"The Stink from High Above" by E. W. Farnsworth

The Stink from High Above

by E. W. Farnsworth

The little row house in Allentown seemed like a good investment as the man who had inherited the property wanted only sixteen-thousand dollars in cash, with only one proviso: the new owner must never open the attic door.  

The city’s real estate inspectors only wanted to use their ice picks on the cellar beams and perform an external examination of the roof to pass their perfunctory inspections, so on an installment loan basis I was suddenly no longer a renter but a homeowner.

Don’t get me wrong, though.  Much remained to be done once the building’s keys were in my hands.  I employed a handyman to remove the hideous Brickote surfacing from the exterior, and a family I knew helped me remove the layers of linoleum and sand the original oak plank flooring before I stained and coated it.  I had considered offering a quick-flip sale of the now-gentrified building for fifty-thousand dollars, but the underlying beauty of the building impressed me so much I was reluctant to divest it.  I therefore settled in and established my home office neatly fitted out on the second floor.

I was glad to have no reason to explore the attic as opening its ancient door would invalidate my purchase and the property would automatically revert to its original owner without my gaining any recompense for all my hard work of renovation.  

Still, my curiosity grew as I considered the reasons the former owner would insist on such a stipulation.  I heard no suspicious sounds upstairs, and there were no utility junctions there.  I checked the archives of the Allentown Call-Chronicle, which contained no news of 444 Allen Street.  The building had evidently survived times of flooding, fire and one horrendous gas explosion down the street.

After the smells of renovation had begun to dissipate, I sensed another ether rising--the unmistakable stench of rotting human flesh, which was sometimes evident when I walked past the Eleventh-Street cemetery.  I recalled specifically the delight an enormous rat had taken while gnawing a decayed human finger from the little crypt whose door had become separated from its hinges.  I hoped the odor of putrefaction might be dispelled in time, but instead it increased and soon permeated the entire upstairs area.  

I hired an expert exterminator, who thought the smell might be coming from a rodent infestation in the attic.  When I explained my conundrum about opening the door, the man recommended sealing off the top two floors and using a chemical solution to destroy any colonies.  He was expensive but guaranteed his work.  For two weeks the upstairs areas and the spaces between the row house and its neighbors were sealed so the poisons could do their work.

The result of our ministrations was abundantly clear.  After the noxious solutions had been removed, the noisome smell returned.  The good news was I did not have to pay for the treatment.  The bad news was I began to have long, frightful nightmares about what might be lurking in the attic.  One recurring dream involved the rat hunkering outside the little crypt while it ate the human finger.  The creature would now consider the juicy member before offering it to me.  I recall screaming awake when the finger came close to my nose.  I never identified with the rat, but, on reflection, the idea that the attic might be like the nearby graveyard held a fascinating clue.

I invited a famous seer to consult about the contents of the attic.  Arriving in her black witch’s hat and cloak, she had brought the paraphernalia for a full-blown séance in my kitchen.   Her working assumption was that my attic was haunted.  She claimed that she could only raise the spirit, but I would have to summon a priest for an exorcism.

I had no notion of the horror I would feel at the presence of the spirits she invoked.  She conjured no fewer than four such, and she might have entertained more except I discontinued her exercise as each additional spirit cost me fifty dollars more.  I thought she cackled as she descended my front steps with her two hundred dollars.  I wondered how badly I had been scammed, but I had the phone number of the priest she recommended for the exorcism.  I held out only a few days as the four spirits had joined the rat in the graveyard.

Father McGibb was a no-nonsense prelate of the old school.  He used his spiritual tools, chants and orisons.  Holy smoke was liberally spread around my kitchen with his thurible full of burning incense.  He claimed to have accomplished his mission and asked for the sum of five-hundred dollars.  I gave him half of what he asked for and told him to return in four weeks for the rest, but only if I had no further hauntings.  The dejected exorcist was not happy about that, but I was adamantine.

Four weeks later the smell of incense had abated, but the smell of putrefaction was back in full force.  McGibb reluctantly agreed to accept one hundred-twenty-five dollars, for the spirits had not returned though the overripe smell had done so.  I heard the priest mutter under his breath: “It’s not your clothes that smell but you.”  I took that derogatory observation to heart and scrubbed myself thoroughly each night afterwards, to no avail.  I was as clean as I could be, and the smell was demonstrably not mine.

It did not surprise me that associating with the likes of the seer and the exorcist caused a change in my dream pattern.  I found myself in the little crypt foraging for human flesh.  When I espied a delectable forefinger and bit it, the corpse struggled to shake me off.  I might have awakened from sheer horror except the finger’s owner was Father McGibb, who closed my gaping mouth gently with his hand and said, “You are amongst us now, forever! Henceforth, you may visit your attic anytime you like, without any penalty.”