01 Feb The Smell of Decay

Part I

Amir dropped his keys into the ceramic dish by the door, the small clink swallowed by the quiet hum of the house. The scent of something savory still lingered in the air—garlic and onions, maybe—but there was something else beneath it, something Claire had been going on about for the past few days.

He took a slow breath. Everything seemed normal to him. If there was some godawful stink creeping into their home, his nose wasn’t picking it up.

Claire was in the kitchen, standing near the sink with her arms crossed. Her long, dark hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, and her face had the sort of tired, pinched look that made Amir brace himself before opening his mouth.

“Hey.” He kept his tone light.

She didn’t turn. “It’s still here.”

Amir sighed. “Babe,” he began, but Claire cut him off.

“Don’t ‘babe’ me, Amir.” Claire finally looked at him, and there was something raw and unsettled in her expression. “It’s worse today. I scrubbed the floors, emptied the fridge, and cleaned the disposal. Nothing helps.”

“Maybe the trash—”

“I took it out hours ago.”

He hesitated. Claire wasn’t normally like this—at least, not over something so small. Sure, she could be a little obsessive about things, but a weird smell? It didn’t add up.

Amir stepped closer, inhaling deeply. The air in the kitchen was clean. Maybe a little damp from the mop water, but no smell of rot, no mildew, no sour undertone of decay.

“Claire, I don’t—”

She grabbed his wrist. “How can you not smell it?”

There was something in her voice that made his chest tighten. It wasn’t just frustration. It was fear.

Amir rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, maybe—maybe you’re just more sensitive to it than I am. You know how sometimes one of us notices a smell before the other? Like when the milk’s about to go bad?”

Claire exhaled sharply and turned away, hands braced against the counter. “This isn’t milk, Amir. It’s—it’s in the walls. I swear, it’s coming through the vents or something.”

Amir glanced at the nearest air vent, its white slats undisturbed. The heating had kicked on just before he got home, and he didn’t smell anything rank wafting from the ductwork.

“Okay,” he said finally. “I’ll check the vents this weekend and see if anything got in.”

Claire didn’t respond. She just stood there, staring down at the sink as if she could will the smell away.

That night, Amir was pulled from sleep by the shifting of the mattress. Claire was restless, tossing and turning.

He rolled onto his side, squinting in the dim glow of the digital clock. “Claire?” She didn’t answer. “Babe, you okay?”

For a moment, she didn’t speak. Then, softly, she whispered, “They’re here.”

Amir sat up, instantly awake. “What?”

She was facing the doorway, shoulders tense.

Amir followed her gaze into the dark hallway. There was nothing there except for the faint glow from the nightlight in the bathroom.

“Who’s here?” Amir asked.

Claire blinked, as if she were surfacing from deep water. “I—I don’t know.” She sounded confused and disoriented. “I thought I heard something.”

Amir let out a slow breath, rubbing his face. “It was probably the house settling.”

* * * * * *

By morning, Claire looked worse. Amir found her in the kitchen again, staring at the sink as if it had personally offended her.

“You didn’t sleep,” he said.

She let out a humorless laugh. “No, Amir. I didn’t. And do you know why? Because I spent half the night listening to things moving in the walls!”

Amir tensed. “Like what? Mice?”

Claire turned to face him, and he immediately wished he hadn’t said it. There was something wild in her expression, her eyes bloodshot and shadowed.

“It’s not mice,” she said flatly.

Amir opened his mouth to speak but immediately thought better of it. What was he supposed to say? She was clearly upset, but the more he pushed for logic, the more defensive she got.

Defeated, he reached for the coffee pot. “I’ll take a look after work, okay?”

Claire didn’t answer.

When Amir got home that evening, Claire had scrubbed the entire house.

The sharp sting of bleach filled his nose before he even made it through the front door.

“Jesus, Claire—”

“Do you smell it now?” she asked, standing in the entryway with her arms folded.

Amir hesitated. The house did smell different, but that was because it reeked of cleaning chemicals.

“Not really,” he admitted.

Claire’s shoulders slumped. She looked exhausted.

“Maybe we should get someone to come check it out,” he offered. “An HVAC guy or something. Maybe there’s mold somewhere we’re not seeing.”

She let out a slow breath, and then nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, maybe.”

Amir stepped closer, wrapping his arms around her. For a moment, she melted into him, pressing her face into his shoulder.

But as he held her, he caught the faintest whiff of something else.

Something rotten.

Part II

Amir first noticed it in the shower, a week later.

He was lathering shampoo through his hair when the hot steam shifted, carrying a new scent—thick, damp, and wrong. It was like standing next to an open drain, like breathing in the air from an old, clogged pipe.

His hands stilled. He turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing at the vents in the ceiling. The smell was faint, but it was there. Claire hadn’t been imagining it.

A sudden knock on the bathroom door startled him.

“Amir?”

He exhaled sharply, rinsing the shampoo from his hair. “Yeah?”

“The smell’s worse.” Claire’s voice was muffled through the wood. “It’s all over the house now.”

Amir shut off the water, stepping out onto the mat. He grabbed a towel, rubbing it over his hair. “Yeah. I think I smelled it, too.”

Silence. Then a hesitant, “You did?”

He cracked the door open, steam billowing out. Claire stood there in her robe, her face pale, her eyes wide. She looked different—thinner, somehow, like the past week had sucked the life out of her.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “It was in the steam, just for a second.”

Claire exhaled, gripping the collar of her robe. “It’s not just in the vents, Amir. It’s in the walls.”

Amir frowned. “What do you mean?”

She turned, gesturing toward the hallway. “Come look.”

Still dripping, towel slung over his shoulders, Amir followed her to the narrow corridor outside their bedroom. At first, he didn’t see anything unusual.

Then Claire pointed. The wall near the ceiling was stained. It wasn’t big—just a small, inky blotch about the size of a silver dollar. But when Amir stepped closer, his gut twisted.

It wasn’t just a stain. It was wet.

The dark spot had an organic sheen, like something had seeped from inside the wall and was bleeding into the paint.

Amir reached out, hesitated, and then pressed his finger to it. It came away damp, streaked with black filth.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “What the hell is this?”

Claire shivered. “It started last night.”

“You didn’t tell me?”

She hugged herself. “I thought I was seeing things.”

Amir wiped his hand on the towel, trying to ignore the fact that the stain had felt warm.

“I’ll call someone,” he said. “A plumber, or—or a mold specialist or something.”

Claire said nothing; she just kept staring at the stain.

* * * * * *

That night, Amir couldn’t sleep.

He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening.

Claire had finally drifted off—after two melatonin tablets and an hour of tossing and turning—but Amir’s mind was racing.

The black stain was still in the hallway. He couldn’t stop picturing it, the way it had seeped through the wall like an infection.

He checked his phone for the time. 2:14 AM.

The house was too quiet.

Then, somewhere in the darkness, he heard it—a soft rustling, from the hallway.

He sat up, instantly alert. Claire mumbled something in her sleep, turning over.

The sound came again—a faint shifting, like something moving behind the walls. Slowly, Amir peeled back the covers and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He stood, his bare feet silent against the hardwood floor. Step by step, he moved toward the doorway. The black stain was still there, just visible in the dim glow of the bathroom nightlight.

Amir reached out—

The stain moved.

A slow, viscous ripple, like a drop of ink spreading in water.

Amir snatched his hand back, bile rising in his throat.

Then—a whisper. Not words. Not quite. Just a sound—wet, slithering, something shifting deep inside the walls.

He stumbled backward, nearly knocking into the doorframe. He heard something else, too—a low exhale, something resembling a breath, but too deep and thick. Inhuman.

Amir turned back toward the bedroom—and froze. Claire was standing wide-eyed in the middle of the room, facing the doorway. Her mouth hung slightly ajar.

“Claire?” Amir whispered.

She didn’t move, didn’t blink.

He took a slow step forward. “Babe?”

Claire’s lips moved, but no sound came out. Then, in the softest, smallest voice, she whispered, “It’s inside.”

* * * * * *

The next morning, Amir woke with a splitting headache. He barely remembered getting back into bed. His dreams had been murky, full of shifting shadows and the sound of something breathing just beyond the walls.

Claire wasn’t in bed beside him.

A flicker of unease ran down his spine as he sat up, rubbing his eyes.

“Claire?”

No response.

He threw on a T-shirt and sweatpants and stepped out into the hallway. The black stain was still there—larger now.

He found Claire in the kitchen, standing by the sink. She didn’t look up when he entered.

Amir hesitated. “…Babe?”

Slowly, she turned. For a second—a single, terrible second—Amir thought her face looked wrong.

Her mouth was too wide. Her skin too pale, almost translucent. Then she blinked, and it was just Claire again.

“I’m going to check the vents,” Amir muttered, grabbing his tool kit from the hallway closet. He wasn’t a repairman, but he could at least pop open the grate and make sure there wasn’t a dead animal stuck in the ductwork.

Claire didn’t react. She just stared at him.

Amir unscrewed the vent cover in the living room, setting it aside.

The smell hit him immediately.

Rot.

It rushed out in a wave, thick and cloying, making his stomach lurch. He gagged, covering his nose with his arm.

What the hell?

Squinting, he grabbed his phone and flicked on the flashlight, shining it into the vent. He expected to see dust, maybe some insulation. Instead, something black and wet glistened inside. Amir recoiled.

His hand shook as he reached forward with a screwdriver, poking the thing inside the vent. The black mass twitched. Amir jerked back.

The thing in the vent rippled, a deep, wet, slithering sound emanating from the duct. And then—

A whisper. Close. Too close.

“…Amir.”

The voice had come from inside the vent—inside the walls. Claire’s voice.

But Claire was standing behind him.

Part III

Amir didn’t turn around. He stared into the dark vent, the shape inside shifting, pulsating. The smell—thick, putrid decay—was unbearable now, coating the back of his throat like old meat left to rot in the sun.

He swallowed hard. It had spoken. His name, with Claire’s voice. But Claire was behind him. He could feel her standing there, unmoving. Watching.

His fingers tightened around the screwdriver in his hand. Slowly, carefully, he forced himself to turn his head, just enough to glance over his shoulder. Claire was still there. She wasn’t looking at him—she was looking past him.

Her face was pale, her lips slightly parted, her pupils blown so wide that her irises were nearly swallowed by blackness.

His stomach lurched.

“Claire,” he whispered. She didn’t blink. Didn’t react.

Amir turned back to the vent and realized the thing inside had stopped moving. The mass of darkness, that wet, shifting thing, was utterly still.

Then, so quietly it almost wasn’t there—

A breath. A slow, dragging inhale. The sound of something waking up.

Amir slammed the vent cover back into place. He bolted to his feet, grabbing Claire’s wrist. “We’re leaving!”

Claire didn’t resist. She let him pull her through the living room, her steps slow, dazed.

“Amir,” she murmured.

“We’re leaving,” he repeated, almost to himself. His mind was racing. There was something inside the walls—he had seen it. He had heard it. They needed to go.

His fingers fumbled at the lock, twisting the deadbolt. He reached for the doorknob—

The air changed. The house shifted and exhaled.

Amir froze.

The floorboards creaked above them, a slow, deliberate step.

Another.

Something was upstairs.

He looked at Claire. Her mouth trembled. “Amir…”

The overhead light flickered.

His grip on the doorknob tightened. He wrenched the door open—and staggered back. A wall of black rot—thick, pulsing, and alive—slammed into place in the doorway.

Amir stumbled, grabbing Claire as they both reeled back. The air turned thick and humid, choking with the scent of wet decay.

The house wouldn’t let them leave.

Claire’s nails dug into his arm. “Amir, it’s—”

A low, wet whisper crawled along the walls. Amir turned.

The black stains were spreading. They bled across the wallpaper like ink in water, creeping toward the ceiling, moving faster now, the way veins might expand under pale skin.

Something shifted inside them. Amir could feel it—something watching.

His knees locked. His chest tightened. Every nerve in his body screamed run—but where?

The lights went out.

Claire and Amir stood, paralyzed. Somewhere in the blackness, the whisper came again—closer now, right next to his ear.

“You’ve been here before.”

His stomach clenched. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.

A hand—long, thin, cold—brushed his arm.

Amir threw himself back. His heel caught on the rug, and he hit the floor hard, the air punched from his lungs.

Claire screamed.

Amir scrambled up. Light! He needed light!

His fingers found the flashlight app on his phone, and he fumbled to switch it on. The beam cut through the darkness—and landed on something standing in the doorway. Something tall and wrong. It looked like him.

Amir’s body seized up. The figure in the doorway had his face. His hair. His body—but it wasn’t him. Its eyes were hollow. Its mouth was too wide. Its arms were too long.

The thing that looked like Amir smiled.

Claire was sobbing behind him, rocking back and forth, whispering something under her breath over and over again, “It’s inside, it’s inside, it’s inside.”

Amir reached for her, his fingers closing around her wrist. “Claire, we have to—”

The house groaned.

The walls shuddered, and the black stains split open. Wet, oozing holes, stretching wide like gaping mouths.

Amir dragged Claire toward the stairs.

They ran.

Part IV

Amir’s grip on Claire’s wrist was tight as they stumbled up the stairs. The house groaned, the walls shifting and breathing around them.

The thing downstairs was still smiling. Staring. It hadn’t followed them. Not yet.

Amir didn’t stop running until they reached their bedroom. He slammed the door shut, locking it before shoving the dresser against it for good measure. His hands were shaking, his skin clammy.

Claire collapsed onto the bed, rocking slightly, arms wrapped around herself. “Amir,” she whispered, her voice raw.

Amir pressed his palms against the door. No movement. No sound. He let out a slow, shuddering breath.

Claire’s whisper came again. “It’s inside,” she repeated.

Amir turned, swallowing. “What do you mean, Claire? What’s inside?”

She didn’t look at him. Her gaze was fixed on the far wall.

“I found something,” she whispered.

Amir followed her line of sight to the nightstand. On them, there sat a stack of old blueprints, yellowed with age. Some of the pages had handwritten notes scrawled in the margins—smudged ink, looping cursive.

His stomach clenched.

“Where did you get those?” he asked.

Claire’s lips trembled. “I found them in the basement.”

Amir grabbed the pages, flipping through them. At first, the layout looked normal—bedrooms, hallways, the standard blueprint of a suburban home. But the deeper he went, the more things changed.

The final page wasn’t a blueprint at all.

It was a drawing. An illustration of a twisting, unnatural shape beneath the house, like a network of tunnels—but wrong, almost organic.

Amir’s fingers tensed around the paper. He didn’t know what he was looking at—but he knew what it meant. Something had been here long before they ever moved in.

“It’s part of the house,” Claire said.

Amir set the pages down carefully. “We have to go. Right now.”

Claire let out a hollow, broken laugh. “We can’t leave, Amir. The house won’t let us.”

A thud came from the hallway, and both of them froze. Amir’s skin went cold. His grip tightened around the edge of the nightstand.

Another thud. It was closer now.

A heavy footstep. Then another. Something was outside the door.

Amir took a step back, and Claire let out a soft, trembling sob.

The floorboards creaked. A shadow slid beneath the doorframe, stretching along the floor like spilled ink.

Amir held his breath.

Then—a whisper.

“You should have left sooner.”

Amir lunged for Claire.

The light exploded.

* * * * * *

Amir woke to the sound of dripping.

He forced his eyes open, doing his best to ignore the pounding in his head.

Darkness.

For a moment, he wasn’t sure where he was. The bed, the dresser, and the walls were gone. Everything was gone.

An inky void stretched around him, vast and empty.

He swallowed, his throat dry. “Claire?”

No answer.

Amir’s hands touched nothing—just thick, damp air and the smell of rotting wood and old breath curling around him.

Then—movement. A slow, wet shifting. Something behind him.

Amir spun around.

Two eyes stared back. Not human. Not really. Black pits, deep and empty, set into a shape that almost looked like a face. It smiled.

Then, without sound, without warning—it stepped inside him.

Part V

Amir couldn’t move. His body was frozen, locked in place as if invisible hands were gripping his limbs, holding him still. The thing inside him was still shifting, settling beneath his skin.

A cold whisper slid through his mind.

“You were always meant to be part of this.”

Amir tried to fight it—tried to scream—but no sound came. The thing was wearing him now.

His vision blurred. The darkness around him shuddered, warping like liquid, and then, abruptly—he was home.

The bedroom was the same. The dresser. The bed. The air remained thick with the smell of decay.

That’s when he spotted Claire. She stood by the window, shaking, with her back to him.

Amir tried to speak. His throat burned. He took a step forward—his legs felt heavy, like he was walking through water.

“Claire,” he called out.

She turned and, for a moment, just stared at him, her hands clenched at her sides. Then—slowly—she started backing away. Terror flickered across her face, sharp and raw.

Amir’s stomach dropped. Why was she looking at him like that?

“Claire,” he tried again, stepping closer. “What’s the matter?”

His voice felt different, sounded different—as if his words had to push through something putrid in order to make their way out of his mouth.

Claire shook her head. Her entire body was trembling.

“You’re not my husband,” she said flatly.

His mouth opened. “What—”

Claire screamed.

She lunged for the nightstand, grabbed a lamp, and hurled it at him. Amir ducked, the glass shattering against the wall.

“Claire, it’s me!” He reached for her, but she jerked away, her face twisted with horror.

“You’re not Amir!” she cried, her voice breaking on his name.

Amir took a step back, panic rising in his chest. “What are you talking about?!”

But even as he said it, something deep inside him shifted. Like something else was standing there with him. Inside him.

And then he caught his reflection in the dresser mirror—and froze.

His skin was wrong. His eyes were black and empty. His mouth was too wide.

Involuntarily, he smiled. A smile that stretched too far and split his face open.

No, he thought, frantically protesting. No, no, no—

The thing in the mirror moved on its own. It took a step forward.

But Amir didn’t. It wasn’t him. It had never been him.

“The real Amir is gone,” Claire whispered, her voice trembling. “The real Amir is dead.”

Something inside him laughed—a voice that wasn’t his—and it spoke.

“Goodbye, Amir.”

In an instant, the smell of decay became overwhelming—

And swallowed everything.