Why Do I Smell Bleach When There Is None Novels & Stories

I find what I’m looking for and head to my house determined. I stand at the front door, just looking at the doorknob, trying to think over what I’m about to do. Then, the images of that night flash through my mind. I turn the knob and walk in slowly. I can feel my breathing come faster as I look around. It smells like bleach, someone’s clearly come in and cleaned up the mess. It used to smell like apple cinnamon, no matter the time of year because it was my mom’s favorite scent. She’d say that every season is apple cinnamon season, and I’d always make fun of her. But that smell made it home, and now that smell is gone. Trampled over with tragedy and bleach. This isn’t my home, not anymore.

I’m still vomiting, but they no longer care as they dig their fingernails into my arms, forcing me into the tight, dark space. The door closed with a slam and a click as the lock fell into place. Pounding on the door weakly, I cried for help. But will anyone hear me? Would anyone think to look for me here? The smell of bleach blended with the smell of my sick bowels made me gag as I inhaled the foul chemicals. Looking over, I noticed several of the cleaning bottles were left open, their noxious fumes filling the small space. Holding my breath I bang on the door once more.

Their laughter was cut short when the back doors opened, and two men came out to survey the crowd. “Who are they going to pick this time?” Diesel grumbled, before getting to his feet “they seem to be interested in us.” He was right. Their eyes never left us, but they didn’t approach to try and drag one of us away. Instead, they just returned inside, but left the doors open. “What was that about?” I asked the others, but they seemed as equally confused as I was. The overwhelming scent of bleach hit me, before women came pouring through the doors. My nostrils stung and made breathing difficult. It felt like my nose was bleeding.

She did not go to her room neither did she remove her coat or gloves. Instead, she turned left. The kitchen doors swung open, and the smell hit her instantly. A strong smell of bleach. It was sharp, overpowering and invasive. The kind of bleach that was used to try and cover up something bad. It stung her eyes and coated the back of her throat. Beneath it lingered something older and fouler: fear soaked into stone, sweat ground into grout, desperation clinging to every surface. Stainless steel counters gleamed too brightly, scrubbed to a manic shine. The floor was damp, streaked where mops had dragged back and forth too many times. Buckets were shoved hastily into corners, rags folded with t

He releases me when I set my icy glare on him but still speaks, “Harper doesn’t have any reason to be on the upper floors, so we should start at the bottom and work our way up.” “I have a better idea,” I mutter, closing my eyes. I focus my senses, pushing them through the building to touch everything. Then, my nose starts stinging and the scent of bleach becomes almost overwhelming. “What is it?” Mason asks when I turn toward the back of the house. “Bleach, and I think I can smell Harper.” “Bleach? Like—” I don’t wait for him to finish, my mind going to the worst places as I run toward the smell. I shove past pack members and nearly throw myself down the service staircase.

“What happened?” “I—I don’t know,” Blaise stammered. “I woke up and she was gone. Storm too. The door was open.” Ryker inhaled deeply. His jaw flexed. “There’s something off,” he muttered. “Something chemical.” His nose to the air, sniffing. Beth’s voice trembled. “Chemical?” Michael knelt by the frame. “There’s residue here. Smells like… chloroform. Medical grade.” The words hit them like a gunshot.

I blinked, letting them fall down my cheeks and onto the invisibility hoodie. “Now isn’t the time for bawling.” I pushed open the door and stepped into the room. It took less than a minute to charge into the white-tiled bathroom, undress, and stand beneath a spray of scalding hot water. I slathered myself with lemon-scented shower gel to get rid of the stench of brimstone. When that didn’t work, I rushed around the bathroom, looking for every scented toiletry I could find. Shampoo, conditioners, cologne couldn’t get rid of the scent, no matter how much I applied or how many times I returned to the hot spray.

​I lean over the black slate bench to record the step in the notebook, but as the amber liquid hits the heat, I catch a sudden, violent whiff of something that does not belong in a chemistry lab. ​It isn't an acidic bite or a chemical burn. It is a pungent, sickly-sweet odor, heavily reminiscent of rotting lilies and raw ozone. It hits the back of my throat like a physical, suffocating weight. ​Within seconds, the entire room begins to violently tilt. The bright fluorescent lights above me suddenly stretch into long, jagged lines of blinding white fire.

The smell hit me immediately. Soap. Industrial-strength cleaner. Bleach. Someone had scrubbed this room within an inch of its life, probably just hours ago. The scent was so strong it made my eyes water. But underneath all that chemical warfare, something else lingered. Something floral and sweet, with an edge of expensive perfume. Saraphina's scent. Faint, but still there, clinging to the corners they couldn't quite reach.

“So you’re sniffing the air out here to clear your sinuses or something? Really?” “Actually,” I say, “can you come here for a second?” She arches an eyebrow but steps over, clearly intrigued. “Okay, what’s up?” “Do you smell anything unusual here?” I gesture to the spot near the window. Chloe sniffs the air, then shakes her head. “Nope. Just smells like burnt wood and cleaning stuff to me.” I nod, taking her words to heart. If Chloe, with her sharp senses, can’t smell it, then what the hell is going on?