A House Is Nothing More Than That

The smell does not hit me at first. The new house I am moving in to is old, older than my grandparents. It is cobbled together from copper red bricks, cherry wood, and a roof so grey it almost looks black.

It is a quaint home, if a bit derelict for my tastes. Unfortunately, one can only afford so much on a woman's solo salary, more so as a teacher.

I creep into the house. The windows are boarded shut, and curtains drown out the excess light. It is dark, and dusty, and overall gloomy.

The house itself smells of mildew and mold. It is wet, in a way wood should not be, but underneath the rot I can almost picture what once was a prime place to raise a family. Little ones running amok underfoot. A tired, overbearing mother; an overworked, cranky father. The ghosts of past families haunt every crevice of this old manor.

A shiver runs down my spine as I pass a door tucked away in the hallway. The door is older than the rest of the house. The varnish is chipped and I can see spots in between where the rot has taken hold and flaked the wood off.

I am afraid to push the door for fear it will fall on me, but I persist. The door opens with a long, drawn out groan. I wince at the whine of underused hinges. I see no light switch immediately, so I turn on my phone flashlight.

The room is bare, and I can make out a few cobwebs in the corners of the stairwell. I shudder at the thought of spiders.

I make my way in carefully, cognizant of the age of the stairway and not wanting to fall through. How embarassing would that be.

Halfway down, I have to stop to gag at the smell that hits me. It is like meat that was left in the sun too long and the flies and larvae that made their familiar homes there. They nestled into crooks of fleshy membranes, made houses out of cracked ribs spilt open with soft, spongy marrow.

I have to stop to breathe through the vivid mental image.

In, out, in, out. I tell myself over and over until it becomes a litany of half-familiar words.

I am afraid the smell will cling to my clothing and hair.

I continue my trek, faster this time, wanting it to be over so I can close this door and pretend it doesn't exist.

The full room is empty. There are beams with light condensation, but the floor is- surprisingly- dry. I let myself settle for a moment, inhaling harshly through my teeth.

The smell. It is so awful and makes my eyes water. I can find no source for it. I see no loose floorboards, nor peeling walls. There is no rational explanation for the smell of- of meat. Of half-forgotten memories clinging to a waking mind, or perhaps the ghosts of the children who played upstairs.

I can see them so vividly. Round in the way children have the unique ability to be, full of life and pulsing, red-hot blood.

I shake the thoughts off with a physical shake of my head. I should not be thinking these things, I had promised my therapist I was better. I would be better. The intrusive thoughts were just that: thoughts.

I place my hand over one of the beams and recoil at the clammy feeling. I try to wipe the water off on my shirt, but it clings.

There are things here which are better left buried, of that I am certain.

There is nothing here. That, perhaps more than anything, raises the hairs on the back of my neck.

And yet, the stench remains.