20 OPHELIA CLARK
October 23
A wave of nausea washed over me the moment the therapist opened the door. The pungent odor of rotten meat mixed with urine and feces was overwhelming. I knew the previous owner had died in the house, but it smelled like she was still in there. I didn’t blame the porch cat for taking off in such a hurry. The blood drained from my face, and I thought I’d be sick on the spot, but as soon as the therapist spoke to me, the horrible stench vanished. It didn’t fade or get carried off in the breeze. It just wasn’t there, as if I’d only imagined it. I followed Doctor Miller inside and tried not to think about it, though I wondered if Isra’s crystal was messing with my perception of places and things.
I didn’t know anything about Victorian style, but the inside of the
