Scent of Death

The stench hit Detective Scott Martin the moment he crossed the threshold of the small apartment. It wasn’t just decay. It was something worse — a blend of rot, sweat, and something sickly sweet that clung to the walls.

“Christ,” his partner, Detective Juliet Boydstun, muttered, pulling her scarf over her nose. “How long has he been in here?”

The coroner, a squat man with a permanent grimace, glanced up from where he knelt beside the body. “Judging by the decomposition? At least a week. Probably more.”

Scott scanned the room. The victim, Connor Pastoor, was slumped in his chair, head tilted to the side as if he had simply dozed off. His eyes were open, clouded over, staring at nothing. His skin had turned a waxy gray, bloated in places where gas had built up. The worst part was his hands — his fingers were curled as if he'd died grasping for something.

“What do you think?” Scott asked.

Juliet crouched beside the body. “No sign of forced entry. Door was locked. Windows, too.”

“Suicide?” Scott asked, though he didn’t believe it.

The coroner snorted. “Not unless he poisoned himself in the most sadistic way possible.”

Scott leaned in. Something about Pastoor's expression nagged at him. He’d seen dead bodies before — more than he cared to count — but there was something about this one that didn’t sit right. The man’s face was frozen in an expression of horror, his lips slightly parted as if he had been about to scream.

Juliet touched his shoulder. “Look at this.” She pointed to a small amber bottle on the table beside Pastoor. The label was faded, but the word "extract" was still visible.

Scott picked it up, careful not to disturb the scene too much. He popped the cap and took a cautious sniff. The scent was overwhelming — sweet, cloying, almost floral but with an undercurrent of something rancid.

“That’s what we’re smelling,” Juliet said. “What the hell is it?”

Scott set the bottle down. “Bag it. We’ll find out.”

Back at the lab, the results came back fast. The liquid was a highly concentrated botanical extract — but laced with a rare neurotoxin. One drop would be enough to paralyze someone. Two drops? They wouldn’t wake up again.

“The weird thing is,” the toxicologist told them, “this stuff isn’t just poisonous. It does something else — something I’ve never seen before.”

Scott frowned. “Like what?”

“It triggers the olfactory nerve in a way I can’t explain. Victims experience hallucinations before they die. Probably smell-related ones.”

Juliet crossed her arms. “Hallucinations? As in, they smell things that aren’t there?”

“Not just smell — experience it,” the toxicologist corrected. “It’s like their brain creates an entire world based on whatever scent they’re exposed to. And it seems… violent.”

Scott's stomach turned. He thought of Pastoor's frozen expression, his fingers clawed in terror.

“What about the source?” Juliet asked. “Where would someone get this?”

The toxicologist shook his head. “It’s obscure. The base ingredient comes from a plant that only grows in Southeast Asia. This isn’t something you pick up at a pharmacy.”

Scott and Juliet exchanged a look. If Pastoor had this, someone had given it to him.

Their first lead came from Pastoor's phone records. A week before his death, he had received multiple calls from an unknown number. When they traced it, the line led them to a small perfume shop tucked in the back streets of the city.

The shop was unassuming, its window filled with ornate bottles. A bell chimed as they stepped inside, and a wave of scents hit them — rose, sandalwood, citrus, musk. Behind the counter stood an elderly woman with silver hair coiled at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were sharp despite her frail frame.

“Detectives,” she said before they had even spoken. “I was expecting you.”

Scott stiffened. “You know who we are?”

She smiled faintly. “It was only a matter of time before someone traced the scent.”

Juliet stepped forward, flashing her badge. “We’re investigating Connor Pastoor's death. He was in contact with this shop before he died.”

The woman nodded. “He purchased something… unusual.”

“The extract,” Scott said.

“Yes.” She turned and walked toward the back of the shop, gesturing for them to follow. They hesitated only a moment before stepping through the beaded curtain.

The back room was dimly lit, shelves lined with vials of different colored liquids. The air was thick with conflicting scents. On a wooden table sat a single amber bottle identical to the one found at Pastoor's apartment.

“I warned him,” the woman said softly. “But he insisted.”

Juliet narrowed her eyes. “Warned him about what?”

“The scent,” she said, touching the bottle lightly. “It is not like ordinary fragrances. It is old — older than most things on this earth. It carries memories.”

Scott's pulse quickened. “Memories?”

She nodded. “It calls forth the past in ways most cannot understand. Some find beauty in it. Others…” Her gaze darkened. “Others are consumed by it.”

Juliet scoffed. “You’re telling us this bottle made him hallucinate so badly that he died?”

The woman sighed. “Not hallucinate. Experience. He inhaled the past — the worst parts of it.”

Scott felt an icy trickle down his spine. “Where did this come from?”

She hesitated. “It was never meant to be sold.”

Juliet's patience wore thin. “Who did you get it from?”

The woman met her gaze. “It does not matter now.”

Before either of them could react, she picked up the bottle and hurled it to the floor. Glass shattered, and the liquid within splattered across the wooden planks. Instantly, a scent filled the air — thick, suffocating, sickly sweet.

And then the world shifted.

Scott blinked. The shop was gone. He stood in an alleyway, the air choked with smoke and burning meat. Screams echoed from somewhere nearby. The walls around him dripped with something dark. He turned, heart pounding.

Beside him, Juliet gasped. “Scott … where are we?”

Before he could answer, something moved in the shadows. A figure emerged — a man, his face contorted in agony, his body half-consumed by flames. The scent of burning flesh filled Scott's nostrils, turning his stomach.

He stumbled back. No, this wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

The burning man lurched forward, reaching out. His mouth opened, and a single word rasped out.

“Remember.”

Scott's breath hitched. A flood of images crashed into his mind — places he had never been, faces he had never seen, but emotions that felt as real as his own. Pain. Betrayal. Death.

Juliet screamed.

Scott turned just in time to see something — someone — grab her from the darkness.

And then, as suddenly as it began, it was over.

They were back in the shop. The scent was gone. The shattered bottle lay at their feet, but the old woman was nowhere to be seen.

Juliet staggered against the counter, panting. “What the hell just happened?”

Scott wiped sweat from his brow. His hands were shaking. “I don’t know.”

But one thing was clear.

The scent of death wasn’t just a fragrance.

It was something much worse.

And it was still out there.