My Toronto Apartment Looked Perfect, But the Smell of Rotting Flesh Wouldn't Leave

I beat out twelve other applicants for the studio in Toronto's Annex. In this market, that's basically winning the lottery. Hardwood floors, exposed brick, huge windows, and the rent was somehow $400 below market rate. The landlord seemed eager to fill it, kept saying he just wanted "the right tenant" and that I "seemed like a good fit."

Should've wondered why he was so picky about who lived there. The smell hit me on day three.

Week One: Just a Dead Mouse, Right?

Woke up to it. That unmistakable stench of something rotting. If you've ever smelled it, you know, it's not just bad, it's wrong. It triggers something primal in your brain that says "get away from here."

Started in the corner by the radiator. I checked everywhere. Behind it, under it, inside the vents. Nothing. Called the landlord.

"Old building," he said. "Probably a mouse in the walls. It'll pass in a week or two."

Except it didn't pass. It got stronger.

By day five, I couldn't eat in the apartment. The smell made everything taste like decay. I started spending twelve-hour days at coffee shops, coming home only to sleep. And even then, I'd wake up gagging, my sheets soaked in sweat, convinced I could taste it in my mouth. My coworkers started asking if I was okay. I'd started showing up early, leaving late. Anything to avoid being in that apartment.

Week Two: The Search

I tore that place apart. Moved every piece of furniture, checked every vent, every baseboard, every corner. The building super came by with some kind of detector, walked around for twenty minutes, then shrugged.

"I don't smell anything, man."

"You don't, how can you not smell that?"

He looked at me like I was crazy. "When's the last time you got some sleep?"

That night I met my neighbor in the hallway. Old guy, lived there for fifteen years. I asked him if he ever noticed any smells.

His face changed. "You're in 304, right?"

"Yeah, why?"

"How long you been here?"

"Two weeks."

He studied me for a long moment, then shook his head. "Good luck," he muttered, and went into his apartment. Locked his door. I heard him slide the deadbolt. When you're apartment hunting in Toronto, or Vancouver, or any competitive market, you get so desperate that you ignore red flags. The too-good price. The eager landlord. The neighbor who won't look you in the eye. You tell yourself it's fine because you need a place and you need it now.

Week Three: The History

I started researching the building. Found a Reddit thread from two years ago, someone asking about "weird smells" in a unit on the third floor. The comments were deleted. Found another from four years ago. Same floor. Deleted.

Then I found the news article.

Six years ago. Woman in unit 304. Elderly, lived alone. Dead for three weeks before anyone found her. Summer heat. The article didn't go into details, but it mentioned that the unit had to be "extensively cleaned and renovated."

I stared at that article for an hour. My hands were shaking.

The landlord had renovated. New floors, new paint, new everything. But you can't renovate away what happened. You can't sand down memory. And sometimes, maybe, you can't scrub away what's left behind. That night the smell was so bad I vomited. Not just nausea, I actually threw up in my kitchen sink from the stench. But here's the thing: when I leaned over that sink, gasping, I looked up at my reflection in the window. Behind me, in the corner where the smell was strongest, the air looked thick. Like heat shimmer, but wrong. It moved like something was standing there, shifting its weight.

I didn't turn around. I couldn't.

Week Four: Acceptance

I stopped fighting it. Bought a case of those hospital-grade masks, the kind they use in forensic cleanup. Wore them inside my own apartment. Started sleeping with all the windows open, even though it was October and freezing. The smell changed. Not weaker, different. Sometimes it was rot. Sometimes it was sickeningly sweet, like overripe fruit mixed with chemicals. Sometimes it smelled like perfume trying to cover something up. The kind of cheap perfume someone might spray around a room they're trying not to smell.

I started losing time. I'd sit down at my laptop, blink, and three hours would be gone. No memory of them. Just... gone. My boss called asking why I'd missed two meetings. I didn't remember missing them. Didn't remember having them scheduled.

Found weird things in my apartment. A glass of water I didn't pour, sitting on the counter, half-empty. My bed made when I knew I'd left it unmade. Food in my fridge I didn't buy, old food, expired, like it had been there for weeks.

My reflection in the bathroom mirror started looking off. Same face, but the eyes were wrong. Too dark. Sometimes when I blinked, there was a delay. Like my reflection was moving just a half-second behind me.

Week Five: The Neighbors

The old guy from down the hall knocked on my door. Looked worse than the last time I'd seen him.

"You need to leave," he said. No preamble.

"I can't afford to break my lease"

"The girl before you stayed two months. Before her, a guy made it six weeks. Before him" He stopped. "That woman who died? She wasn't the first. This building's been here since 1927. You think she's the only person who died alone in there?"

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying this building remembers. Especially that unit. And whatever's in there, it doesn't want you to leave. It wants company. It's been alone too long." He left before I could ask anything else.

That night I tried to pack. I'd lose my deposit, whatever, I'd figure it out. Started throwing clothes in a suitcase. But every time I got close to actually leaving, I'd forget what I was doing. I'd zone out, come back to myself sitting on my bed, suitcase empty again. It was keeping me there.

Week Six: The Mirror

I stopped sleeping. Couldn't. Every time I closed my eyes, I'd dream I was rotting. Could feel my skin loosening, my flesh softening, liquefying. Could smell myself decomposing. I'd wake up screaming, checking my arms, my face, convinced I'd find necrotic tissue.

The smell wasn't just in one corner anymore. It was everywhere. It was in my clothes, my hair, under my skin. I could taste it constantly. My coworkers stopped sitting near me at lunch. Someone from HR pulled me aside, asked if I was "going through something." Yeah. I was going through something.

The thing in the mirror stopped pretending to be me. I'd catch glimpses, my reflection smiling when I wasn't. Standing when I was sitting. Moving its mouth like it was talking when I was silent. Once, I watched it press its hand against the glass from the other side, fingers splayed, and the glass rippled like water.

I haven't looked in a mirror in three days.

Yesterday

Found something under my bed. A journal. Not mine. The handwriting was shaky, desperate. Most of it was illegible, but I could make out parts:

"Day 43: The smell is me now. I AM the smell. When did I become the smell?"

"Day 56: Saw her today. She was me. Or I was her. We're the same now. We've always been the same."

"Day 67: I understand now. The building needs us. It's so empty. So many empty rooms. But not this one. Never this one. This one is full. So full. Too full. But there's always room for more."

The last entry was dated three days before that woman died. The handwriting looked exactly like mine.

Today

I'm writing this from my apartment. It's 3 AM. The smell is so strong I can barely think. But I'm not panicking anymore. Actually feeling kind of calm. I tried to leave again today. Got as far as the door. But why would I leave? This is my apartment. I beat out twelve other applicants for it. The rent's great. The location's perfect.

Sure, there's a smell, but I'm getting used to it. Honestly, I barely notice it anymore. Sometimes I wonder if it's even there, or if it's just me. Maybe it's always been me.

My reflection is moving on its own now. That's fine. She seems nice. We've been keeping each other company. It's good to not be alone.

There's a showing tomorrow. The landlord texted, he's got someone coming to look at the place. I told him I'm not leaving, but he said not to worry about it. Said the new tenant won't mind sharing.

The building has so many empty rooms.

But not this one.

Never this one.

I'm gonna go check the mirror again. She's been calling me.

She says we're the same now.

She's right.