Haunted Household: Sponge

Are You Ready Kids!?

Angelina could sniff out an old sponge from miles away, and she hated that rank smell more than anything else she could imagine. Aside from this, most of Angelina’s life was common, mundane drudgery. She lived alone in a modest suburban home, and there was nothing unique or obsessive about her daily cleaning regimen, despite her singular aversion. Some people can really get hung up on sanitizing everything; some people might pour gallons of bleach, or spray Lysol and Pledge, not Angelina, though.

Angelina approached experiences from a reasoned and reserved position.

So what? What did it matter that she changed her kitchen sponge a little too often?

Throughout her life, neurotic compulsion always passed her by. Almost every other person she knew had multiple deep-rooted affectations or bugaboos about this thing or that, so, applying sympathetic reasoning to her situation, she would cut herself some slack. She didn’t like the smell of old sponges; this was not expected to be a life-shattering preference. However, at some point along the way, and in conjunction with several dreadful life-altering events, this minor preference of hers began to shift and mutate into a pathological imperative.

The smell of old sponges was so off-putting and foul to her senses that, after a sudden and prolonged spell of melancholy, she would henceforth refuse to have sponges in her home. This choice made doing the dishes or washing the car difficult, but it was effective in suppressing the faint odors that turned her guts—for a time

One day Angelina returned from work, and even though she lived in a sponge-free house, she could smell the acrid pong of an old sponge. Life’s other plights had exhausted her emotional reserves, and with rash abandon she sprinted from room to room pouring gasoline on the floor. She started in the upstairs bathroom and worked her way methodically down. Twice she needed to drive to the closest Shell station to refill her small portable canister.

Before striking the match that ended her life, the sponge smell still dominated the home, overpowering even the gas fumes. Angelina stood mock-stoically in the center of the burning building for as long as she could remain upright. Seconds before her physical form was devoured by the flames, a rancid, stale mustiness pierced the whiff of her melting flesh and forced her to gag. She was retching as her brain succumbed to the heat.

By the time the fire was extinguished and the investigation began, all that remained of Angelina and her modest suburban home was a charred corpse, rubble, and smoldering ash. The fire marshal shook his head as he surveyed the tragic scene. He was about to comment to a fellow fireman about the obvious suicide and arson, but paused for a moment; he bent down to inspect a 4.5-inch, unblemished yellow rectangular shape. It was a sponge. The marshal was surprised it had not been incinerated and ordered it collected as evidence.

The sponge was placed in an evidence bag, but before it sloughed to the bottom of the newly greasy pouch, a dirty bubble crawled to its surface. This bubble rested for a moment in one of the sponge’s many porous nooks. This creeping filth winked and shimmered, then, with a little sinister pop, it was gone, and noxious fumes aspirated.

The bag was subsequently sealed tightly, yet a strong, fetid scent still filled the air—not smoke, fire, or charred flesh; the aroma was simply that of an old sponge.

Angelina’s remains were also placed in a bag, but her bag wasn’t airtight; it had a zipper. It was hauled off to the morgue. Despite the obvious cause of death, this case would require a toxicology test and an autopsy.

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Next Week: Cheese Grater

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