but something continued to feel off.

The afternoon light began to dim — not all at once, like a cloud passing over the sun. No, this was slower. Deliberate.

“I don’t recall the news saying there would be an eclipse today. Why is it getting so dark?” He says, his left eyebrow curved with a familiar furrow of concern.

But for me, the darkness brought a heavy feeling in my chest. A sort of existential dread at the pit of my stomach, tightening the muscles in the back of my neck.

In seconds, we went from the bright, white light of the afternoon to full, visible night.

“That is no eclipse,” I whispered. I grabbed his hand, and together we crept to the hallway, peeking toward the front door — the one fitted with decorative glass that normally cast cheerful patterns across our foyer tiles.

Emphasis on normally.

Now, all that could be seen through the window to the outside was a wall of green leaves, overtaking the front of our house — covering every crack and crevice. I could almost feel the dark, eerie vines pressing against the walls.

“I thought you said you mowed…”

“I swear, I did.” He replied.

Breaking the silence of the leaves, a knock suddenly shook the house. We looked at each other in stunned confusion — then, as if pulled by the same thread of dread, both turned sharply toward the door. The greenery was too dense to see through — but someone was out there. Someone in our former manicured lawn, now turned unruly jungle. I pressed my ear to the door, listening for any sign of life.

“Yes?” I called. “Anybody there?” A rustle came from the other side of the door. Slow. Then, a voice, muffled but firm.

“This is Officer Wilhurn, Dunning Grove Code Enforcement Division. This property is a menace and a danger to the community and is now scheduled for immediate foreclosure.”

I froze. My husband reached for the handle.

“Do not open that door,” I whispered.

The vines pressed tighter against the glass — forcing it to shatter across our feet. Through the broken pane, we saw a sliver of our lawn. The grass was as tall as the trees — years’ worth of growth in a span of minutes, stretching far beyond our property line. The house creaked around us, the walls straining against the pressure of the vines that now threatened to break through.

And yet, it was clear: the menace and the danger did exist.

For out there, in the midst of the yard that threatened to swallow all of us whole, came unrelenting screams of bloodcurdling terror.