The Writers Inn

I Suffer from Short-Term Memory Loss

I suffer from short-term memory loss. No… not the kind where you go to bed one night and forget everything by morning. What I suffer from isn’t something you typically read about. It’s very… normal, at least at first.

Just the little things; the kind of forgetfulness you joke about. A lighter missing here, words stuck on the tip of my tongue. Sometimes I’d walk into a room and freeze, blankly stare at the walls.

We’ve all done that and we laugh it off, chalk it up to stress, blame it on lack of sleep, too much screen time maybe even a bit of burnout.

I told myself I was just stressed. That I needed to eat a vegetable or two, drink more water, maybe stop running on caffeine and sarcasm. A weekend off would fix it. That’s what I thought.

It all started a couple of days ago… or was it months ago? Honestly, it might’ve been years. Maybe I’ve been dealing with it since childhood. I say “childhood” like I remember it clearly, but the truth is… it’s patchy. Like looking at old photos where the faces are just a little too blurry, like they were smudged with a thumb. I remember the smell of something sweet; maybe pancakes? Or was that someone else’s memory?

The weird part is, I never noticed how much I was forgetting until I started writing things down. Not journaling, not anything deep; just sticky notes. Grocery lists. Reminders to call someone I don’t even recognize now. I found a note yesterday that said, “Don’t open the door.” No explanation. Just that.

I laughed at first, figured it was some late-night paranoia, a dream I wanted to remember. But then I saw the same note in the bathroom. Same handwriting. Same words. Different paper. And I don’t remember putting it there.

“Don’t open the door.”

Was it a joke? A prank on myself? I do that sometimes…..leave odd little notes to break up the monotony. But this one didn’t feel playful. It felt… off. Like it had weight. Like it came from a version of me I didn’t remember being.

The more I think about it, the more I realize how many things I’ve been brushing off. Conversations I only half recall. People greeting me like we’ve met before and me, smiling, pretending I remember their face. Maybe I’m just tired. Maybe it’s burnout. Maybe.

There’s a moment in the day always sometime after dusk when everything feels… disjointed. Not wrong, exactly. Just a little misaligned. Like the world is one degree tilted from what it used to be. I catch myself staring at corners, trying to remember if the furniture has always been that way. I can’t tell if I moved it or if it moved itself.

And through it all, that same quiet question keeps circling in my head:

What else have I forgotten? Or is it something I have choose not to remember?

Work used to be the one place that grounded me. Same cubicle, same coffee machine, same passive-aggressive emails about fridge etiquette. It wasn’t exciting, but it was reliable. Predictable. At least, it used to be. I think that’s part of the problem; you never realize how easy it is to stop thinking when everything stays the same. I think my brain went on autopilot somewhere along the way. The routine became muscle memory: badge in, sit down, type things I don’t really read, nod at the right moments. Some days I’d look up and realize hours had passed without a single real thought. Just the soft hum of fluorescent lights and the click-clack of keys I don’t remember pressing.

Lately, things feel… off. People greet me twice in the same day, using the exact same words and tone, like a scene stuck on repeat. I get emails about meetings I don’t remember scheduling. Sometimes I find myself sitting in on conference calls with people I don’t recognize; talking about projects I’ve apparently been “looped into.” They never seem surprised to see me. They nod when I speak, even though I have no idea what I’m talking about. I fake my way through it. Smile. Jot down notes I don’t understand.

And then there are the emails.

I’ll read one in the morning short, boring, routine and then later that afternoon, I’ll go back to it and find it completely different. Same sender. Same subject line. But a different message. One said, “Meeting moved to 2 PM.” Later, it read: “What are you talking about?”

I flagged it. Asked the IT guy to look into it. He told me very politely that the email never changed. That there’s no record of any edits or strange activity on my account. He even asked if I’d been getting enough sleep. I always laugh when they ask that. It’s easier than saying, “I’m not sure who I am between 10 AM and noon most days.”

I found a file I don’t remember saving. Tucked inside a folder titled “Reference Materials,” it was a plain .txt document with no timestamp, no metadata, nothing. Just one line in a dull, monospaced font:

“You’ve already done this.”

I stared at it longer than I probably should have, expecting the sentence to change or blink or reveal more. But it didn’t. It just sat there.

Later that day, while waiting for the elevator, I met someone new. Her name tag said Marla, though I didn’t recall seeing her before and I’d been here long enough to know when someone was new. She had this oddly warm familiarity to her, like someone I’d once dreamed about and forgotten. The moment she spoke, it felt like we were picking up from a conversation we hadn’t finished. She teased me about the stain on my tie, asked if I still drank that bitter instant coffee from the break room, and giggled when I looked confused. I told her I didn’t remember us meeting. She just grinned.

“Still charming,” she said. “You never change.”

By lunch, we were already making plans for dinner. It felt easy. Too easy. She leaned in as we left the building and, half-laughing, half-serious, asked:

“What about the kids?”

I blinked. “What kids?”

She smiled, warm and glassy. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.”

I laughed, but an odd feeling twisted in my stomach. I didn’t have kids. Not really. Just my nephews, staying over for a few days while my sister was in town. She was with them now, at my house. The plan was movie night, frozen pizza, and lights out by ten. I hadn’t told anyone at work. Definitely not Marla.

So, how the hell did she know?

I told myself it was just a guess. A throwaway line. Maybe she assumed; everyone with graying temples and tired eyes has kids, right? That’s all it was. A shot in the dark. A lucky one.
Still, the thought kept circling back, brushing against the base of my skull like static.

Back at my desk, I opened my messages. One unread. From Marla. No subject. Just one line again.

“Don’t forget to pick up the orange juice.”

I left work just as the sky turned that weak, dusty pink; the color of gum stuck beneath a school desk. The lot was mostly empty by then. I’d stayed longer than I needed to, replying to emails that didn’t really need replies, pretending not to hear the janitor humming somewhere down the corridor. I wasn’t avoiding home. Not exactly. Just… drawing out the space between things. Between Marla’s strange smile in the morning and the dull, constant thud that had settled in my stomach ever since.

The drive home was uneventful. A blur of red lights and gray cars. My street looked the same as always; quiet, suburban, harmless but quieter than it should have been. For a house with two boys inside, there was a kind of hush that didn’t sit right. The kind that makes you hesitate at your own doorstep.

I did. Just for a second. Then I unlocked the door and walked in. The house felt colder than usual. Not cold in the physical sense; the thermostat blinked a steady 72 but cold like a room that hadn’t been lived in for a while. Cold like a waiting room after closing hours. Something about the air felt suspended. Like someone had hit pause and walked away.

“Guys?” I called out. “You here?”

No answer. No muffled feet rushing over carpet. No giggles. No fighting. Just… stillness. And then the smell hit me.

It wasn’t strong, at first. Barely there. A faint sourness, tucked behind the drywall. Like wet cardboard left to rot in a trunk. Something that had been damp too long. It trailed from the hallway into the kitchen. The walls seemed to hold it. The scent clung, not in the way of spills or messes, but in the way of things that had taken root. Things that had been forgotten. A note was stuck to the fridge. Just a plain slip of paper, damp around the edges, warped by moisture. The ink had bled just slightly, as if the words themselves didn’t want to stay put.

Don’t forget to scrub the floor.

Typed. No signature. No handwriting. I touched the paper. It felt soft. Wrong. Like it had been through the wash. I peeled it off, stared at it longer than I should have, then tossed it in the trash. Maybe my sister left it. Maybe the boys spilled something before they went out. Maybe a lot of things. I didn’t want to think about it too hard. I had plans tonight. A date.

I headed to the bedroom, expecting to grab my suit from the closet; the white one. Tailored just last Thursday. Crisp, clean, new. A reset. A way to be someone else for an evening. But it wasn’t in the closet. It was on the bed. Laid out carefully, sleeves outstretched like open arms. Like it was waiting for me. The fabric had been ruined. Stained deep and wide across the chest and down one side. Dried at the cuffs like old rust. I stared at it.

Had I worn it already? Maybe to dinner the night before?

But I couldn’t remember dinner. Couldn’t recall what I’d eaten. Or if I’d even been home. I blinked. My mouth felt dry. There was a dull hum building behind my ears. I picked a different outfit instead dark slacks, a button-down shirt. Safe. Unmemorable. I’d deal with the suit later.

The restaurant was warm. Familiar. Clinking glasses and low laughter filled the space. People brushed past one another with smiles and small talk. I found my table by the window, sat, and watched the traffic drift by like ghosts on the wet pavement. I checked my phone. No messages.

Marla was late.

I ordered water. Checked the time again. An hour passed. Then another. By the third, the waiter stopped asking if I was expecting someone. She wasn’t coming. So, I decided to just go home. I’ve never been stood up like this before. The drive back felt slower. There was no sense of urgency now; just a low pulse of unease. When I opened the door, the silence was waiting for me again. But so was the smell.

It was thicker this time. Saturated. Almost visible in the air. And no longer just sour.

There was a sweetness now too. Not the kind you want. Not sugar or fruit. More like overripe pears and pennies left on the tongue. Something metallic. Something that used to breathe. I stood in the hallway, keys still in hand. The house didn’t feel like mine anymore. And I hadn’t even started asking the right questions.

What is that smell? God, it’s strong, it’s everywhere, it’s in me. It’s crawling down my throat like something alive. It’s not just strong it’s itchy, like fiberglass in my lungs, like it’s trying to carve something out of me. It won’t stop. It’s gnawing yes, gnawing, that’s the word right at the back of my throat, like teeth made of rot. I can’t think, I can’t breathe. I need to find it. I need to know what it is. I need to tear this whole house apart if I have to. Right now. I need to find it. I need to find it now.

I didn’t go to bed that night.

Instead I stood in the hallway for what felt like hours, staring at the closed attic hatch above me; the one I hadn’t opened in years. The smell was stronger now, sour and heavy, like meat gone wrong. Something sickly-sweet behind it, like rot layered over flowers. Eventually, I pulled the ladder down. Each rung groaned beneath my weight as I climbed. The air thickened the higher I got, dense and humid like the breath of something waiting. I pushed the hatch open with the flat of my palm, and the darkness inside greeted me with silence. I turned my phone’s flashlight on. The beam caught dust, insulation, cardboard boxes. And then further in the outline of a shoe. A small one. Blue. Velcro straps.

I froze. The light shook as I moved closer, illuminating tangled limbs. First my sister; her legs curled unnaturally beneath her; her hair stuck to her forehead. Then the boys, one slumped against her side, the other half-covered by a blanket, like they were tucked in for the night. Their skin had gone pale and slack, eyes half-open like they’d only just fallen asleep. I staggered back, hitting my head against a rafter. Everything tilted. My vision blurred. My knees gave out, and I sat there, gasping.

My first thought should’ve been to call someone; the police, an ambulance, anyone. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Because something didn’t make sense. I remembered them eating cereal just two days ago. Cartoons on the TV. My sister folding laundry on the couch. And yet… I hadn’t heard them laugh in days. I hadn’t seen socks left on the floor, or cereal bowls in the sink. How long had they been up here? How long had I been down there pretending nothing was wrong?

I stumbled back down the ladder. My hands were shaking. I told myself I’d call; yes, I’d call the police but I needed to clean first. Needed to do something. Anything to make the smell stop pressing against my skin. I opened every window. Sprayed the hallway with whatever I could find. But the stench stayed thick in the walls. It was seeping through the house, infecting it.

When I came back with the bleach and gloves, I told myself I was preserving dignity. That I’d clean the space, then make the call. But I didn’t clean. I fetched the shovel.

The ground behind the shed was soft. We’d always joked about how it turned to mud after just a little rain. I dug until my back burned. Until my hands blistered. Until my shirt stuck to my ribs. Then I brought them down. One at a time. I kept telling myself I was going to call. Right after. Just after this one thing. Just after.

I went back inside to call the police. That was all I had left to do.

But the smell was unbearable now; rancid, cloying, like spoiled meat baked into the drywall. It hit me harder than before, stronger, like the house had been waiting for me to come back before it exhaled.

I lit a candle. Then another. Then all of them. Sickly vanilla and fake citrus mingled with the scent of rot, turning the house into a perfume bottle cracked open in a morgue. My eyes watered. I tasted copper in the back of my throat. I needed to get it out. The smell. The guilt. All of it. The note still hung crooked on the fridge.

Don’t forget to scrub the floor.

They’re still here.

I didn’t even remember seeing that second line before. My hands started to shake. I tore the note off and burned it over the stove. That’s when the doorbell rang.

It was Marla.

She smiled at me warm, glassy just like earlier in the office. She stepped inside like everything was normal. Didn’t even flinch at the stench that clung to the walls.

“Hey,” she said softly. “You okay?”

There was something off about her smile. Something that made my teeth ache.

“I — You shouldn’t be here,” I mumbled. “You… You weren’t supposed to know. About the boys. About the house.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

I stepped back. She stepped forward.

“Don’t worry,” she said, tone suddenly too sweet, too calm. “I’ll handle it.”

The same words. The exact words she’d said in the office.

Then she lunged.

She grabbed my wrist; hard. Her nails dug in. I tried to pull away but she was stronger than I remembered. Stronger than she should’ve been. Her voice twisted low and wrong, like it echoed from inside the walls.

I panicked.

I didn’t mean to hit her. But I did.

She hit the ground hard, her head landing against the edge of the hallway mirror. The frame cracked. Blood pooled quickly beneath her hair.

The smell grew stronger.

It was her.

The smell had always been her.

God, what was she?

I wrapped her in an old bedsheet, took her to the yard, and buried her near the others. I couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t breathe in the house anymore. My vision blurred. My memory pulsed in fragments. A room full of candles. Blood on a suit. The boys laughing. My sister; no, not my sister. What sister?

I walked back into the house, trembling, phone in hand. Finally, I tapped 911 on the keypad. I was going to call. I was. It was over now. It had to be.

Then the knock came. Three short taps on the door. I opened it. Two police officers stood there. Their faces were unreadable.

And standing behind them… was Marla. Smiling. Whole. Alive. The boys were with her.

“Daddy!” one of them shouted. I stepped back. My throat dried. My chest tightened. The room spun. The taller officer cleared his throat.

“Sir, is everything okay? Your wife was concerned. Said she got some strange messages from you.”

Wife?

Marla stepped forward. She touched my arm.

“Honey,” she said, soft and confused, “what happened? Are you alright?”

I looked behind me, towards the hallway. There was no blood. No candles. Nothing but the note in the bathroom that looked at me with contempt;

Don’t open the door

I blinked. Her voice felt distant rubbery and wrong, like sound traveling through water.

“What’s that smell?” I asked. My throat still burned. It was still there thick and sour, clinging to the curtains, stuck behind my teeth. “You don’t smell that?”

“I saw — ”

“You’ve been here all week. You haven’t left the house.”

That wasn’t true. I had gone out. I was at work. I had meetings.

“The boys…my sister was with them…in the house. I found them…in the attic. “

“What sister?….The kids were with me at Moms house”

I looked down at the boys. One of them held a half-eaten slice of pizza, sauce smeared across his face. The other stood cross-legged with a plastic spaceship, making whooshing sounds with his mouth.

I whispered, “Those notes I kept finding…”

“You were texting me,” she said. “Some weird messages. They didn’t make sense. You just kept saying things like ‘They’re watching me. I found it. I remember now.’”

“You locked the doors,” she said. “You said someone was in the house. That the smell meant something. Then you stopped answering. I came to check on you.”

I turned in place, slowly, trying to see what she saw. No dirt under my nails. No freshly dug soil in the yard. Just the ticking of the clock, a greasy plate on the table, the warm hum of the fridge behind me. I looked down at my hands. They were trembling. Marla stepped closer and took them in hers.

My wife told me; I suffer from short term memory loss but honestly; I don’t even know what to believe anymore.