A short story

I walk into my bedroom and slam the door shut. Sweat drips down my forehead and back as I tear off my work clothes. After an eight-hour day of smiling and agreeing with rude customers, Khakis and polo shirts can be surprisingly suffocating.

A bizarre smell wafts across the room as I toss my baseball hat on my bed. My nose scrunches in disgust. Do I smell like that? I pick my clothes up off the ground and sniff them, before tossing them in my wooden hamper. Why has no one said anything? I would tell my friends if they smelled like that.

I call for my roommate, Leon. He takes his time walking over to my side of the apartment. It is almost midnight after all.

“Do you smell something weird?” I ask, beckoning him into my room like some cartoon villain. Leon rubs his tired eyes. He raises a curious eyebrow but sniffs the air nonetheless.

“I don’t smell anything weird. Well, maybe something different. I can’t put my finger on it.”

“It’s a mystery never to be solved, I guess. But I do still have to sleep in here,” I groan.

“Not for that much longer.”

“Only two weeks. Thank God,” I sigh. Leon nods in agreement before stuttering, “Can I go back to my room now?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure, of course.”

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Later that night, I lay in bed sniffing that offputting, earthy smell while staring at the myriad of tapestries covering my walls. Those are going to be a bitch to take down. Why does moving even exist as a concept? Why do landlords? I shouldn’t go down this path again. I have enough to worry about. If I just turn on my diffuser or light a candle, then the smell will disappear. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

It’s 2:30 AM. Why am I not asleep yet? That God damn smell. Is it a ghost? Do ghosts smell? Maybe their ectoplasm? Okay, backtrack. My first thought should never be ghosts. I already searched my room for dead mice and found nothing.

God, I hate being broke. If only my landlord would actually do something about this shit instead of collecting his check on a golden throne. Well, that’s how I imagine him anyway. I’ve been complaining for weeks about this and he never even responded. Can people die from smell-related issues? Stink…the silent killer. Silent, but deadly.

I continue staring at my tapestries: Frida Kahlo, Keith Haring’s little curvy men, Andy Warhol. I like art, sue me. The tapestries billow slightly as if being pushed by a breeze. I glance nervously at my small window. Still closed.

My body feels hot and sticky as I roll around under my heavy-down blanket. It’s impossible to get comfortable. I push the blanket off my body as if it were a person hugging me for too long, not taking a hint.

My Frida Kahlo tapestry hangs directly in front of me. It looks as though she’s breathing. Is her chest moving? Am I really awake right now? I slap my cheeks. Yup, I’m awake.

My breath becomes short and shallow. Frida continues to move unnaturally in the stale air of my room.

I look around frantically, squinting in the dark, trying to make out any shapes. The entire room is breathing now. All the tapestries move together as a collective force. It feels like the walls are closing in on me. I try to call out for Leon but the words can’t escape my mouth. Instead, I feel as though my throat is blocked by something sharp and scratchy. I cough rapidly, panicking, unable to catch my breath. The faces on my tapestries mock me as I choke on nothing but my breath and saliva. I groan in agony as a searing pain shoots through my head. It is so powerful, that it forces me into a fetal position.

The cough increases in intensity, coming to a peak right when I spit something out onto my bed. I turn on the measly lamp on my nightstand. Next time I shouldn’t get the cheapest option. My eyes follow the light, which illuminates a dark red spot on my duvet. It’s blood. I try to scream, but can’t because the coughs swallow any voice that I have. Tears stream down my face. What have I done to deserve this?

Despite the agonizing headache and debilitating cough, I manage to push myself up off my bed. The walls continue to breathe. Deeper. Louder. The faces of the artists on my tapestries contort with their beating movement. Terrified, I stumble over to Frida and rip the tapestry off my wall. I gasp and then immediately enter another coughing fit. My eyes widen in terror as I slowly back away. I bump into the wall behind me and whip around, immediately tearing down the Warhol tapestry. Another harsh gasp escapes my lips. Another stifled scream. I run around my room tearing everything off the paper-thin walls. As I catch my breath, I can finally take in what I’m seeing.

Every wall is covered in a thick dark green mold, unlike anything I’ve seen before. It breathes as one living organism. The room smells clearly of mildew, dirt, and rot, but I can’t think of anything besides my searing headache and aching body. The pain intensifies and so does the movement of the breathing mold.

In, out. In, out.

I collapse to my knees, grabbing my head.

In, out. In, out.

Blackness fills the periphery of my vision.

The smell fades. And then, nothing.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — -

One week later, Leon opens the apartment door to the building’s landlord. A short, stout man with tired eyes and a wide, fake grin. He walks in with a young, prospective tenant. She adjusts her backpack.

“It’s okay that you’re a student. You said you have guarantors, correct?” The landlord asks as he leads the young woman through the apartment. The young woman nods.

“I’ll show you your future room if I accept your application. Very competitive, this area.” The prospective tenant laughs nervously as she follows the landlord through the cramped apartment.

The landlord opens the bedroom door, revealing a small, empty room with fake gray floors and bright white, hospital-like walls.

“Wow, this looks nice!” The young woman exaggerates. The landlord simply smiles, baring his toothy grin, “Just freshly painted too.”