47 Place Tucker Hermans I step into the house. The first scent that meets my nose is our scent. This place is ours. Until it’s not. I see an old bookcase with glass doors that swing open. There’s an old Dean Koontz in there but I’m too young to appreciate reading. I walk past—the book’s scent left unexperienced. I step out of the entryway and feel the carpet on my bare feet. Thank Christ it’s not the shag shit that I’ve got to deal with at home. It’s soft but it doesn’t get between my toes—it’s clean. They must vacuum often. I keep going past the television and over to the Christmas tree. It’s the same as it’s always been. It doesn’t smell like Christmas—it smells like our Christmas. My nose picks up something from the kitchen and I turn toward it immediately. It’s rhubarb dessert, a variation of ours—always rhubarb. I love each of our recipes. I smell the caramelized sugar around the edges before I see it. Now it’s in the freezer. There’s a sterile ‘old ice’ smell. It’s not the best, it’s not the worst. The ice smells like us. We open presents and my excitement is quenched. I get a few things that I want and a few that I don’t. My grandfather tells me of the house next door. It’s haunted, he says. Three teenaged dipshits (my word, not his, but it fits) looted the place, then got into an accident. Ever since, the house puts a death curse on the people who enter. I never did. I step into the house. It’s not ours. I smell them. The books and the bookcase are gone. I think I stole the Koontz novel awhile ago. Now they’ve put an ottoman there. It reeks of them. I step onto the carpet. They’ve replaced it with shag, god damn it. I’m glad I kept my shoes on. I step out of the entryway. I smell the absence of a Christmas tree before I notice it. These guys are more into Hanukkah, I guess. I can smell the wood of the dreidels. Beneath that, I smell them. I step into the kitchen. I smell a roast. They don’t ‘do’ sugar. Good God, get me out.
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