Three in the morning, and I was shivering in a police station. The officer across from me tapped his pen on the desk. “You’re a college student. So tell me again why you believe a food truck’s secret sauce is being made with… fluid from a corpse?” I stared at the cold steel of the handcuffs, catching the lingering scent of decay trapped under my fingernails. It was, without a doubt, the smell of death. The smell a human body weeps after it’s gone. 1 My family ran the oldest funeral home in the state since 1892. Grandfather used to say corpses develop two extra mouths—one for decay to enter, one for stench to escape. I grew up in the quiet halls of a funeral home, a childhood scented with formaldehyde and decomposing tissue. I’ve seen more of the dead than I have of the living. I grew up Even my last medical report noted it: Olfactory sensitivity, preternaturally acute. So, when my roommate, Lucy, shoved a carton of loaded fries under my nose, drenched in their famous, pungent sauce, I threw up on the spot. “Seriously, Mia?” she said, stabbing a sauce-laden fry and popping it into her mouth with a look of pure bliss. “This is from that viral spot in the food truck alley by campus. I waited two hours for this.” I wiped my mouth, silent. The smell was indescribable. It was like rotting fish gills scraped with a rusty scalpel. Identical to the drowning victim I’d prepared just last month. 2 To figure this out, I went with Lucy to the fries truck. A long line snaked from the front of the truck. I muttered, “Is it really that good?” Lucy was unfazed. “Told you. It’s an internet sensation.” Well, I was already here. I trudged to the back of the line, resigning myself to the wait. The owner worked fast, though, and we were at the front in just over an hour. As we got closer, the putrid smell of the sauce hit me like a wave. My stomach clenched, and a sour taste rose in my throat. Lucy, oblivious, grabbed my arm excitedly. “You have to try it this time.” I didn't refuse, just gave a weak nod. 3 Fighting back my nausea, I studied the stall. It was a small, grimy food truck, its metal siding dented and dull. The owner was a middle-aged man with a perpetually simple, honest-looking smile. He worked with an expert rhythm, scooping golden fries into cartons and ladling on the thick, dark sauce, his movements almost unnaturally efficient. I decided to probe. “Hey, what’s in this sauce? It’s so… pungent.” The owner didn’t even look up, his hands a blur of mechanical motion. “Family secret. Passed down through generations.” I watched his face, trying to read something, anything, in his expression. But he kept his head down, busily adding toppings over the sauce. 4 “Business is booming,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Ever think about hiring some help?” A place this popular could easily afford another pair of hands. This time, he glanced up at me. “I manage just fine on my own. Can’t afford to hire anyone.” Lucy chimed in. “What about your wife? Or kids? Can’t they lend a hand?” The owner’s smile tightened slightly as he handed Lucy her order. “Here you go. Next!” The conversation was over. The person behind us was getting restless. “Hey, if you’re done, move it.” Lucy mumbled an apology over her shoulder and pulled me away by my sleeve. 5 We found an empty bench nearby. Lucy eagerly held a fry, dripping with sauce, to my lips. “Go on, try it. It’s best when it’s hot.” I grimaced but leaned in, taking a careful sniff. That familiar, unidentifiable stench instantly flooded my senses. This was absolutely not a normal food smell. Fermented or aged sauces could be pungent, yes, but they smelled of yeast, chili, or soy—of things that were meant to be eaten. But this… this was tainted with a faint but undeniable metallic foulness. It was closer to what I smelled at work every day. The smell of a corpse. 6 I instinctively covered my nose. “Don’t eat that,” I said, my voice sharp. Lucy just laughed, completely missing my tone. “Smells strong, tastes amazing. That’s the whole point.” “You and your super-sniffer nose,” she teased. “You just can’t handle intense flavors.” “No,” I said, pulling her closer. “It doesn't smell strong. It smells like a corpse.” “Like crap?!” Lucy exclaimed, a little too loudly. Her voice, while not a shout, turned the heads of the people at the next table. The owner, who happened to be clearing a nearby trash can, shot us a cold, irritated look. “Watch your mouth, young lady.” Lucy, realizing what she’d said, clapped a hand over her mouth, her wide eyes pleading with me for help. I gave her a subtle shake of my head and whispered, “Let’s go. Back to the dorm. Now.” 7 I dragged Lucy away, grabbing the two half-eaten cartons as we left. She clung to my arm, her voice a nervous whisper. “You were serious, weren’t you? About the… you know.” Lucy knew my sense of smell was no joke. The possibility that she’d been eating something so vile was starting to sink in, and she was terrified. “We’ll talk in the dorm,” I said, my voice low. It wasn’t the place for this conversation. Even after we passed through the campus gates, I could feel a pair of hot, angry eyes burning into my back. Back in our room, Lucy opened one of the cartons and started eating again. “What are you doing?” I demanded, exasperated. “How can you still eat that?” Most people, upon hearing the word “corpse,” would have thrown the food into the nearest biohazard bin. 8 Lucy shrugged, her nonchalance forced. “I thought about it. A little dirt never hurt anyone, right? So what if it smells like crap?” “Besides,” she added, stabbing another fry, “look how many people eat it. It’s not just me.” She popped it into her mouth, the dark sauce smearing the corner of her lips. I recoiled, putting more distance between us. “Did you mishear me?” I asked. She chewed thoughtfully. “Didn’t you say it smelled like crap?” I pressed my lips together, fighting for patience. “I said it smells like a corpse.” Lucy’s chewing stopped. The food was stuck in her mouth, unable to be swallowed, unwilling to be spit out. She thought for a moment, her words muffled. “Which word did you say?” I answered calmly. “The kind with a ‘p’.” 9 This time, she lost it. She scrambled for the trash can and retched violently. “Mia, are you serious? Or are you just messing with me?” I looked at her with pity and shook my head. “I wish I were, Lucy. But it’s true.” Her face went ashen. She stuck two fingers down her throat, trying to force out every last trace. When she was finally done, her stomach empty, she looked up at me, her eyes red and tear-filled. “How… how can you be so sure?” she asked weakly. I had never told anyone that my family worked with the dead. It’s a taboo subject for most people. After a moment of silence, I decided to tell her a modified truth. “I have relatives who work at a morgue. The smell is exactly the same as the one in the holding rooms.” Her face twisted in a mask of agony. Whether she fully believed me or not, the seed of doubt was enough. “Oh god,” she wailed. “What about all the times I ate it before?” I patted her shoulder, offering what little comfort I could. “Don’t worry. All that is long gone, flushed down the sewer.” 10 Even though I was certain something was deeply wrong with that truck, I had no actual proof to report. The business continued to be a massive hit. Then, one day, as I was walking past the food truck alley, I saw a familiar figure in the line. At first, I didn’t believe it. But when she turned, I saw her face clearly. “Lucy?” She jumped, spinning around to face me, her mouth smeared with the dark, distinctive sauce. She looked down at the carton in her hand, then back at me, a deer caught in the headlights. “Mia,” she stammered. “What are you doing here?” A hot surge of anger went through me. I strode over, snatched the carton from her hands, tossed it into a nearby trash can, and dragged her back to the dorm. “You promised you’d never eat that stuff again!” 11 Lucy’s eyes welled up with tears. “I’m sorry, Mia, but I can’t help it. Nothing else tastes right anymore.” Tears streamed down her face, and her expression was one of genuine despair, not just guilt. I’d heard stories of certain substances being addictive. Could this sauce have a similar effect? This was bad. I looked at her, my voice firm but concerned. “Okay. From now on, I’m watching you. You are absolutely forbidden from going near that place again.” Lucy knew I was trying to help, so she reluctantly agreed. But after that, her appetite plummeted. She started losing weight at an alarming rate, and it was the unhealthy kind of thin. Her skin was sallow, with dark, bruised-looking circles under her eyes, and her lips were perpetually pale. She walked like she was wading through water, utterly drained of energy. 12 Finally, after two weeks of this, Lucy broke. “Please, Mia,” she sobbed, clutching my arm. “Just let me have some. Just one bite.” I turned away, unable to look at her. “No.” Her state was a clear sign of addiction, and this was the withdrawal period. If she could just push through it, she could beat it. Giving in now would mean starting all over again. I gently patted her back. “Just hold on a little longer, Lucy,” I said softly. “It’ll get better soon.” Lucy knew I wouldn’t budge. She gave a weak, defeated nod, too exhausted to argue anymore. 13 A month later, it all fell apart. It was 8:50 AM, and Lucy hadn’t gotten out of bed. We had a major lecture in ten minutes. I knocked on the frame of her bunk bed. “Lucy? You still not up?” She was on the top bunk, so I couldn’t see her clearly. I stood on my toes, but all I could make out was the back of her head. She was curled into a tight ball, completely unresponsive. This was strange. Today was a core class for her major; she never missed it. Was she sick? A knot of dread tightened in my stomach. I scrambled up the ladder. 14 I gently shook her shoulder. Her brow was furrowed, her cheeks flushed an unnatural, feverish red, and her breath came out in hot puffs. Oh no, I thought. She’s burning up. I decided to get her to the campus clinic and pulled back her duvet. The moment the blanket came off, I gasped. Lucy’s neck and arms were covered in angry, pus-filled sores. They looked like they were about to burst. I didn’t dare touch her. My only option was to call for an ambulance. As her roommate, I rode with her to the hospital. In the ambulance, I overheard one of the paramedics mutter, “Not this university again.” Just as I was about to ask what she meant, the other paramedic shot her a sharp look, silencing her. 15 The hospital was in chaos. Apparently, a large number of students from our university had been admitted with the exact same symptoms. The situation was so severe it had even drawn the attention of the police. An officer glanced at Lucy, who was now lying in a hospital bed, and gestured for me to follow him into the hallway. The corridor was a whirlwind of activity, doctors and nurses rushing back and forth. “Has your roommate been acting strangely lately?” the officer asked. I shook my head. “Nothing out of the ordinary.” “Think carefully. Has she eaten anything unusual? Injected anything?” I froze, looking at him in disbelief. They suspected Lucy was… a drug user? 16 “Impossible,” I said, my tone firm. “But she might have eaten something bad.” The officer, who had looked bored and tired, suddenly straightened up. “Oh? Eaten something bad?” “Yes.” I told him everything I knew about the fries truck and its secret sauce. The officer’s hand, holding the pen, paused. “Do you have any proof?” I fell silent. I didn’t. A smell, a subjective experience, wasn’t evidence. “No.” “Without proof, it’s just speculation. We can’t get a warrant based on that.” Seeing that he wasn’t going to get any more useful information from me, the officer looked disappointed. “Alright, you can go for now. We’ll be in touch if we have any more questions.” 17 I glanced back at Lucy, an IV drip attached to her arm. I had no choice but to nod and leave. Back at the dorm, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned, a sense of unease gnawing at me. So many students from our school were in the hospital, yet it hadn’t affected the fries truck’s business one bit. Over the next few days, I spent all my free time at the coffee shop across the street from the food truck, watching. I started to learn the owner’s routine. Every morning at 7 AM, he would arrive in a silver cargo van and park in the small alley behind the truck. He’d unload several large, heavy sacks of ingredients and carry them inside. For the next two hours, he’d prep in the back. At 10 AM sharp, he’d open for business. He wouldn’t close up until around 11 PM, when he would start cleaning. 18 I watched for days but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Then, on the fifth night, I finally saw something. The coffee shop was about to close, and I was leaving, feeling dejected, when I saw the owner acting strangely. He peeked his head out from the back of the truck, scanning the alley nervously. When he was sure no one was around, he carried two large, dark bags to his van. The bags looked wet, glistening slickly in the moonlight. A cold dread washed over me. The image was sickeningly familiar, reminding me of the body fluid that sometimes seeped from the bags at the funeral home. He loaded the bags into his van and drove off. This was my chance. I couldn’t let it slip away. I waited until the coast was clear and slipped into the unlocked food truck. 19 I cautiously pushed aside the curtain to the back kitchen area, and after confirming it was empty, I stepped inside. Compared to the front counter, the kitchen was a sanitary nightmare. The floor was wet and sticky, and the damp walls were breeding grounds for black mold. A faucet dripped incessantly into a sink stained with the dark sauce. I wrinkled my nose in disgust. I looked around the small kitchen. Besides the filth, there was nothing obviously amiss. But wait. I tilted my head back and took a deep breath. There it was again—a faint but definite smell of rot. I followed the scent, moving slowly through the cramped space. My eyes landed on the side of a large metal cabinet. There, almost perfectly flush with the wall, was a hidden door. I gave it a gentle push, and it swung inward on a silent hinge. A thick, suffocating stench rolled out. I froze, gagging. 20 The room had an old-fashioned pull-string light. I tugged the cord, and a dim, yellow bulb flickered to life. The small chamber was filled with twelve large industrial-grade plastic drums, each sealed with a sheet of oiled canvas. I lifted the cover off the nearest vat. The smell of decay exploded outwards. A murky, foul-smelling liquid filled the vat. Floating within were chunks of what looked like marinating meat and vegetables—the base for the sauce, I guessed. But the stench… it was unbearable. My eyes stung, and I had to stand up and gasp for fresh air. Thankfully, my years of exposure to death had given me a high tolerance for such smells. Once I had calmed myself, I took out my phone and turned on the camera. This was why I had risked coming in here—to get evidence. 21 I took a deep breath, steeling myself, and plunged my hand into the murky liquid. Beneath the floating chunks of meat, my fingertips brushed against something else. Something soft. I froze. The texture was disturbingly similar to human skin. Just as I was about to pull the object out, I heard the sound of hurried footsteps from outside. Panicked, I slammed the cover back on the vat and dove behind a stack of them in the far corner. The light was dim; if I stayed still, he might not see me. The footsteps grew closer. My palms slicked with nervous sweat. A man’s heavy, ragged breathing filled the small room. He walked around the vats, seemingly checking that everything was in order, before stepping back out. He seemed to be looking for something. 22 Time crawled by. My legs started to go numb. The man still hadn’t left. Just as I was about to cramp up, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but after a short, sharp conversation, the man left in a hurry. I let out a silent breath of relief. I fumbled in the darkness, searching for the pull-string for the light. Suddenly, a puff of warm breath hit my arm. My body went rigid. For a split second, my brain refused to process it. It had to be my imagination. I yanked the cord. The room was flooded with light. “What are you looking for?” a hoarse voice rasped from right behind me. 23 The owner stood in the doorway, a heavy iron ladle in his hand, his face a grim mask. My eyes widened, and my scalp prickled as if struck by lightning. “I… I was…” The words died in my throat. I couldn’t exactly say I was looking for a dead body, could I? He started walking towards me. I threw caution to the wind and charged, trying to shove past him. It was a foolish miscalculation. Years of manual labor had made him strong. He tackled me with surprising speed, sending me crashing to the floor. I was no match for him. After a brief, desperate struggle, my energy was gone. I lay pinned beneath him, his weight crushing the air from my lungs. He clamped my hands above my head, his voice a low growl. “What were you looking for?” 24 His grip was like iron; I couldn’t move an inch. Then, the piercing wail of sirens cut through the night. The police burst through the door, and his grip on me finally loosened. Several officers swarmed into the small space. The first one helped me to my feet. Before I could even explain, the owner’s demeanor flipped. He became the victim. “Officer, thank god you’re here! This girl, she broke in and was tampering with my marinade!” He pointed at my phone. “She was filming it, too! These kids today… they’ll do anything for clicks…” The sudden switch was so jarring it left me speechless. “I didn’t,” I managed, my voice weak. “Then what were you doing here?” the lead officer asked, his question hitting the nail on the head. I stammered, unable to come up with a coherent answer. 25 Just as they were about to lead me away, I took a desperate gamble. I grabbed the officer’s sleeve and pointed at the vats. “There’s a body in there.” The officer’s eyes widened. He waved a hand at his team. “Search them!” The team moved quickly, ripping the covers off the vats. The stench that filled the room became so thick it was hard to breathe. After a few minutes, one of them reported, “Sir, besides the marinade base, we’ve found some chunks of meat.” My heart hammered in my chest. I looked at the owner, who stood with his head bowed, silent. “It has to be human remains!” I cried. 26 The meat was laid out on a plastic sheet. Twelve pieces in total, one from each vat. The lead officer, a detective, crouched down to examine them. After a moment, he shook his head in disappointment. “These aren’t human.” He was right. I could see it now, too. The texture and fiber were wrong. The owner feigned outrage. “Officers, if I were really hiding a body, would I have called the police myself?” he whined, conveniently forgetting that I had been the one to trigger his security alarm. “That’s just pork! It’s part of my family’s secret recipe! How am I supposed to do business after this?” “And you,” he snarled, pointing at me, “why do you keep saying there’s a body? You’ve ruined this entire batch of marinade! You’re going to pay for this!” The detective sighed, clearly overwhelmed by the situation. He pointed at me. “Cuff her. Take her in.” All the fight went out of me. I let them lead me away without another word. 27 Once we were in the patrol car, the detective slowly pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He took a long drag, his eyes fixed on the glowing sign of the food truck. “How did you know there was a body in there?” I told him the truth. “I smelled it. My family is in the death care business. I’ve been around that smell my whole life.” The detective glanced at me, a flicker of surprise and then approval in his eyes. “You’ve got a good nose, kid.” I looked at him, confused. “You… you’re not mad at me?” He shook his head. “There was definitely the stench of a corpse in there.” “You smelled it too?” I gasped. He looked at the cigarette between his fingers, now burned down to a short stub. He took one last drag and flicked it onto the asphalt. “I’ve worked enough cases and seen enough bodies to know the smell of death. It was thick in there.” “Then why didn’t you keep searching?” I asked. “No probable cause. We can’t just tear a place apart unless we know where the body is hidden.” His words sent my mind racing. The vats reeked of decay, but there was no body. And that pork… was it really a secret ingredient, or was it meant to hide something else? 28 At the station, the detective handed me over to a young officer for processing. The young officer, looking tired and overworked, slid a form across the desk. “Fill this out. Personal information.” Then he went back to his own chaotic paperwork. The station was buzzing with activity, even in the middle of the night. Drunks, domestic disputes, fights—it was a cross-section of the city’s misery. About fifteen minutes later, the young officer slammed a missing person flyer down on his desk in frustration. “God, I’m so sick of this,” he muttered to a colleague. “It never ends.” The sudden noise made me look up. The photo on the flyer was blurry, showing a thin woman in a bright magenta sweater, a little girl of about seven or eight standing beside her. 29 The officer tapped the desk. “What are you looking at? You done?” I averted my gaze and handed him the completed form. He glanced at it, confirmed the details, and began the official questioning. “You’re a college student. So tell me again why you believe a food truck’s secret sauce is being made with… fluid from a corpse?” I stared at the cold steel of the handcuffs, catching the lingering scent of decay trapped under my fingernails. It was, without a doubt, the smell of death. The smell a human body weeps after it’s gone. The officer saw my silence and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. He stood up and dialed the number I had written down for my emergency contact. After a brief, clipped explanation of the situation, he hung up. “Your family is on their way to pick you up.” 30 Seeing my dazed expression, he sat down across from me, his tone softening into a lecture. “Look, you’re a student, so we’re not going to press charges this time. But you will have to compensate the business owner for the damages.” A jolt went through me. I came back to myself. “I understand,” I whispered. My parents lived in a distant suburb, about an hour and a half away. But with no traffic at this hour, they made it to the station in just under sixty minutes. They burst in, not even bothering to close the car door behind them. They fussed over me, checking me from head to toe, and only relaxed when they were sure I was unharmed. My mother pulled me over to the officer. “Officer, what on earth has my daughter done?” The young officer, seeing I was just a kid, tried to downplay the severity of it. “Your daughter was found trespassing in a private business… luckily, no serious harm was done, but you’ll need to cover the owner’s losses.” “Here,” he said, handing my dad a slip of paper with a phone number on it. “This is the owner’s contact information. You can arrange the compensation with him directly.” My parents shot me a look of disbelief before turning back to the officer with apologetic smiles. “We’re so sorry, officer. We’ll be sure to have a serious talk with her when we get home.” 31 The moment we were back in the car, my mother’s face hardened. “What really happened?” she demanded. From her tone, I knew I had to tell them everything, or she’d never let it go. I sighed and recounted the whole story, from the first smell to being caught in the back room. “Mom, you know my nose,” I finished lamely. “How could I be wrong about something like that?” My father, who had been listening intently, finally understood the gravity of the situation. “But to go in there alone? Mia, that was incredibly dangerous!” My mother’s expression was grim. “Your father’s right. You need to stay out of this. This is not something a young girl should be involved in.” I knew they were right. I had been reckless. I hung my head in shame. “I’m sorry. I was impulsive.” The tension in the car was thick. My father tried to smooth things over. “Well, as long as you’ve learned your lesson. Listen to your mother, honey. From now on, you stay away from that place.” Seeing me nod obediently, my mother’s expression finally softened a little. 32 By now, it was long past the dorm’s curfew. There was no way I could get back in. Fortunately, before the semester started, my parents had rented a small two-bedroom apartment for me near the campus. I used it occasionally when my work at the funeral home ran late and it was inconvenient to go back to the dorm. After my mom made me promise I’d be okay on my own, she and my dad finally left. I took a hot shower and collapsed into bed. I must have been more exhausted than I realized, because I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. I didn’t wake up until noon the next day. Luckily, I had no morning classes. After getting ready, I headed out to go back to campus. As I was walking down the stairs of my apartment building, I nearly collided with a familiar figure. The fries truck owner. He was just as surprised to see me as I was to see him. We both froze. For a moment, we just stared at each other, the air thick with awkward silence. What a small world. Who would have thought that the man I suspected of murder lived in the same building as me? 33 I lowered my head and tried to walk past him without a word. After the lecture from my parents, I had decided to drop the whole thing. “Thump!” A loud crash and a cry of pain came from behind me. I spun around. The owner was sprawled on the landing of the stairs, clutching his ankle and groaning in pain. Did he fall? I looked around. The stairwell was empty. With a sigh, I went back and helped him up. “Thanks,” he muttered, leaning his full weight on me. I had to brace myself to keep from toppling over. 34 The moment his left foot touched the ground, his face contorted in pain. Looks like a sprained ankle. “Do you need me to help you get back to your apartment?” I couldn’t just leave him here. It felt wrong. He gritted his teeth and nodded. “If you don’t mind.” I helped him hobble up one flight of stairs to the fourth floor. He stopped in front of his door. I glanced at the apartment number: 402. Huh? 402? My apartment was 302. The owner lived directly above me? What a strange coincidence. I didn't mention it, though. The less he knew, the better. And really, there was no reason to.
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