By Megan Thompson
Our sense of smell is closely related to our memory; For some people that could be the spicy smell of cinnamon that reminds them of grandma’s house, or the smell of fresh wood burning in Autumn air that takes you back to those teenage Friday nights. For me, the smell that takes me back and gives me some of the greatest memories is that of rotting meat, but not your run of the mill roadkill, it’s a specific smell, the smell that only the carrion plant can emit. It’s truly something. Sometimes, while walking through my new house and watching the dust particles dance in sun, the smell will hit me, and I’ll be lost in a dreamscape. The blood, the elation, the secrecy, the plant.
My new house is a small non assuming house on a small non assuming street. Unlike my old house, there are no plants outside, and the basement is empty, damp, and musty. The new house sits on the corner of the street facing east, my old house sat facing south. There are no stains on the carpet and the garden isn’t fertilized. My neighbors love me here, at my old house they hated me, my plants, and my hobbies, a neighbor once referred to me as the “weirdo with the smelly house”. I’m gone now and they can’t find me, I left nothing and everything in that old house. I left myself there. Sometimes, on sleepless nights, I imagine myself back there, dancing in the kitchen, wild from adrenaline, red face and hands growing stickier by the second. I must pick my hobbies up again before I completely lose sight of myself. I’ll start with a plant.
The smell creates a visceral reaction to some, to me it smells of those Autumn nights, hacking away in my basement, righting all the wrongs that I have seen. When they see me, they come easily, all bedroom eyes and a flutter of lashes. I could get those men and women to follow me anywhere. Anywhere isn’t where we were going though, I had a lovely basement to show them and by the time I had them good and drunk, they would oblige to my every whim.
My plants arrived in the mail today, I had thought of just one, but decided on 5. We’re going back in headfirst. As I gently unpack, the smell hits me and then the memories come flooding back, sticky, gooey, sawing, grinding, What an absolute beautiful mess. Unpacking and replanting, gently and beautifully I place my plants into their new homes and sit them in the shining sunbeams, blooming and stinking. We’re in for a treat.
I went out last night and met a nice fella, he came home with me and didn’t leave. He’s currently fertilizing my new garden. I planted tomatoes, lettuce, peppers, and onions this morning. The hardware store thought I was a maniac; I was on an absolute high buying everything for a garden at 9am this morning, adrenaline still pulsing through me. I didn’t sleep last night; I was up all night playing. He came easily when I asked him home for a drink, he was handsy, but not like the handsy that makes you uncomfortable. This strange man wanted to hold my hand and whisper sweet things in my ear; for a moment on my couch, I let him do all of those things. I then handed him his fresh whiskey sprinkled with a little bit of a sleeping pill, enough to make him go easily. I kept his randy ways at bay until I watched his lids get heavy, I led him to the basement and tied him up. He thinks it’s a kink, it is a kink but not the kind he thought it was. The first cut is always the best, the warm sticky blood spilling over my hand, the agony in his eyes. I particularly like to cut the person up as they are alive, I also time them to see how long they last. My record is 45 minutes and I made it all the way to the head. After the butchering is done, they get grinded up and put into buckets waiting to fertilize my food. I cover the floor in plastic, so the cleanup is a breeze.
Last night didn’t feel as good as those nights in my old house, those really were the days. I had everything down to a science there and was able to experiment. While I have my tried and true methods, I also like to play with different techniques. One night after watching an overrated movie, I tried to make my victim? Victim sounds silly, I tried to make my person kill themselves, didn’t work, which is fine by me, but it could have been fun. Another time, I tried to eat the excess blood, turns out I’m no Dahmer.
You know what’s fun about the whole thing? I’m a female, I have a vagina, and I’m actually pretty decent looking. I have a good job, have never done sex work, nor do I have a traumatic back story. I’m not part of a couple, and I didn’t kill animals as a child. I like to think of myself as the anti-serial killer. I’m so unassuming that I once had a lady grinded up in a bucket sitting in my living room when a cop came round to see if I had seen her, they believed me when I said no and carried on. I still see her missing persons signs. I love the idea of psychologists trying to peg me if they ever catch me. They’ll all jizz their pants trying to have a go at me, analyzing interviews and social media posts. Good luck buckos.
Back to my plants, have you ever smelled rotting human flesh? Well if not, it smells almost exactly like the carrion plant. When you have these scattered around your property, your gardens can be properly fertilized without drawing attention, and people just think you have a weird hobby. I’ve tried several different things to cover up the smell, but I’ve found that some things mess with the quality of fertilization. Did I mention that I run a small booth at local farmers markets? Because I do, and my plants have to be prist-fucking-tine. It feels so good watching people buy my goods knowing the secret to their delicious food. Most people would gag but honestly, I’ll take my human fertilized food over your over processed, hormone pumped vegetables.
Going to sleep tonight is going to be hard, even though I’m exhausted. I keep getting beautiful vignettes of what happened last night. Flashes of blood sounds of moans, my laughter. I’m not into myself but damn I’m good. I can’t wait to get this house broken in like my other one. I try not to get attached to places, but I always end up with a familiar sense of melancholy when I leave. One day, I’ll settle, one day I can stay in one place and have my hobbies, my plants, and my vegetables, but today isn’t that day. However, I am thinking of investing in a greenhouse so my vegetables aren’t just seasonal, and my hobbies will last all year, what a wonderful thought! I will make this house into a home before long.
Bio: Megan Thompson is a budding horror writer from the hills of Appalachia where she takes most of her inspiration. She holds a BA in English from a local University and has her hand in many pots when it comes to hobbies, with horror writing being her favorite one.
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