…and it’s not my attitude (for once). I noticed a couple of days ago when I got home from work that something in the house smelled…not so fresh. I was distracted with various things, so I didn’t think to mention it to my housemate. Also, we have two dogs, so there are often scents in the air that are less than pleasant. Yesterday when I got home from work I realized that the odor I’d originally thought of as “trash” was really closer to “death” or “rotting flesh.” When I mentioned it to him, James didn’t notice it and couldn’t catch it even after a deep inhale. I thought it was just me. My dad would say that perhaps it was my upper lip.
I went to bed before James did knowing that I was the only person in the house having this wonderful olfactory experience. In the middle of the night, I was flipping around on the bed unable to sleep. Fairly status quo lately. James, who usually sleeps through my nightly routine, suddenly started talking. I don’t know why it scared me, but it did. I think I’m a little tightly wound. Anyway, he said that he smelled the odor before going to bed. Ahhh, vindication. It’s not my upper lip after all.
A survey of the attic did not turn up any carcasses, so it would appear that we have something rotting in the wall. Lucky us. According to internet sources, the odor peaks on day 4. We are on day 3. I may have to smear the inside of my nose with Vicks Vapo-Rub in order to get through the night, although the burning of my mucous membranes may be just as distracting.
I don’t know what’s up with this house, but there’s always something just a little off about it. One night a couple of weeks ago after a big rainstorm, James noticed a bubble in the wall had suddenly appeared. A wall zit. He poked a hole in the bubble and a bunch of rainwater came out. The fuck?
I blame the weirdness on the ghost of Chamus the Famous.