The Stench (Part 1)

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Welcome, friend. Follow me. We're going somewhere dark, somewhere dangerous. Most people would never dare enter the place we're going. There's no telling what horrors we'll find, what terrors we'll uncover. Don't say I didn't warn you. We might discover terrible monsters lurking there. Be careful. They could follow you out. Or maybe they're already inside you. Are you afraid? Good. Now you are ready to enter the warning woods. Tyler Battles, 6, leans on the kitchen doorway.

He grows impatient for his flustered mother to notice him and blurts, Mom, I don't feel good. His mother, Natalie, flashes him a concerned grimace and picks up her largest knife. She says, Come stand over here so I can look at you instead of turning around. I don't want to slice my fingers off. Tyler meanders to the counter and leans on it.

He watches his mother's narrow fingers slide ever so slightly along a red pepper's skin after each cut, making room for the next slice. Natalie asks, What doesn't feel good? Your tummy? Your head? My tummy and my whole body, Tyler replies. Natalie slides the diced red pepper aside with the knife's spine and picks up a yellow pepper. Do you think you're sick? She asks. I don't know, maybe.

says Tyler. Natalie starts slicing again. Suddenly, she slams the knife down on its side and spins around to face the refrigerator, shouting, I forgot the chicken! Tyler watches silently.

rocking on the balls of his feet. Natalie opens the fridge, then slams it shut again. Huffing, she opens the freezer and pulls out a package of frozen chicken thighs, which she drops onto the counter. Tyler winces at the clattering sound. Natalie says, Just a sec, Ty. Let's see. It's 7.30ish, so that's 8.30, 9.30. She counts on her fingers. I'll get up at 6, so that's... I'll just leave them out overnight. They'll be fine.

Shaking her head, she returns to the cutting board. Tyler catches her eyes as she picks up the knife, and he thinks she forgot he was there. She says, Uh, could you just... Have you drank enough water today? Did you eat anything new at school? I just had my normal lunch, and I think I drank enough, Tyler says. Think you're gonna puke? Natalie asks, chopping again. Tyler says, not right now. And, uh...

The other end? No. Natalie lets out an exasperated sigh. Tyler, look, I'm sure if it's anything, it's just a little bug you picked up at that germ factory you go to every day, okay? If it gets worse, come tell me. Otherwise, I really need to get this lunch ready for tomorrow. Don't forget Grammy and Pops are coming over. Dad too? Tyler asks. Nope, not him, Natalie replies. You'll get to see him for a second tonight though.

He and your brother should be back, well, they should have been back 45 minutes ago. You know how it is when they go fishing, though. I know, says Tyler. Natalie points the way out with her knife and says, Why don't you find something to do? I'm busy. Tell me if you start feeling worse, okay? And please, for the love of God, if you're going to puke, do it in the toilet. Tyler says, okay, and slumps out of the kitchen.

He's barely through the doorway when a familiar pickup rumbles up the driveway. Tyler goes to the window and watches his father Troy roll up the cover on his pickup bed. His 14-year-old brother Lane dives after something in the bed and drags out a cooler he then struggles to carry to the garage door. Troy jogs ahead to open the door for him and pats him on the back as he passes through. Natalie says,

Tyler, will you go say hi to your dad out there, please? I'm not in the mood tonight. Oh, okay, says Tyler. He peels away from the window, but doesn't quite make it to the garage door before it swings open, slamming against the wall. Mom! Mom! Lane shouts, walking in with his heavy cooler. Troy is right on his heels, saying, You're never gonna believe this till you see it, Nat. Natalie slams her knife on its side and says, Make it quick, I'm busy.

Troy guffaws. Oh, I think you'll be happy you made time once you see what your boy caught. Lane sets the cooler down in the middle of the kitchen and opens the lid, revealing a massive largemouth bass in a plastic bag on ice. Guess how much it weighs, he asks his mother. How much, Natalie asks, uninterested. No, you're supposed to guess, Troy chides. Natalie points the knife at him, and he throws his hands in the air. Lane shouts,

Eight pounds, three ounces. Eight pounds, mom. Amazing, she says. To Troy, she says, I hope you're planning on cleaning it because I'm drowning here. I don't have time to deal with your fish. It's his fish. Troy replies. Natalie says, well, sorry, doesn't change the fact that I already have too much to do. I was thinking of mounting it, mom, says Lane. Troy sticks out his lips and says, it's a pretty fish.

Natalie says. Great, so what? You gonna stick it in the freezer? It's full, except for where the chicken I forgot to pull out was. Oh no, you don't want to freeze it, says Troy. Lane can put some fresh ice in that cooler and it can just stay like that.

I got a buddy who will take care of it for us in a couple of days. That's all it'll be. It can sit right out there in the garage. Won't be in your way out there, right? Natalie gives a defeated shrug. Say hi to Tyler, then go. I don't have the energy for you right now. Oh, Nat, I'm just proud of my son, that's all. Anything, uh, anything I can help with? Nope, just... She gestures toward Tyler, leaning in the doorway. Sorry, Mom, Lane whispers, closing the cooler.

She says, it's fine. Just put your fish in the garage like your dad said, then go take a shower. You smell like the bottom of a lake. Lane replies, I think that's just this house. Natalie rolls her eyes and ignores him.

He said nothing but bad things to say about their new house. She knows he would prefer to live with Troy, but what he doesn't know is Troy asked to have the boys every other weekend, no more. That was probably more than he saw them when they were married anyway. The only time he seemed interested in spending with his sons back then was when he took them hunting or fishing. Otherwise, he'd made Natalie feel like a single parent. So one day, she decided to become one.

But she didn't want Lane and Tyler to know the truth about their dad. She hoped they would be inspired to grow into the man they thought he was. She'd force him to be a role model one way or another. You know, I didn't want to say anything. says troy but i did notice a smell when i walked in it's kind of sour you don't notice it seriously natalie demands troy throws his hands up again

Look, I'm just making sure there's not some kind of gas or something. You know, new house. Could have problems you haven't found yet. The smoke detectors have CO2 alarms in them. It's fine, Natalie replies. Tyler, do you smell anything? Just fish. says Tyler. Natalie points her knife from Troy to Lane and says, See? It's you two. Now, would you get out of here? I'm already gonna be up late to get this all ready. Okay, loud and clear, Troy says.

a darkness clouding his eyes. He pats Tyler on the shoulder and says, Catch you next time, buddy. Sorry. He glances over his shoulder at Natalie and decides not to complete the sentence. To Lane, he says, Go ahead and haul the cooler back out here. I'll grab the ice out of the truck. See ya, Ty. See ya, says Tyler. His hand is halfway raised when Troy vanishes through the door, and although Natalie has wished for the entire afternoon that Tyler wasn't there,

That he went fishing with them, she mentally corrects. She can't help but feel compassion for him now. Hey, she says. Tyler turns to her. She means to say, sorry about your dad. He's a jerk, but he loves you. But she can only bring herself to ask. Still feel sick? Tyler shrugs and pivots in the doorway, aiming toward the stairs. Natalie yells after him.

If you have some kind of bug, I should probably call Grammy and Pops and warn them not to come, so you better tell me if you get worse. She doesn't mean it as a threat. She actually wouldn't mind canceling lunch with her parents. But that's the way it sounds ringing back to her.

She thinks that's certainly the way Tyler must have heard it, but he's already halfway up the stairs. She waves it off, knowing Tyler will keep how he feels to himself unless it's an emergency now. She's bought herself the rest of the night, interruption-free. She thinks she hears one of the boys upstairs around 1am, which makes it a typical night. She hates this house. She hates sleeping downstairs. Her room was built to be an office, but she can't have her boys.

one a teenager and the other a constant nervous wreck, sleeping on the ground floor. However, some nights, this one in particular, she wonders if allowing Lane to get into some trouble might be worth the potential improvement in her sleep. Every night she's woken up by some sound. Usually she can tell it's the boys, but sometimes she can't place the sound. She blames the wind or the house settling, whatever that means. Why does everyone always say that, she wonders.

Shouldn't houses eventually be settled? How long do they need? She can now detect an odor she believes could be what Troy smelled earlier. What did he call it? Sour. He's not much of a word guy, but in this case, that's the one. It tickles, no, burns her sinuses. It's not bleach or ammonia, but it reminds her of both. She tells herself,

I'll get some money off Dad tomorrow and call a plumber to come check the pipes. She hears the heat going and thinks of the boiler downstairs. Or could that be the problem? This old house's run-down state is the only reason she could remotely afford it.

but that doesn't ease her frustration every time something goes wrong. The boiler's pressure needle pokes the red so often she's stopped glancing at it if she's too busy to deal with it. If the laundry machines weren't in the basement, she would never go down there at all. The stairs feel like they might break out from under her at any moment. The boys aren't allowed in the basement at all for this reason.

She isn't positive she ever fully fell back asleep before her alarm startles her awake in the morning. She presses snooze once, but forces herself up the second time the alarm rings. After checking her notifications, which include a text from Troy with care instructions for Lane's dead fish, it's barely intelligible but she understands the last line and that's enough, Lane knows show him this to remind him. Natalie gets out of bed.

She slips into her robe and grabs the nearly empty pack of Pall Mall Menthol 100s in her nightstand drawer. Her lighter is already in the robe's left pocket. She opens her bedroom door into the awkwardly shaped space they call the dining room and rounds the corner into the kitchen. Then she's out the garage door. She stands over Troy's cooler and takes a big whiff to decide if the smell could be Lane's fish. She's undecided. The smell isn't quite as strong out here.

but the air in the garage is less stagnant than in the house so maybe the smell is diluted at this point the smell is stuck in her nasal passages so she can't really trust her nose anyway it makes her crave a cigarette even more something to burn the smell out of her sinuses. She opens the back door and steps into her patchy backyard. A mossy, warped fence that's missing six boards plus the top half of two more hides her, mostly, from her neighbors.

who've been none too friendly. They're all older, mostly married, many retired. She assumes they're judging her lifestyle from afar and won't get too close in case it rubs off on them.

Five minutes later, she stamps out the smoldering butt, feeling the cool morning air chill the back of her menthol-coated throat. She considers a second cigarette, but there's only two left in the pack, and she knows she'll need them later. one for before and one for after her parents' visit. She puts the carton back in her pocket and heads inside.

When she enters the kitchen again, her eyes immediately fall to the wet, pinkish paper towel on the plate next to the refrigerator. This is where she'd set the frozen chicken thighs the night before. So where are they now? With a sardonic laugh, she goes to the fridge, expecting to open the door and find that Lane spontaneously decided to be helpful after she'd gone to bed and put the raw chicken in the fridge. But she can't find it. Not in the fridge or the freezer.

Boys! She yells up the stairs. There's no response at first, so she yells again, sharper and louder. She hears mattress springs and floorboards, then Lane's door opens. He comes to the top of the stairs in a South Park t-shirt and SpongeBob boxers, rubbing his eyes. What? he asks, his voice as woody as the boards he's stepping on. Where the hell is the chicken? demands Natalie.

Lane asks, what chicken? The chicken on the counter, Natalie snaps. I don't know. Well, go get your brother then. Tyler, Lane barks. Natalie says, no, go get him. Lane shuts his eyes and shakes his head, then goes back to his room. Lane battles, Natalie shrieks. This finally brings Tyler out.

He opens his door, which faces the stairs from the end of the hallway. Natalie takes one look at him and thinks he wasn't lying about feeling ill the night before. He looks awful, with dark circles around his eyes pronounced by his colorless face. He's also sweating despite being shirtless. She decides to worry about him once she knows what's happened to the chicken thighs that need to go in her crockpot right now. What is it, Mom? Tyler asks. Do you know where the chicken went?

It was on the counter last night, remember? Tyler says, Yeah. You know where it is? Oh, no. Natalie growls and slams the bottom of her fist into the wall. She breathes deeply through her nose, and despite the cigarette smoke still lining her sinuses, she detects a hint of the sour stench. Are you still sick? she asks. Tyler recoils slightly and shakes his head.

She remembers how she threatened him with canceling his grandparents' visit and breathes an exasperated sigh. She says, Well, unless you want to eat Lane's fish for lunch, you two better get down here and help me figure out what happened. Tyler's about to say, Okay, when Lane's door swings open again. Lane storms down the stairs. He turns to Natalie as he passes her, saying, you better not touch my fish. Like I'd even want to, says Natalie, rolling her eyes. Lane says,

You probably just got drunk and put the chicken somewhere stupid before you went to... Natalie spins, grabbing hold of the back of his shirt. She tries to yank him back, but he's too strong. He pulls away. She yells after him. I didn't drink last night, you spoiled...

She finishes with a frustrated grunt. From the kitchen, Lane says, Sure, Mom. Following him, she says, You know, you should try talking to my parents like that when they get here. Maybe Dad'll put you in your place with a good smack in the ear. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Right now? Yeah, I'd pay to see it. They're standing in front of the empty plate now. Lane spins, slowly, searching the counters. He opens the fridge and freezer. Already looked, says Natalie.

How about here? Lane asks, opening the trash can. It's full, nearly overflowing. He digs a few layers down, but finds no chicken. I feel like I'm losing my mind. Natalie says, dropping her elbows on the counter and her head in her hands. About time you noticed, says Lane. Natalie snaps upright. What is your problem today? Friggin' Tyler kept me up all night, he says.

She asks, why? You didn't hear him puking? What? He said he wasn't sick anymore, Natalie argues. Lane shrugs. Guess he's bulimic then, I don't know what to tell you. Natalie groans. her demeanor shifting. She leans against the counter and buries her face in her hands again. She says, no, he's probably just hiding it from me so I don't cancel lunch. No, you might as well, Lane replies.

Natalie knows she should cancel, should focus on her sick child instead of preparing lunch for her parents, but she knows once her dad sees the house, he'll offer to help pay to fix it up. He won't give her anything if she asks over the phone, but if he sees the condition his daughter and grandchildren are living in, he'll offer. He's a tough old bastard who thinks people ought to solve their own problems, but Natalie has discovered he has a special carve-out for her and the boys.

No, she says. I'm going to go to the store, pick up some fresh chicken, and get some Gatorade and Jell-O for Tyler. While I'm gone, take a shower. You smell like B.O. That's the house again, Lane says. Natalie narrows her eyes and whispers, then I guess it stinks rubbed off on you. Lane turns his back to her. Over his shoulder, as he walks away, he says, take your time at the store, mom. Please don't hurry back.

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and start selling today at shopify.com slash realm. Go to shopify.com slash realm. That's shopify.com slash realm. Hear your first this new year. with Shopify by your side. Some house, says Natalie's father Flint Sinclair. She can't tell whether he intends to be condescending or can't find anything more elaborative to say.

Yeah, it's a bit of a fixer-upper, she admits. She would be a fool not to. Her stepmother Connie says, I'd start with that smell. What is that, Natalie? Oh, uh, I'm trying to figure it out. I think it might be like in the pipes or something. The pipes? Flint asks, an eyebrow raised to communicate how moronic he finds this idea. He says, I'd say something died. Could be decomposing somewhere in your walls.

Connie gasps. Oh, it does smell rotten. Something dead in the wall, thinks Natalie. She doubts it. She's smelled dead mice before. She knows the smell. There's something... She hates herself for not thinking of a different word. Tangier about this stench. Plus, a dead mouse is a problem that eventually solves itself. No need to spend, or request, a dime.

I still want to have someone come out and look at the plumbing, she says, but lets the subject rest for a while after. Tyler's not joining us? Connie asks as they take seats around the dining room table. He'll come down after we eat, says Natalie. Not feeling good. Flint burps softly and replies, Cold's really still going around. He puked a bunch last night, Lane informs them. Oh, really?

Connie asks, masking her personal concern with caring curiosity. Simultaneously, Natalie scolds, Lane, don't exaggerate. Flint sticks his nose into the air, exposing them all to the sparse but wiry whiskers along the trunk of his neck. He sticks a finger in the air and says, That's the smell. I'm sure of it. He blow chunks in the kitchen sink or something? Natalie groans. It's not puke, Dad. We could smell it before Tyler got sick. At least Dad could, says Lane. Troy was here? Asks Connie.

Just to drop off Lane and his prized fish, Natalie replies, waving her hands up by her shoulders. What fish? Flint excitedly asks Lane. Eight-pounder, Lane brags. Bass? Yup. Large mouth? Yup. Lane, asks Connie, her noise wrinkling subtly. Where is your fish? Lane says, in the garage, I'll show you after we eat. Hang on, Natalie says.

Something's occurred to her, and now she's doubting the smell test she performed in the garage that morning. She says, Troy did point out the smell after you guys brought that cooler inside. I hadn't noticed it before. Lane says,

You're nose blind, Mom. It was already here. It's been here for like a week at least. Natalie fires back. Oh yeah? Then why didn't you say anything before your daddy noticed? Because I thought it was just some new crap you put in your hair or something. I don't know, says Lane.

Flint and Connie share an uncomfortable glance across the table. Natalie says, so it's just a coincidence that no one else noticed the smell until last night and it's gotten way worse since that nasty fish has been sitting out in the garage? It's in a freaking cooler, Mom. Your dad's cooler. It's probably some piece of junk he found in a dumpster. Hell, the cooler might be what stinks. Lane snarls at her. Yeah? Did dad steal your chicken too?

Steal what, chicken? Flint asks. Lane says, it makes sense, right? Everything is dad's fault, right? Let's just calm down a little bit, says Connie. To Flint, Natalie says, it's a long story. To Lane, she says, we're taking that fish to your dad's after this. He can store it in his own damn apartment until his buddy is ready for it. Lane says, it's my fish, mom. Well, it's stinking up my house, Natalie practically screams.

Both of you, please, Connie begs. You know what, says Lane. He shoves his chair away from the table and stands. I'll prove it. Flint says, sit down, young man, and Natalie, you're acting like you're his age. As he storms to the garage, Lane yells back, Nah, she'd be more mature if she acted my age. He disappears into the garage, leaving the door open. Is this all because of the divorce?

Connie asks, as if astonished by the possibility. Natalie ignores her. Lane stomps back in, the cooler dragging his shoulders down. He twists to hoist it through the door, then carries it into the kitchen. Absolutely not, Natalie shouts. Lane shouts back. I wouldn't have to if... The cooler's left handle snaps. Its corner drops on his bare toe. He leaps backward, too late, instead kicking the cooler over.

It slams face down. Ice skitters across the tile floor, bouncing when it hits grout. Some reaches the dining room, even slides under the table. The fish flops out as well.

riding a clump of ice to the middle of the floor in plain view of everyone. The plastic bag it was supposed to be wrapped in is caught under the cooler's lid. The ice beneath the fish is tinged with blood. from gaping wounds where its eyes should be. Connie shrieks. Natalie sits in stunned silence. Good God, gasps Flint.

Lane stumbles to the counter where he holds himself up. He growls, Who did that? Mom? What do you think? Natalie demands. He screams, You did, didn't you? You're pissed because Dad brought it here even though I caught it. That doesn't matter to you, though, does it? Flint says, now hold on. Why would your mother do something like that? She's psycho, Pops. Sorry, I know she's your daughter and everything, but that's the truth.

Natalie can feel the fish staring at her through the fleshy wound in the upturned side of its head. She says, calm by comparison, looks like an animal got at it. You think I went out there and bit the eyeballs out of your precious fish? Flint asks, What kind of animal could have gotten into the garage, opened the cooler, and a Ziploc bag just to eat a fish's eyes?

I never heard of such a thing before. Natalie sneers. So you think I did this too? To Lane, she says, get that thing out of here and clean up all that ice. I'm gonna have to disinfect this entire floor now. You know? says Connie, near tears. I think we'd better come back another time. I don't think I can take this. Just hold on now, says Flint. But Connie stands anyway. Now her eyes are watery. No, Flint...

Let's go. Natalie, you need to get yourself in order. This whole mess is as much your fault as his. Natalie doesn't know whether she's referring to Lane or Troy, but deep down she knows either could be true. But what surfaces is anger. She says, Just go. Don't feel obligated to come back to my hideous, stinking house anytime soon. I'd hate for you to feel uncomfortable for a couple hours out of your perfect little life.

Don't talk to her that way, Flynn growls. He stands, and it's the fastest he's moved since walking in. Natalie feels like a child again. Let's go, Connie whispers. Flint nods once and steps in front of her to clear ice out of her way. He stops by the fish, putting himself between it and Connie as she passes it by. He can't help himself.

He looks down directly into the wound kept red by the cold but now turning gray around the edges. Connie halts three feet from the garage door and cries, We didn't get to see Tyler! Ah, let him rest. says Flint, trying to push her onward. Hi, a small voice behind Natalie says. It's Tyler, entering the dining room. He asks, What happened? Where are they going? He sees the ice and follows it to the kitchen.

where he sees the fish. Flint forces a smile that barely cracks his lips. Well, I'd say you must be feeling better if seeing that doesn't make you puke. Tyler stares at the fish without expression. His eyes are nearly as hollow as the bass's. Let me just give you a hug, sweetheart, Connie says. She takes a step around Flint and nearly slips on an ice cube.

Flint catches her in time and shakes his head, grunting, No, let's just go. Next time I'll hug you twice, Connie promises, blowing a kiss to Tyler. He flashes a toothless smile. Connie's eyes linger on him. until Flint finally pulls her away. When they're gone, the battles is turned into mannequins. Tyler doesn't understand what he's walked in on. Lane is waiting for his mother's unbridled reaction.

She looks furious enough, standing beside the table set with untouched plates of meticulously prepared food. He expects one of those plates to fly at his head. Natalie herself is caught in the eye of her own storm. watching it as if viewing it through someone else's eyes. She's numb. She stares at the meal she prepared for nothing. Tyler, she says, I want you to go back upstairs.

Tyler says, I'm feeling better though. Natalie's fist impacts the table hard enough to rotate the nearest silverware. Tyler drops his head and leaves. Lane silently resumes cleaning up. Natalie tells him, You'd better call your dad to come get that fish because it is not staying here. Why, mom? I can't mount it anymore. Look at it. You destroyed it. I destroyed it? And just why the hell would I touch that nasty thing? Lane says,

Because you hate dad, I already told you. You can't let me or Tyler have anything because you hate him so much. You think we're just his little clones? Well, right now, I'd rather turn out like dad than like you. Natalie reacts so quickly, Lane completely freezes. Her feet splash and the small puddles forming everywhere until she's right in front of him with only his spoiled fish between them. She kicks it.

A slimy liquid spurts from one of its gouged eyes, spraying Lane's face as the fish's body slides against his knees. The fish is not the cause of the permeating stench, but it doesn't smell good. Lane falls onto his butt, scrubbing at his face with his shirt. When he thinks he's done, he still has some foamy slime under his hair. He looks up. Natalie has already turned away. He grunts. I hate you. I know.

Natalie replies without looking back. Lane rises to his feet, grabs the bass by the tail with both hands so it won't slip, and hurls it at the back of her head. It slaps against her ear, slides down her neck, then flops over the front of her shoulder onto the kitchen table. Natalie shrieks, spasms, then grabs the plate nearest her right hand and throws it at Lane like a frisbee, throwing chicken, green beans, and mashed potatoes across the dining room and kitchen.

The plate strikes the edge of the counter, splintering. Shards of porcelain and bits of food scatter across the wet floor. Lane kicks the cooler through the mess, clearing himself a path to the door. Before he leaves the kitchen, He turns once more to Natalie. This is your mess now, he says. Natalie's eyes have lost all humanity. She's a creature coated in putrid slime. She raises her hand.

steps forward to strike him, but her foot lands in mashed potatoes and she slips, nearly placing her hand on a jagged piece of plate as she catches herself. Better clean it up before someone gets hurt, says Lane. Then he turns and goes upstairs. Every horror film hides a secret. Behind the killers, the haunted houses, and the urban legends, there's a true story.

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Hi, I'm Mike Carruthers, host of the podcast Something You Should Know. And in every episode, I talk with world-class experts about fascinating ideas that make you understand your life and the world in a whole new way. Recently, we explored why your brain requires friends to stay healthy, how pockets secretly shaped history, and the surprising science behind morbid curiosity.

If you like learning things you can't wait to tell someone else, search for Something You Should Know. Start with any episode that grabs you. I'll be there waiting. She's not tired, despite spending most of the afternoon scrubbing potatoes, gravy, and barbecue sauce out of the grout, and the evening searching for the source of the terrible smell. The boys went up to their rooms two hours ago.

But as she plugs her phone in for the night, she hears someone in the kitchen. She defaults to rage. Throwing open her door, she demands, before even rounding the corner into the dining room, What are you doing down here? She sees Tyler in the dark kitchen, closing the refrigerator. She asks, What, did you suddenly get your appetite back? Tyler stands still in front of the fridge with his back to her, breathing heavily, almost panting. Tyler!

She snaps. What are you doing? Still, he doesn't react. Mom, leave him alone, Lane says behind her, descending two steps at a time. I'm not doing anything, Natalie replies. Lane's demeanor shifts at the tone of her voice. Her usual venom is diluted by something unfamiliar. He's not answering me, Natalie says, her voice drooping slightly with anxiety.

Lane, standing beside his mother, asks, Tyler, you feeling okay? See, Natalie says when Tyler won't answer him either. Need some food? Lane asks him. Or a Gatorade? I got purple today. says Natalie. Lane stands directly behind Tyler. Natalie asks, is he sleepwalking? I don't know, Lane says. He reaches a hand forward to tap his little brother's shoulder.

Tyler flinches away from the touch but still keeps his back to them both. I think he is, Lane says. We're supposed to just leave him alone, right? Natalie shrugs and says, I'll watch him go back upstairs. Absolutely not, Lane hisses back. Lane, I'm his mother and yours too. You listen to me. Lane replies, start acting like a mother and I will. I don't trust you with him like this.

His voice, remarkably steady and even, tells Natalie he's not saying this to dig at her, but his words cut deep all the same. That's enough, Lane, she says, attempting, failing to mask the hurt. Lane is shouting in whisper. He's scared of you, mom. We both are. You're always mad or stressed out, which makes you mad. We never know what you want from us. You act like you don't want us here, but you get mad if we ever go anywhere with dad. I don't know where I'm supposed to be.

I get home from school every day and… He trails off because Tyler has turned away from the fridge and is now walking between them. His head hangs down like he's asleep, but he knows exactly where to go. He makes his way to the stairs without a sound, then trudges up them. I'm going to help him, Lane says. Natalie replies, I thought we were supposed to leave him alone. Yeah, you're good at that when you want to be, aren't you?

Lane hisses. Lane! Natalie tries to whisper, but her voice cracks on the Y in his name, projecting a mouse-like squeak. She takes a breath and asks, Can we just have an adult conversation for once? If you want to say something, say it up front and quit sniping at me. Lane plants his palms on the counter. He says, All right, let's start here. Why don't you think Tyler came to you when he started feeling sick? He did, Natalie says.

Then, accusing, you were out fishing. You think that's when this started? Lane scoffs, breaking into a brief, sardonic laugh. Mom, he's been feeling sick since the night we moved in. He wasn't puking and stuff, but he's been saying his head hurts and he's obviously not sleeping well. Have you even looked at him, Mom? He's got circles around his eyes so dark, I'm surprised the school hasn't accused you of hitting him yet. Haven't you noticed he barely talks anymore?

Maybe not since you just ignore him anyway. Natalie points the finger of condemnation and says, sniping. Okay, then let me hit you with this one point blank. Lane steps away from the counter to stand directly in front of her. She's nervous this will be the moment he reveals he's inherited her violent streak. But his hands remain at his sides, and he says, The only reason I haven't reported you and gotten us the hell out of here is because I don't want to rip Tyler from another home.

but I'm starting to think maybe this isn't a home anyway. Before Natalie can respond, they both hear Violent retching upstairs. Lane shakes his head with disgust and runs to check on Tyler. Natalie compulsively turns to follow him, but notices the fridge is still open a crack. She reaches to push it shut, but something won't allow it to close. She opens the door to investigate and an empty bacon wrapper slides onto her feet.

It's torn unevenly down the middle, the cold, split plastic sticking up straight like waves about to collide. She knows she bought the bacon last time she went grocery shopping, the time before her emergency trip to the store that morning. She doesn't remember anyone cooking any bacon, though, let alone the whole package. She looks deeper inside the fridge, checking behind the gallons of milk and opening the drawers. She gasps when she opens the lunch meat drawer.

It's all gone. And left in its place is all the plastic it came in, torn open every way except the correct way. Oddly, the cheese, which she also kept in that drawer, was untouched. So too were the fruit and vegetable drawers undisturbed. Mom, Lynn whispers. She jumps. She didn't notice him return. He's standing behind the fridge door looking terrified in its bright light.

She asks, what? Lane's mouth won't cooperate with his brain. His head tries to drag him upstairs, but his eyes keep him anchored to his mother. Finally, he stammers, you need to see. Natalie hears a particularly guttural gagging upstairs and understands more than Lane realizes as he leads her up. The raw chicken and bacon. All that other meat, gone.

It would have been more than enough to make an adult violently ill. Hell, a whole family. She clings to hope that her six-year-old couldn't possibly have consumed it all. Why would he eat raw meat at all, regardless of the amount? but the disturbing scene Lane leads her to makes her believe it might be possible he did. They find Tyler, as expected, in the bathroom, but he's not crouched in front of the toilet.

He's removed the rusty and poorly secured air vent from the floor next to the sink, and his back is arched like a cat's as he vomits directly into the duct below. Tyler, no! yells Natalie. What the hell are you doing? Oh my god, the smell, she realizes as she lunges to intervene. It's puke. This is why the whole house smells like puke.

She manages to pull him up and shove his head toward the toilet before the next volley of raw bacon emerges. There must be a quarter pound in this heave alone. Lane yells, He's not right, Mom! See it now? He's not okay! Natalie can't separate fear from anger. Before she can respond, Tyler quits heaving and howls an agonized cry. He falls out of her grip and reaches into the toilet, cupping his hands to fill them with the half-digested bacon.

He flings the mess toward the open vent. The force of his throw knocks Natalie against the wall. Lane leaps backward to avoid being splattered. Start the shower, Natalie commands. Lane obeys. It's something to do. Tyler returns to the vent and recommences vomiting. It's too late to stop him, and the damage is done. Natalie puts a hand on the back of his neck and whispers, There you go. Get it all out.

Then she stands and goes to the shower Lane has running hot water. She grabs the detachable shower head and starts spraying Tyler with it across the bathroom. Mom! Lane shouts. He grabs at the showerhead, but Natalie pulls it away, keeping it aimed at his brother. Tyler whines and backs away from the vent. Natalie replaces the showerhead and goes to him. She kneels before him and asks, All done?

His throat spasms, causing her to involuntarily push him back, but only one final chunk of bacon emerges between his slick lips. It sticks to his chin. Natalie says, Okay, Lane. Take him back to his room. Come on, says Lane, stepping forward. Natalie grabs a washcloth that's hanging in the shower and quickly wipes Tyler's face before he follows his brother into the hallway, half-conscious.

Natalie's own throat spasms once they're gone. After the intensity of the moment abates, she's left with nothing but the putrid stench of bile and rotting meat coming up through the vent. Whenever the heat turns on, she knows that stench is being blown all throughout the house. Thankfully, it's off at the moment. There's bacon on the floor between the vent and the toilet, and on the wall around the vent.

So she turns the shower back on once more and detaches the head. She sprays the wall and floor, washing everything into the vent. Why not? She already has to clean it anyway. Somehow. She thinks of this and laughs, but as she laughs, she tastes what's on the air and chokes. Her laughter turns to sobbing in an instant. You made it out. Congratulations. If you enjoyed the story, please rate, like, review, or subscribe.

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comes a game show that's more ridiculous than terrifying. Welcome to Tickled to Death. The horror comedy game show where nothing is sacred, everything's a little unhinged, and the only thing more cursed than the questions are the jokes. I'm Roz Hernandez, your fearless host. And each week... I'll be leading a brave group of guests through twisted horror trivia, improv games and enough sarcastic banter to make you question all your life's choices.

So come for the screams. Stay for the snark. Listen to Tickled to Death wherever you get your podcasts. And hit follow unless you want the show to follow you. In the meantime... Right now on the Infamous America podcast. The disappearances started with a mother and daughter. They were followed by two sisters from Texas.

and then three children from the same family. And in between, according to the lore, there were dozens more. During a sensational murder trial, the legend of H.H. Holmes grew from sleazy conman... to one of America's most notorious and prolific killers. But how much was true? The story of H.H. Holmes is happening now on the Infamous America podcast.