So I found the smell. Where it was coming from.
It was getting worse. I started wearing a mask in my apartment just to handle the stink. A bit after the first post, I opened a cupboard door I almost never use to grab the slow cooker. I figured, I can’t be in the kitchen long enough to cook anything on the stove, I might as well put something on to simmer all day while I’m at work.
When I opened the cupboard it bowled me over so hard I thought I was going to puke. I gagged even with the mask on. It was only the thought of puking into my mask that stopped me, convinced me to slow down and breathe through my mouth. I grabbed some rubber gloves and pulled the inner drawer out to look.
It’s not strictly impossible for a bird to have gotten trapped and died in my kitchen cupboard without me noticing. But it’s pretty fucking unlikely. I rolled the drawer open and behind the slow cooker, melting into rotting meat sludge, was a fat little blob dotted with brown and grey feathers. I bagged it up and threw it down the hallway chute and spent the next hour scrubbing everything down. The wood is discolored and a little warped from absorbing liquid from its decomposing body. If my landlord sees this, I can kiss my deposit goodbye.
I tried to put this incident behind me and ignore all other misgivings. I know I’m paranoid, I know I overthink and work myself up over nothing. I did my best to balance that out with calm rational thinking and whatever shit.
Then I got a call from the building super, who got a call from the landlord, who got a complaint from the mailman about the contents of my box.
A pigeon. Intact but extremely dead. Left in my mailbox. My locked(!!!) mailbox.
It’s only by luck that I didn’t end up being the one to see the thing. Eloise loved those little winged rats. She took better care of the box she had for them than I’ve seen parents care for their children.
The noises are worse. They haven’t made it to my car yet, but it’s not just at night now. When I’m in the shower, I hear her humming, almost drowned out by the water. Just walking around, going about my day, she could speak up at any time. Always from the same places, like she’s sitting in my living room or lying in bed, watching. I managed to catch her on recording on my phone because some of you were insisting that this is all in my head. IT’S NOT. I can play her voice back and hear her say the same thing over and over. It’s quiet, but it’s real. This is happening to me while you fucking people are yukking it up. ‘Haha you should fuck the ghost bro!’ You’re sick.
I hear this laugh sometimes. I think it’s hers, but I don’t know, I never heard her laugh. It’s the voice of a woman for sure, but it’s soft and low and so overflowing, so dripping with malice. It comes when I think I’m adjusting, ready to live peacefully with this entity. It’s there to remind me something worse is coming.
I wish it would fucking happen already. Sitting here biting my nails, camping out in my car, shaking like a little purse dog every time I have to get my mail. It’s not dignified. It’s not fucking humane, is what.
Oh, and about my mail. It hasn’t stopped with the bird. I mean, there haven’t been any more dead animals stuffed inside, thank god, but two days ago I got her junk mail. I called the company who sent it out, said hey, she’s been dead for more than two months! Not to mention this isn’t her address.
You wanna know what the lady told me? “We’re very sorry sir, but we haven’t sent anything to this client since we were made aware of her passing.” Which was apparently six weeks ago, maybe more.
More junk mail yesterday. Credit card bills. Sue me, I peeked. I don’t think mail fraud counts for the deceased. They were pretty steep, and what’s more, dated for this month. To reiterate, the woman has been dead since May. I called again and got the same run of bullshit. Every company insists they have already been apprised of Eloise’s death and they’re so very sorry. Not as sorry as I am.
Today it was a struggle to open. The key went in fine as usual, but when I tried to pull it, it was stuck, like it was rusty or jammed. My palms started to sweat, sure it was going to be another bird. Once it popped loose, like vomit, letters to Eloise spilled across the floor. Forty. I counted.
They’re mostly bills. Open lines of credit, psychiatric outpatient bills, therapy, car insurance, bank statements in the red. I guess it shouldn’t be a surprise to hear that Eloise was troubled.
I opened one envelope, hand written with no return address, made out to “Neighbor.” I don’t mean it said my name and I’m substituting my pseudonym. It said “Neighbor,” just like that.
Empty. There was a single downy grey feather at the bottom.
I took all that shit out to the local park and threw them on one of the public grills. I know you’re not supposed to burn paper in those but I needed them gone. It’s only as I came home to write this up that I thought maybe I should have kept them as evidence, but I don’t want evil things in my house. I’m not letting this thing get any stronger.
I don’t know if the burning helped. I had a brief flash of regret when I came back to my apartment and there was another dead bird on my doorstep.
They’re definitely pigeons. I found out during all of this, you know, I never liked pigeons because I live in the city and they’re dirty and they shit everywhere, but they used to be pets. They’ve basically feralized and their populations exploded because people just threw them away. I bagged the bird up and sent it down the chute already. Its neck was broken like it slammed high speed into a wall. I should have taken pictures of things at least. Maybe that’s what she wants me to do? Fuck, I don’t know.
But I was reading about pigeons because I wanted to learn about her. She’s not hurting me yet but she’s giving me signs. Leads. So I should be investigating them, right? And then I thought, maybe she had socials. Maybe that’s how I can get in contact with her folks. I went back and found out her surname from the obituaries (I won’t share it because I’m not a monster) and she did have a facebook account.
She was 30. I scrolled back through almost a year of her timeline. Her next birthday would be a couple weeks from now, and she would have celebrated it alone.
Eloise didn’t have living relatives, or at least none that she had added on facebook. I won’t discount the idea of a sibling or a cousin with whom she kept in very light contact. A one-phone-call-per-year relationship. But from what I can tell she was an only child who had lost both of her parents several years ago. I think to cancer? She shared a lot of pink ribbon stuff, a lot of little PSAs about getting your colonoscopies and HPV vaccines and shit.
I don’t know if she even had friends really. None close enough for them to memorialize her page. It’s just this husk now. Detritus. I bet most people on her friends list don’t even realize she’s dead.
Something about her page weirds me the fuck out. I looked at her friends list, and she’s got a couple thousand people added, like one of those old people who adds everyone they see. There’s no way she actually knew any of them well because this woman would post and post, and nobody would respond to anything. You know, pictures of food, pictures of her birds, selfies, scans of her paintings- Jesus, I mean, she was a painter! A hobbyist, she wasn’t Monet or anything, but they’re pretty- and status updates just talking about whatever, movies and books and how her day was going, how she was feeling. She’d be making 12 posts a day, linking to her instagram and shit and just… nothing. Maybe one reaction from some random. It’s like she was fucking invisible. Like she was already a ghost.
Her IG is probably equally depressing but I don’t have an account so I can’t see much of it. I want to look but I also don’t want to, because something awful is going to be there waiting for someone to see it, and just like before I am the only person watching Eloise. I feel nauseous. The last post on her facebook, literally the first thing you see on her page says, “Would any of you miss me if I was gone?”
I’m so sorry Eloise. Please, I understand, okay, you were in a lot of pain. You want to be seen. I see you now. I see you everywhere. I pass by your favorite noodle place every day when I go to work and I see you sitting alone with your pad thai sketching the cashier lady as though you never left. I’ve never gone there but they have vegan options and I wish I could go inside and try except I’m sure you’ll be waiting there, watching me from the table by the window you liked. I hear you, I know you’re there, so you don’t need to do this to me anymore.
Fuck. I’m sorry. I had to go take a break but I’m okay now. I took a nap in my bathtub. I’m forcing myself not to go back and edit things even if they’re embarrassing because I want to be honest with you all. You won’t be able to help me if I’m not honest with you, and I really really need help.
I heard her by my pillow last night like a lover, like always. I’ve gotten better at tuning out the words, treating them like the sounds of the pipes. She asked me, “Can you see me?”
She was quiet for a while. So I waited, and then I said, “Yes.”
It’s not a lie. I can’t see her with my eyes since she left her apartment but I can still see her, I can feel her presence.
“I feel like I’m fading… What would you do if I disappeared?”
I have trouble reading Eloise’s tone. Her voice is sometimes so quiet. She could have been frightened or angry. I said what I thought would placate her. Soothe her.
“I would miss you.”
She laughed again. The more I think about it, the less sure I am that Eloise is the one laughing. How could someone so sweet and delicate laugh like that? My Eloise painted sunflowers.
What if Eloise was being haunted by something too?
I was right about the new tenant. I saw her come through, though I haven’t seen much of her. She drew the blinds but I’m pretty sure she’s moved all her stuff in; I saw some guys in uniforms carrying furniture into the west courtyard entrance, so that’s a pretty good indicator. I’ll give it a few more days before I talk to her. I don’t want to freak her out, you know? But at the same time, I have this horrible feeling. Like, what if I do nothing and she gets hurt? Can I stand living with a second dead girl on my conscience?
I’m weighing my options here. It might be worth a temporary discomfort on my part, might be worth making her a little upset, if I can reassure myself that she’ll be safe.
What do you guys think? Is this nuts?
She’s pretty. Not that that’s a factor but, you know. She is.
Well. I’ll update soon.
- Neighbor