Life switches up on a dime. One minute you're minding your own business, sewing curtains or whatnot, and the next minute you're the bewildered 'grandma' of a new baby pig. A literal pig. "Meet Jake," she says, stuffing a cold black snout in my face. A. Pig.
There's been some speculation here at the daughter's new homestead that something is off. First, she claimed ghosts, now we're beginning to wonder if she's not too far off the mark. No one has had the courage to find out, but we must, and soon. There's a smell in this house that when traced to its source is found in the hallway under the heater in the closet, a crawly space that serves as the intake for both heat and air. It's an odd smell, not quite mold, and not quite poop, but somewhere in between, with a bit of rot and toe jam thrown in for 'flav'ah'. While the entire house appears sound (there are no water stains on the ceiling or crumbly walls), the closet which houses the heater tells another story -- one of dry rot and general abuse of sheetrock. It looks as if someone took a hacksaw to the closet ceiling (a dropped ceiling as the house doesn't have a proper attic space except for where the ducting resides in the hallway, bathrooms, and that nasty heater closet), and just ripped the thing to shreds in order to get a too-tall heater in with its piping. Below the heater is an elevated floor, and beneath that floor is the intake, where the scent of withered zombie emanates.
A few weeks ago, on one of the rainiest nights we've had this winter, a young man and his mother came to the door claiming to be the previous tenants. They asked if my daughter had received any mail for them, which she hadn't, and then the woman stated that her husband had passed away and things were crazy with life, and maybe some mail of hers had come to her old address, my daughter's current address. They didn't leave us a forwarding address, or even their names, as they walked away from the door in the dark and the rain. I thought nothing of this encounter until the weather began warming up and the smell in the hallway began to bloom. Then I remembered the woman saying her husband had died, but she didn't say where. I've been trying to get someone to open up that vent or check in the attic above the heater to get some idea what the stench might be, but so far everyone's poo-pooed my concerns. My son-in-law said he will wait until we move (within the next six weeks or so!) to call the landlord to check what's up with the stink. In the meantime, there could be body parts inside the walls and nobody but me seems to be the least bit concerned by it. Go light some incense, they say.
We now live with a pig, Jake, and Rotten John-In-The-Wall, whoever or whatever he may be.