THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF SHELDON, W-APOLOGIES TO POE

"An environmental assessment conducted in March found that visible fungal growth on the first and second floors of the Central Station...and at the second-floor pole slide area, where fungal growth was found to exceed allowable levels, Fire Chief Jarrett Sheldon said." Brownsville Herald, June 19, 2021

Special to El Rrun-Rrun

I was in downtown Brownsville and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Sheldon. I know not how it was – but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit.

I looked upon the scene before me – upon the mere station, and the simple landscape features of Sheldon's domain – upon the bleak walls – upon the vacant eye-like windows – upon a few rank sedges – with an utter depression of soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the after-dream of the reveler upon crack – the bitter lapse into everyday life – the hideous dropping off of the reveler upon piedra – the hideous dropping off of the veil.

There was an humidity, a stinking, a sickening of the lungs and heart. There was mold in the House of Sheldon.

A memo from him – which, in its wildly importunate nature – had admitted of no other than a formal, personal reply. With obvious nervous agitation, the writer spoke of acute bodily illness – of a mental disorder which oppressed him. A suffocating gagging which left little doubt. Sheldon was suffering from mold inhalation.
About the whole station and domain there hung an atmosphere peculiar to themselves and their immediate vicinity – an atmosphere which had no affinity with the air of heaven, but which had reeked up from the decayed beams, and the gray wall, and the silent puddle on Adams Street – a pestilent and mystic vapor, dull, sluggish, faintly discernible, and leaden-hued. Mold.

I scanned more narrowly the real aspect of the building. Its principal feature seemed to be that of an excessive antiquity. The discoloration of ages had been great. Minute fungi overspread the whole exterior, hanging in a fine tangled web-work from the eaves, the musty, deadly mold. 

No portion of the masonry had fallen; and there appeared to be a wild inconsistency between its still perfect adaptation of parts, and the crumbling condition of the individual stones, the spiderweb-like stain of creeping, sludgy, mold. 

In this there was much that reminded me of the specious totality of old wood-work which has rotted for long years in some neglected vault, with no disturbance from the breath of the external air. Beyond this indication of extensive decay, however, the fabric gave little token of instability. Perhaps the eye of a scrutinizing observer might have discovered a barely perceptible crack which, extending from the roof of the building in front, made its way down the wall in a zigzag direction, until it became lost as a reflection in the sullen waters of the Adams Street puddle.

It was the Fall of the House of Sheldon and it – and his soul – were mired in the dank, musty poison of the conquering mold...